#Score (13 page)

I back up and position myself between Ramona’s thighs, the heady scent of her filling up my mind and damn near turning me into a fucking savage animal. I replace the brush handle with two fingers on my left hand, pumping them in and out of her wet pussy, while I hold her puffy brown lips apart and reveal the pink sweetness waiting for me to taste it. I pull my fingers out and lick the outside of her hole, slipping my tongue in as far as it will go. Her body is in a frenzy and I have to hold her small hips down while I dart my tongue out at her aching clit. I swirl my tongue all around it, suckle it, flick my tongue at it, tease it mercilessly, not stopping while Ramona’s supremely losing her shit. But I’m not done.

I keep my face pressed against her wet folds, tonguing her, while I rub the wet end of the brush against her back hole, getting a sense for what she might want. She doesn’t seem to mind, so I slowly push against it, happy when she relaxes her muscles so I can slide the brush inside her tight ass further.

With my mouth on her clit, my fingers in her pussy, and the paintbrush handle in her ass, I work her like crazy.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god, ohhh . . . fuck, you are good. So good. . .” she says, but she loses her ability to speak and starts shrieking loudly as her entire body tenses up, shaking like crazy until her eyes burst open and she comes hard, coating my face and hand with her delicious sweetness.

I quickly toss the brush over and straddle Ramona’s hips, unable to hold back any longer. She whimpers as I guide my thick, pulsing cockhead right to her soaking hot center, pressing up against the sensitive flesh. Fuck, she’s so goddamn hot, in every sense of the word.

“I’m going to fuck you all night, Cinnamon. There’s no stopping now.” I look her right in the eyes so she sees I’m not messing around. “Tell me you want it.”

Ramona bites her lip so hard, squirming her hips, trying to impale herself on me. “I want it so much. It’s all I can ever think about. Not art, not work, just you. Please, Benji . . . I can’t . . . I need you.”

Her words zip through me and I can’t be slow, I can’t tease, no, I have to fuck her like the crazy animal she’s turning me into. I slam my whole length of steel-hard cock deep inside of Ramona, and she hisses, her jaw dropping open as her pussy accepts my fullness. When I pull out, her pussy walls cave in around me.

“You’re . . . oh fuck, Benji. Fuck me. Don’t stop. I need more.” Her voice is deep and shrill all at once, shouting at me to take her back to the edge.

I plow away, holding her slim thighs far apart and going to town on her. The bed slams up against the wall over and over as I shove my cock into her. She’s pulling so hard at the ropes that I’m thinking she might even yank the bedposts clean off the bed, her rich brown tits bouncing harder with every thrust.

The pressure is building up inside me, my balls churning inside, clutching tightly against my body as I shoot my hot cum deep inside Ramona’s tight pussy. Fuck, I didn’t mean to . . . shit. I glance down at her, but she’s so blissed out she doesn’t even notice.

I pull back, not able to look away from her or the way my cum is oozing out of her warm pussy. I’ve always used a condom . . . this has never happened to me.

My thoughts want to race to the first problem straightaway, but my body is too hung up on Ramona. I’m going to need more than just one round of fucking to be satisfied.

She laughs to herself softly, and it brings me back to reality. “That was so insane and unexpected . . . but also amazing. So much amazing.” The way the light hits her brown eyes and they almost sparkle, and all I can think about is doing this exact thing for pretty much ever.

Yeah, no. That’s probably not a good sign. I give Ramona a huge smile despite that though. I’ll have three whole weeks away from her, time to think about things if I need to.

But part of me knows it’s never that simple.

R
amona

T
he very last
thing I ever expected out of this whole situation with Benji Lundgren was that I would actually accomplish what I set out to do in the first place. I was almost half convinced that I was setting myself up for failure, thinking that somehow having sex with Benji would get him off of my mind enough to focus on my art. Part of it’s true, anyway. It’s like I’ve cut my skin and I’m bleeding paint in a menagerie of colors.

As I step back from the canvas, my brush dripping the deep plum paint on the tarp below, I push my bangs out of my eyes and grin. Bad timing flowing into whatever this crazy, morphing maze of color is in front of me. I’ve outlined the man under the umbrella of bad timing, smudging him so that he is more abstract than before, the dark lines bleeding into the open space around them. The umbrella is less shaped and defined, more an idea than anything else. And the colors, God, the colors are
everywhere
.

