Читать книгу Men at Work: Through the Roof / Taking His Measure / Watching It Go Up - Cindi Myers, Cindi Myers - Страница 11

5

TWO DAYS LATER, Ben pulled his Chevy work truck into Marina’s circular driveway on Key Biscayne and stared. A massive yellow moving van blocked his way, and it did not appear that his darling had simply ordered five suites of new furniture. No, small herds of men were removing her things from her two-story Mediterranean and a four-by-six sign announced that the house was for rent. What the hell?

Ben drove the Chevy between two royal palms and onto a stretch of lawn, then put it in Park. He swung out and strode around the van, up the wide, shallow entrance stairs and through the door. “Marina?” he called.

She popped her gorgeous head out of the kitchen. “Ben? What are you doing here?”

She was clad in color-coordinated baby-blue and brown aerobics-wear, which did nothing to obscure her perfectly proportioned body. Her chestnut hair was held back with a brown tie and a baby-blue sweatband completed the outfit. Christ—the woman even wore couture to the gym.

His lips might have twitched—if he hadn’t been instantly fixated on the curve of her bottom and the complete lack of a panty-line anywhere on it. Dios mío. And she was prancing around like this in front of a platoon of moving guys?

He completely forgot that he was here to apologize to her. “Marina, what is the meaning of this?” He gestured toward the white leather couch disappearing out the door, the stacks of cardboard boxes in the dining room and the plastic sheeting protecting the floors from the men’s boots.

Her expression changed. She’d smiled involuntarily at first sight of him, but now she elevated her little gringa nose and leveled a glare at him. “I’m moving to a condo.”

He gaped at her. “A condo? You couldn’t even fit the contents of your closet into a condo, mi vida.”

“That was yesterday. Today is different.”

It is? “Marina, look around you. You have far too much. Rugs, art, furniture—where are you going to put everything?”

“In storage,” she said airily. “And some of it I’m giving away.”

“But why?”

She tilted her head, folded her tanned, sculpted arms and took a deep breath. “Because Chloe says that all of this makes you feel like you have a small penis.”

Ben stared at her. His jaw worked, but no sound emerged.

“So I’m getting rid of it, and I’m going to divert my private income to the foundation and be poor.”

He finally managed a choking noise.

“Yes, really!” She produced a brave smile, but then her nose wrinkled. “I’m going to try to buy my shoes at Payless from now on. I might not be able to do it, though, in which case I’ll have to wear last year’s Louboutins and Choos. Oh, and classic Chanels—they never go out of style.”

She blinked rapidly. “I’ll be just fine. And I’ve canceled my trips to Milan and Paris for fashion week, though, if you don’t mind, I’ll still go to New York, since I can get a coach fare for under two-hundred dollars.”

Ben struggled mightily, but he dissolved into laughter. The idea of Marina abandoning her Learjet to fly coach with cocktail peanuts was too much. Besides, she’d spend more than the coach fare on dinner in the city with a friend.

“What’s so damn funny?” She marched over, the picture of outrage, and poked him in the chest.

Ben really wasn’t amused by the whole situation—and not at all by the small penis comment—but he couldn’t help himself. He laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks, because she was so ridiculous and so adorable and he loved her for it. Too bad he couldn’t have her, not even if she lived in a hut and developed an affinity for Spam.

“Do I entertain you, Delgado?” she asked in sarcastic tones.

He nodded weakly and burst out laughing again.

She put her hands on her hips. “I hate you! Do you even know how much I hate you? I am doing this for us—and all you can do is laugh at me? Get out of my house and take your small penis with you!”

She shrieked the last sentence, damn it. Snorts and guffaws came from outside, not to mention from various corners of the house. A sense of déjà vu swept over him. Hadn’t they just been through a similar scene at the construction site?

“Out!” she repeated, all hot and bothered and sexy. She stamped her foot.

“You don’t mean that, mi amor.” He eyed her like a cat would eye a fresh, teriyaki-glazed mouse.

“I do mean it, you rotten excuse for a man! Get out.” Her whole body quivered with indignation and rage.

Ben quirked his mouth and took a couple of leisurely steps toward her. Then he peeled off his shirt and dropped it onto the floor.

“No,” she said, her eyes blazing.

He simply smiled. He took another step toward her and said, “Come here, mi corazón. Come to papa.”

“Get away from me. Are you out of your mind?” But she glanced at his chest, touched the tip of her tongue to her lips and swallowed convulsively. He knew he had her. He grinned.

“Please excuse us,” he said to a burly woman who had been packing glassware but now simply stood there, slack-jawed, looking as if she’d like to lick him. Her gaze moved speculatively to his crotch.

Ben raised an eyebrow at her, snaked an arm around Marina’s waist and pulled her to him.

“No. Not even,” she said. “Don’t you dare ki—”

Ben settled his mouth over hers and devoured the rest of her words. He felt her resistance waver, then crumble as she responded to him. “Mmm,” he said against her lips, pulling her hair out of its ponytail and tangling his fingers in it. “I think you and me and my small penis should go upstairs for a while, mi amor. What do you say?”

