Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 120189 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120189 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Ah, so mister muscle man is sensitive there too.
Noted.
But I behave, and we save the real messing around for later. Ben gets out of the shower first to make sure all our evening plans are still in place while I finish up. When I step out ten minutes later and don the clothes he left out on the bed for me—a beautiful royal blue button-up with slacks, a sleek belt that must’ve cost a hundred dollars on its own, and shiny dress shoes—I feel like a totally different person.
I’m not Trevor Woodard. I’m Mr. Woodard, the young man who walks with his chin lifted a hair higher.
Is Ben spoiling me? Am I a spoiled little turd biscuit, now? Should I start popping my collars and complaining to the manager at every restaurant I go to?
When I step out of the bedroom, I find Ben on the phone in the kitchen. In a sleek grey dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up loosely and a sexy pair of slacks (all of which make Benjamin look unexpectedly laidback compared to his usual standards), he looks downright edible.
He taps his phone looking satisfied with himself, pockets it, then lifts his gorgeous face to me. “Ready for dinner?” he asks.
I bite my lip. “You mean it’s not you?”
He chuckles darkly, then shakes his head. “No. I’m the dessert, and I decide when you get to enjoy me.”
I scowl at him. Such a cock tease.
The dinner is nothing to scowl at, however. He takes me to a gorgeous restaurant I must not have noticed last night on our extravagant touring of the premises. The restaurant is located on an upper floor of the main building. Some windows have a view of the Caribbean Sea while others overlook the gardens of the resort. It’s the resort we view during my birthday dinner, which consists of a dish called Cocobichuela—which is a blend of shrimp and sliced lobster with rice and tropical fruits in a curry sauce. This cocktail of succulence is served in a hollowed-out coconut shell with a slice of pineapple on top, which is very intimidating at first sight, but after the first bite slips past your lips, you are certain you’ll never taste anything better for the rest of your life.
I spend half of my meal moaning, which is all too amusing to Ben, who’s enjoying my reactions almost as much as he’s enjoying his own meal. The sun begins to set as we eat, so by the time we’ve reached dessert, the ceiling light is traded for candlelight, and the gentle ambiance of families talking is now seasoned with a backdrop of romantic music courtesy of a live band.
But I’m too pent up to enjoy it. I’m too distracted by the man sitting across from me, the beauty in the grey dress shirt, the one who keeps tunneling through me with his deep, hungry eyes.
“Can we take our dessert to go?” I ask calmly, betraying my excited, jumpy insides.
Ben grins, knowing my mind all too well. “Anything for you, Prince Trevor.”
When we return to the cabana, Benjamin and I settle on the cushy swinging bench on the patio overlooking our private beach. Between us, we share tiny forkfuls of triple chocolate fudge cake swathed in the sweetest raspberry ganache. A single hole lives in its fudgy heart where a candle was lit, blown out, and plucked free. Only a tiny strip of sky is bruised dark gold by the sun, which has passed beyond the horizon, pulling its dark blue blanket of stars along with it.
And here we are, eating my birthday cake a bite at a time. He takes one, then I follow. It’s like a game, his eyes stabbing me fiercely as he watches me delight in the dessert.
“You are a fine looking twenty-one-year-old,” he tells me.
I smirk. “It isn’t midnight yet.”
“Nice observation.” He takes another forkful, cocky as ever. “But you weren’t born at exactly midnight, now were you?”
“One in the morning. Close enough.”
“So I’m sharing a cake with the world’s sexiest twenty-year-old for roughly four more hours.”
Shifting my legs under me, I’m reminded anew that Ben is even responsible for the underwear I have on right now: a pair of ass-cupping black boxer-briefs that feel like nothing. The crotch is shaped perfectly to accommodate my cock and balls, like a pouch perfectly contoured to fit my cock, with stitching on either side that runs right up the crease of my inner thighs. It could not be more fitting to my body if it were painted on.
Feeling sexy and in charge, I take the now empty plate and set it on the table next to us, then throw my legs over Benjamin’s lap, cuddling on the swinging bench. Ben takes to me right away, adjusting to put an arm around my back while resting his other arm along my legs, gently stroking up and down my calf as we slowly swing, enjoying the sights and the gentle sea breeze.