It’s what I painted with the rest of the canvas space that both electrifies and terrifies me. It’s my feelings spread out for all the world to see, having taken a completely different path than what I thought I would to get there. I gnaw on my lip as I turn my head to the side and make sure everything is just as it is supposed to be on the canvas. It won’t take much longer to finish it, not with all that’s thrumming around inside me.

The only thing that’s propelling me forward is the idea of finishing it, the idea of finally breaking the barrier down. All thanks to Benji and his . . . ways.

I’ve been dying to tell him, text him to let him know I owe him a big thank you, but something keeps telling me not to. Maybe I just don’t want to sound like some sort of crazy not-girlfriend, or whatever I am to him. I don’t want to come across as some desperate check who has found the Holy Grail just by fucking some guy. That’s not who I am at all, but I do have to admit that Benji has definitely unlocked something inside of me that I was so sure had been burned completely to the ground.

My artwork may have taken flight, but as soon as I sit down and turn away from it, all those crazy nagging thoughts start spinning around my brain. What does all this mean? Am I even allowed to want to see Benji now? Or would that just come across as insane, clingy even? And how the hell does he feel about this? Or should I care?

Because if I’m not supposed to care, it’s already too late. I’m anxious to see him, anxious to be near him again after having been stuck to his side the entire weekend. And there was a definite plus side to the weekend spent with Benji, for more than one reason. My muse is secretly thanking me every time I put my brush down to take a break, but my body is almost glowing from the things he did to me and I did to him.

I lost track of how many actual times we had sex . . . I remember wondering in the middle of it all if we were supposed to keep it just to one night and we both broke the rule together . . . or if I just imagined that. I’m not sure if the best part was the intense sex or finding out that he really does drool in his sleep, after all.

I’ve taken exactly thirteen showers in the past week, which my hair is not thrilled about, but I have no choice. After masturbating like a crazy person thirteen different times (at least), it’s been kind of necessary. Brie thinks I’ve turned into an actual fish and has banged on the bathroom door a few of the times, telling me to hurry my ass up.

Which makes me think of the shower at Benji’s place . . . and how I was utterly surprised. The owners of his condo must have recently had the bathroom redone. The pretty marble floor, the fancy shower tiles, and large space to sit and shower were too cool. And also perfect for when Benji was washing me off and had me bend over on it so he could fuck me from behind. All that water sliding across our skin while his balls slapped against me . . .

If I don’t stop thinking about him and those things, I’m going to need to excuse myself from work every day just so I can find a quiet place to shove my hand down my pants. It’s ridiculous. It’s probably a good idea that I don’t think of him, especially when Jasmine and me have dinner with my parents tomorrow night.

* * *

Y
ou know
, you say things and tell them to yourself in a way that makes you actually believe you can do them. And then you fail, you miserably, miserably fail. Jasmine nudges me underneath the table, raising her brows at me as my parents continue talking about the upcoming senate election. As soon as they start talking about anything dealing with politics I tune right on out, but this time I’m doing more than just that. Oh no, I’m back to thinking about Benji again.

And clearly my best friend has picked up on it finally because she’s still staring at me. “What is up with you?” she whispers to me. “You’ve barely said a word all night.”

It’s the first time I’ve seen Jas in almost two weeks, and she’s been incredibly suspicious of me the whole time. “What do you mean? I’m fine.”

She rolls her eyes so hard at me that I’m surprised when my parents didn’t notice. “Oh please. This is me you’re talking to, Ramy. You will talk to me at some point before I leave tonight.”

She knows exactly what it’s about, and even told me after meeting him briefly a few weeks ago that she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Me sort of flirting/sort of whatever-ing with a pro soccer player, much less Benji Lundgren. Even Jas was under his charming spell.

I lift my shoulders up carefully, as if it doesn’t matter one way or the other, but I’m sort of nervous now that I think about it. There’s probably a reason behind me stalling having dinner with her and my parents, and that reason is almost six feet tall with the sexiest, most defined abs I’ve ever seen in my whole life.

“Don’t you think so?” My dad’s voice booms through the dining room. I look up just in time to see both my parents and Jasmine staring at me like I’ve lost my mind.
Oh no, was he actually talking to me?

“Oh, uh, yeah. That’s a um, good thing?” I try, guessing from their reaction that I’m way off base. “Actually no, I don’t think . . . so?”