An unintelligible sound emerged from her throat, a sound that he took to mean agreement. Ben threw Marina over his shoulder, then headed for the staircase.

“Ay, caramba!” uttered the burly woman.

He turned and winked at her.

MARINA’S NORMALLY NEAT bedroom was a mess, full of boxes and plastic sheeting. The closet doors stood open and Ben was amazed to see that eighty-five percent of her clothes were missing, even if her shoes and bags were still abundant.

She’d given her clothes away for him? In spite of the silliness of it all, his heart turned over. She was trying, in her unique way, to let him know that he wasn’t just a plaything to her. That she would make an effort to live on his terms.

He deposited her onto the unmade bed, disturbing Gnarly, who had crawled under the covers to escape the chaos of the movers.

Gnarly evaluated the prospects for petting and decided that they were not good, based on the overabundance of pheromones in the air. He shot them a disgusted glance and headed for the closet.

Ben peeled off Marina’s aerobics outfit piece by piece, kissing every inch of skin he bared and loving the way her hair spread across the pillow. Her quick intakes of breath, her soft moans, the way she involuntarily arched her back—everything about her turned him on.

And when finally they were both completely naked, her heels pressed into his back, he reveled in the way she accepted him into her body, her gasp as he slid all the way home.

He withdrew and drove in hard, making her squeak. He changed their angle so that he rubbed against the spot that would make her the hottest, make her beg for release. He pressed her knees farther apart and filled her, possessed her completely.

She closed her eyes, her breathing coming in shallow gasps.

Ben bent his head and captured a nipple between his teeth. He tugged lightly, then swirled his tongue over the tip while she moaned. “Now, about my small penis. You were saying?”

“Ah, ah, ah,” was all Marina could manage.

“I think you have an excellent point there,” Ben told her, tonguing the other nipple.

“Oh, yes!”

“So, mi vida, you were in actuality trying to tell me that I’m hung like an…elephant. Right?”

“Mmmmpphf. Yes—oh, yes! Oh, Ben…”

His own breath began to come in pants. He ground against her.

She started to tremble all over and he thrust deeper, slower, the way he knew she liked it. Her body tensed around him and, with a small cry, she climaxed while he took pleasure in her pleasure before seeking his own happy ending.

Ben stayed embedded in her afterward, resting on his elbows and between her soft, warm thighs. Her beautiful face was flushed and her eyes had gone dreamy. At times like this, it was easy to forget that she wore money like a heavy perfume. Right now, she was just a woman—and he was just a man—and they were in love.

He stirred inside her; she clenched around him in an intimate embrace. And to his surprise, he hardened again. He couldn’t ever seem to get enough of her; make her quite enough his.

Was her friend, Chloe, right? Did the luxury surrounding Marina make him feel as if he had a small penis? Because he, the man in her life, hadn’t provided her with that luxury?

Ben almost snorted. Ridiculous. Chloe and her poppsychology.

Marina moved under him and, as he started making slow love to her all over again, a crash came from downstairs. She winced, and he rolled off of her. “Marina, really—what is the meaning of all this?”

She sighed. “I want to show you that I can live a different life. That I can exist within a budget like a normal person. That you don’t have to be intimidated—”

His spine stiffened and he held up a hand. “Who said I’m intimidated? This is crazy. I don’t want you to prove anything to me! I don’t want to—I don’t want to bring you down, damn it.” He got out of her bed and pulled on his jeans.

“Then what do you want, Ben?”

The question made him unexpectedly furious. “I don’t know!” he shouted at her, feeling like a jerk.

“So why, in God’s name, did you come over here?” Her face had gone white, taut and angry. “Just to torture me?”

He sighed. “I came to apologize. I shouldn’t have broken up with you in a letter. I’m sorry.” There—he’d said it. Now, why didn’t he feel better?

The words hung in the air between them, not solving a damn thing.

At last, she said in brittle tones, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

They stared at each other.

Ben hated the blank, frustrated expression on her face; hated even more that he was the cause of it. It made him crazy, but he didn’t know what to do. “What the hell do you want from me?” he yelled—which only cemented her expression. He saw her shut down emotionally behind it, saw her hurt.

She sat naked with her knees drawn up to her chest, her hands clasped over them. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders. “Just your love, Ben,” she said simply. “Just your love.” She looked away from him, her expression miserable and lost.

He swore. He threw his hands into the air. Then he grabbed his shoes and walked out.

I am shit.

She was making a huge sacrifice—giving up her income, home and lifestyle. She was doing it for him. Why was he so angry instead of being grateful and touched? He didn’t want her to have to lower herself to his level, damn it.

He drove home barefoot and shirtless, leaving the shifty, avidly curious glances of the moving men behind him. Yeah, he was total shit. But he couldn’t seem to change that. Or could he?