Jasmine literally laughs out loud, her head in her hand as she shakes it. “Wow,” she says to herself.

Mom folds her napkin neatly before placing it back down on the table and giving me that look. “You seem a little bit distracted, child. Is there anything you wanted to add?” She has this ridiculously smooth way of sounding so casual about things when in reality she’s like a detective searching for clues.

I quickly scoop a bite of corn to my mouth. That word vomit wants to come up so badly.

“Ever since she’s been cooped up in her room, all she’s been doing is painting. She needs to get outside and breathe some fresh air,” Dad grumbles. He’s never been a huge fan of my love for the arts and thinks it’s a waste of time.

“I’ve been cooped up in my room finishing my painting, and it’s almost done, too.” Because I can’t keep my mouth shut, or anything obviously.

He raises one large, bushy eyebrow at me. “You’re always in your room painting, Ramona. That’s my point.”

Hardly fair, considering I’ve been pulling all those shifts to help them out at the Laundromat, but whatever. “I work too, you know. It’s not like I’m some bum just sitting in my room all day not doing anything with my life.”

He looks back down his food and says nothing, and the tension immediately shifts back to me. It’s one thing my Dad and I just can’t agree on, something that we’ve been butting heads over for a while now.

“I go out. I see people too. I was actually out a lot lately, now that I think about it. It’s only been this past week that I’ve been working so hard on my painting to finish it. I plan on selling it, to make money? Even Benji thinks that I could —” I cover my mouth up quickly, knowing what’s coming next.

Jasmine’s jaw snap shut and she quickly looks away as both of my parents practically climb across the table just to ask me what everyone’s thinking. “Who’s Benji?”

How do I handle this? I mean who is he to me really? “Benji is . . .” I start to say, frantically looking around the room at everyone. “My boyfriend. He’s my boyfriend.”

And that is exactly how I convince myself I’ve gone insane.

“That explains so much,” Jasmine says, sighing as we walk outside to get some fresh air.

“What explains so much?” My ears are still burning. I hate it when my Dad and I get in those arguments in front of other people.

She pulls her long dark hair into a quick braid over her shoulder as she talks, staring out over the street while cars pass us by. “Those stupid posts online. Now I know why everyone was getting so bent out of shape.”

I raise a brow at her. “Okay, I literally have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She looks me over, her eyes searching for something, although I don’t know what. “I’d just stay off the stupid #dirtytrinity posts. You know, on Mumblr and stuff. Believe me, it’s for your own good.”

No matter how many times I try to get Jas to explain herself, she doesn’t, so I drop it. For now.

B
enji

H
ow bad is
it that as soon as I drop my bag and suitcase down on the floor, I immediately think to pull my phone out of my pocket and text Ramona to let her know I’m back? Pretty bad, right?

I thought that weekend was going to help, making it easier for both of us to move on with our lives and help drain that sexual energy that kept flowing between us. I thought I would be able to concentrate, focus better on the ball on the field and not the ones that hang beneath my dick.

At least I was sort of right. I mean, I have been able to focus at the away games, thankfully, but not as much as I want to. I wanted Ramona off my mind completely, freeing me up to think about whatever other girl I want. It’s not for lack of trying, but every time I see a pretty face and think about fucking it, I only see Ramona’s mouth wrapped around my dick. It’s kind of hard not to since her pouty lips do it so well.

I decide to take a shower to cool off my feelings when my phone vibrates in my pocket.

It’s Ramona, calling me, as in not texting, but actually calling me. “Hello?”

I hear her breathing for a moment when she finally speaks up. “Hey. How, how was your trip?”

I don’t fight the smile on my face. “It was all right. We won two of the games, anyway. Portland whooped our asses though. My friend Joshua has been holding that shit over my head for the past week now. Bastard.”

“And here I thought you were the star player. You don’t happen to have Joshua’s phone number, do you?” she teases. How is it that everything she says is either incredibly sexy or incredibly cute?

“No way. He may not be the smooth player that I am, but I’m not taking any chances.” Where the hell did that come from? I sounded like her boyfriend or something. What in the actual
fuck
?

Ramona just takes it in stride. “Okay, okay. Guess what?”

“What?”

I practically hear her smiling through the phone. “I’m almost finished.”

“Hold on, and I’ll be right over to help you,” I joke. Shit, did I really just say that? “Sorry. Totally inappropriate. So you finished . . . I’m assuming the painting? Can I see it?” As many times as Ramona has brought up this damn painting of hers, I’m really curious to see how it looks.

“What? Oh, it’s not finished yet. I mean I think I need to go back over it in a few spots, but I mean if you want to come over and see it, that’s cool too.” I pretend I don’t notice the way her voice reminds me of when she was begging me to fuck her harder in the shower. Or on the bed. Or over the couch. On the floor. Then there was that time where I was just holding her up against the wall . . .

“Give me an hour and I’ll be there.”

* * *

I
t’s
weird not to immediately reach out and touch Ramona after seeing her for the first time in three weeks. With her soft dark bangs pulled away from her face, I can see more of her, see the way she’s put on the smallest layer of makeup for me. I don’t know why she did it, it’s not like she needs it or anything, but it makes me smile nonetheless. She wanted to look nice specifically for me when she got ready, just like I made sure to put on some of my favorite cologne and fixed my messy hair. There’s some hesitancy in the way Ramona moves too, so I know I’m not the only one looking forward to our reunion.

I almost expected more awkwardness between us, but the smile that cuts across my face is too natural for all that.

Seeing me smile just makes her grin, and my head goes delirious, telling me all these crazy things about what I want to do to her right now. So much for concentration.

She leads me back to her bedroom, shutting the door behind us. “So were you able to do anything fun while you guys were out of town for the games at least?”

There was plenty to see and do between Orlando and Portland. Most of the time it was straight chilling or partying with some of the locals of the fairer sex. At least for everybody else, because apparently I am now a wet blanket when it comes to the ladies. But that’s not something Ramona needs to know. Especially since I’m having a hard time keeping my hands off of her. “Yeah, it was pretty chill. We had plenty to keep us busy,” I say, leaning against the wall. I’ll let her think whatever she wants to about
that
.

She doesn’t take the bait, whether because she’s too amped about me seeing the painting or what. “That’s cool. So, here it is,” she mumbles, spreading her arms out in front of her and gesturing to the canvas on the wall. There’s a nervous look in her eyes, waiting for me to lend my opinion on something I know must have taken her so long to get nearly right.

The vast expanse of space that was there is now primarily covered up with all sorts of crazy well, everything. Ramona’s painted abstract shapes, blobs, but fit in realistic objects too, like a clock, a paintbrush, a cup, things that seem random to the outside eye but immediately bring up a ton of things inside me. I don’t know whether to tell her how amazing I think her work is, putting all that she feels on the line like that, or to act like it’s cool but not give her the whole truth. I can’t let her think I am catching any feelings or anything like that, I’m just not that kind of guy.

“Wow, you really did it, didn’t you?”

“Well, I tried, anyway. What you think? Is it too busy, too much going on? Does it even make any sense? God, I don’t know what I was thinking. I mean this isn’t even finished, maybe once I have a chance —“

I shake her shoulders lightly, smiling at how cute and neurotic she’s being. “Breathe, Cinnamon. Breathe. I know you’re not finished yet, but it looks really good so far. I don’t know, something about mixing in the real with the not so real, it’s pretty cool.”

Ramona beams at me full on and I forget how to breathe for a moment. Shit, I can’t keep letting her do that to me.

“I’m glad you like it. Actually it was really easy to do, it just like flowed out of me, you know? Anyway, so that’s that. Tell me more about your trip.”

We both sit down on her bed, me kicking back and folding my hands behind my head against the wall. “Good times. It was good times. I mean like I said, we were pretty occupied. Between the games, there was plenty of local fun things to get into.” It’s like being cornered by a sweet doe in the middle of a forest or something. Ramona won’t take her honey-brown eyes off me, and I’m staring at her freckles, wanting to kiss them so badly. Fuck. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go down.

I change my direction of thinking, trying to get her away from finding out the truth. “There was this one night that was pretty damn funny. We were all at a bar, my guy Souza was a little more intoxicated than the rest of us. He’s Brazilian and claims he can hold his liquor better than anyone else. We thought he was going to be trouble, but he ended up being a fucking hero.”

Ramona raises a delicate brow, crossing her legs and leaning in closer. “Oh yeah? What did he do?”

I lick my lips, quickly thinking on my feet. I’m not lying to her, I’m just distracting her. “There was this guy, this giant douche nozzle of a guy, probably ten feet tall I swear, and he was screaming at who I’m assuming was his girlfriend. It was pretty fucked up, I mean he was really laying into her. I don’t even know what they were arguing about and the bar owner was about to step in, but he was just this scrawny guy, balding, didn’t really look like he was going to be able to do anything but call the cops. Souza walks right over to the guy, steps in, and asks his girlfriend if everything’s okay. Of course the guy is ready to knock his brains out, but Souza is a black belt in Tae Kwon Do and did some sort of crazy chop and dropped that dude’s ass straight to the floor. Oh man, he was fucking crazy. It was hilarious because I mean he just
dropped
, like a fucking stone. The rest of us went to make sure she was okay, though. She was crying and all that. I felt so bad for that girl, I mean, I know she had to have been humiliated? I just don’t understand. I don’t get how people can just let someone treat them that way. My Aunt Mel used to date this bastard me, Cal, and EZ called dickhead, right to his face in fact. He was one of those guys, thinking he’s so big and bad that he can treat a woman however he wants . . . yeah, he didn’t last long.”

It takes me a second to register the look on Ramona’s face, to know something’s up. It’s like her whole face is just throwing up this huge wall and she shut down for the day.

“Hey, are you okay?” I ask her, tilting my head and leaning in more. I’m closer than I probably should be to Ramona, but I don’t care.

She snaps to, looking right at me as if I pulled her from a dream. “Sorry. Um, yeah, thank God for Souza, then. Right? Who knows what would’ve happened to that girl, I mean, obviously she couldn’t have defended herself or anything.”

I’m not entirely satisfied with her answer. “Yeah, thank God. Wait, are you trying to imply that he shouldn’t have done anything? I mean I don’t get in the middle of people’s business, or anything, but what he did was a good thing.”

She tugs her lip between her teeth, pulling at a thread that’s sticking out of her purple blanket. “Yep. Like you said, he’s a hero.”

For the first time since I’ve met her, I’m completely confused. I don’t know whether Ramona is being sarcastic or not, but it doesn’t sound like it, not really. And if she’s not being sarcastic, then I’m not sure what to think here. “Okay then. Besides the painting, what else have you been up to?” I figure changing the subject will drop the weirdness between us.

“Not a whole lot.” It’s like she’s reading from the dictionary, she sounds so robotic, not herself.

Okay, now I’m confused for real. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

It’s not that she refuses to look at me, but it’s the way she does, something glinting behind her eyes. It’s a hardness that I’ve never seen in her. “I’m fine. Just drop it, okay?”

* * *

A
fter trying
to bring up whatever it was that was bugging her for the rest of the afternoon, I decide to give up. Ramona is not having any of it, shutting me down each time I tried to say something. And call me crazy, but I don’t want to hang around where I’m not wanted.

Something blazes inside of me, not only this curiosity and concern for her, but the kind of frustration that you feel when someone you care about is keeping something from you. I mean because come on, I obviously fucking care about her. In some kind of way . . . some kind of way that I’m not about to further explore. Especially when she’s keeping shit from me, no way. Benji Lundgren does not play those kinds of weird mind games with anyone, at all.

I thought maybe catching up with her later on at the Laundromat would help cheer her up, and I even brought some freaking delicious bao buns from my favorite take-out place. But instead of Ramona behind the counter it was her best friend, Jasmine. As soon as she saw me, she pushed her long, inky black hair out of her face and gave me a smile. She was cool enough to talk to, so I walked up to her and asked about Ramona and whether she was all right or not. I didn’t want to sound too concerned, especially to her best friend, who would obviously go run and tell Ramona the second I left. But even Jasmine wasn’t sure what was going on.

What she did tell me though kind of gave part of it away. It was obviously a guy, an ex of hers that possibly fucked her head up for a while.
Okay, I can see that
, I told her. I left the Laundromat just as frustrated as when I entered it, but now I had the added expense of Ramona probably finding out that I was asking around about her. I didn’t know how she would feel about that, or whether she would take it to mean something more than what it did . . . and then I felt stupid for even bringing it up.

But even now, sitting at the gym and trying to focus on the rowing machine, I’m kind of worried about her. If this secret, this thing that she’s keeping from me is big, then I don’t know what to do. How do you reach someone like that? If she’s been screwed over by some asshole, then what am
I
doing? Shit, I never thought I’d be questioning myself constantly.