Sugaring Ben Page 4

  “At least someone finds me attractive.”

  He reached forward with his right hand and cupped my left one inside it. He squeezed the hand, released it, and said, “You’re professional, seem on point with your life, and sexy as hell. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that you’re my type of man.”

  Flirting wasn’t overrated. Some men thought it petty and ridiculous, but I loved it, especially if a guy who looked and acted like Ben Cutter supplied such niceties.

  “With that said, Mr. Cutter, what do you say we get out of here and you take me to your kitchen for something sweet to eat?”

  “Sounds like a plan, Mr. Oliver.”

  Before we stood, I thought he was going to lean into me and provide me with a kiss, not that I would have objected. Instead, we both stood at the same time.

  He patted my back with his right palm, leaned into me, and said, “You can ride with me. What do you say?”

  Never had I heard of a better idea and would have traveled with him anywhere.

  * * * *

  The next few hours were all about Ben, not that I minded. We left the station and ended up in his 2016 Jaguar XF. The car blew my world apart; a sleek white and black high performance sports sedan, small but fast. While sitting in the passenger seat, I deemed that he had too much money. Loads of the green. Online articles suggested he had over eighty-eight million dollars, and that income was just from his highly syndicated television show. Who knew how much his Sugaring Ben label filled his wallet; some absorbent amount that probably would have wet my pants. No matter how much cash the guy had, he treated me with respect at all times and came across as a complete gentleman.

  He drove from WRDR to his private estate called Marshdale. The estate sat on seventy-two acres, very little of which touched Lake Erie. A sprawling section of land was secured behind a white-picket fence and sky-reaching Eastern White Pines. He drove the Jaguar through a private entrance on the right side of the property that wasn’t manned by security. Ben told me there were two other gates that were guarded seven days a week and twenty-four hours a day.

  “This is the entrance I always like to use, although it’s risky for my safety.”

  A large Colonial with ten huge windows and two massive front doors welcomed his return and my new arrival. The house blazed an exhausting white and showcased three floors. To the rear of the residence sat Lake Erie, a giant pool of choppy and waving water that was silver-white in hue by the rising moon’s splay of light or the reflection of the sun.

  The evening turned chilly with snow. I wouldn’t have called the current winter condition a snowstorm, but had it continued to snow, two hours or more, flurries could have piled an inch or two on the icy ground, increasing the chances of labeling the precipitation as a snowstorm.

  Once inside Ben’s abode, standing in a foyer comprised of Asian-styled tile and gold elephants, he took my coat and hung it with his own in a closet.

  “We can get a drink in the kitchen. How does that sound?”

  The kitchen could have been in any cooking magazine or on a cooking television show besides Sugaring Ben. A giant island sat in its center, surrounded by iron-looking chairs with high backs. The appliances were the best of the best, as well as the tile floor and glass walls, both of which could have passed as sea glass. Brass pots hung from a metal triangle over the island, expensive and shiny clean.

  Our conversation detailed his liking for Clive Barker novels, patios that overlooked Lake Erie, and handsome men who knew how to kiss well. We talked and drank for an hour, two hours, about everything. Nothing seemed secret between us: the first time we had kissed men, lies we told to best friends, and vacations with family that usually ended badly. The talk became light and simple, just the way we intended. We sat side by side in his glamourous kitchen, shoulder touching shoulder, and lost in each other’s worlds.

  “Ben,” I said his name, gaining his attention and stopping him from rambling.

  “Sand.”

  “You were supposed to bake something for me, remember?”

  By then, he probably realized that maybe it was too late to preheat his oven and clutter the island with an assortment of baking ingredients. But he had something just as nice and ready for us that he had baked the previous afternoon: a double-rum cake.

  Grinning, happy to see the dessert, I said, “You didn’t let me down.”

  “I did. I could have made it from scratch tonight, right before your very eyes. Maybe I took the easy way out.”

  I wanted to tell him that sometimes I was easy, but didn’t. Instead, I admitted, “This will do just fine.” I enjoyed a slice of cake with him.

  * * * *

  Ben became a little drunk. Not true. Ben became a lot drunk. Probably because of our constant chatter back and forth that lasted hours. Or maybe because he was nervous, preoccupied with the notion that he had to watch what he said in front of me, or put on his uppity airs that he most likely did with other men of his class. One sip of Kentucky bourbon ended up being many sips, and he became loopy, drunk, and began slurring his words.

  As he continued to drink, I drank with him, but slower, filling my body with less alcohol, spanning my sips apart. Our conversations ensued until almost one o’clock in the morning.

  He huffed, “I think I’m drunk.”

  “You may be.”

  His face turned a blistering red. “I usually can handle my alcohol better, but you’re so easy to talk to and enjoyable. Spending time with you flies by, Sand.”

  He yawned.

  I yawned.

  “I’m getting tired,” he said.

  “I was tired hours ago.” I looked at the clock in his commercial-sized kitchen and saw that it was after midnight.

  “Do I bore you, Mr. Oliver?”

  “You don’t. At least not this evening, anyway.”

  “Likewise.” He smiled and added, “Come here, Sand. I want to kiss you.”

  Truthfully, I wasn’t into drunken kisses that smelled of Kentucky bourbon, but decided what the hell and went for one. I moved around the square of marble-topped island that separated us and leaned into him.

  “You made it,” he said, chuckling.

  “I did.”

  Our chins brushed together, and our mouths met. He darted his tongue inside my mouth, and I tasted his saliva mixed with bourbon. Frankly, I had been a little too drunk to care, unable to drive home, exhausted, and still having the time of my life with the man.

  That kiss inside his kitchen…I wouldn’t forget it for years to come. Not in a decade. Not in two decades. There was nothing so sensual in my life like it: biting, warm, numbing, and pleasurable. A cyclone of emotions swirled around my insides like the ice cubes in his empty glass tumbler. A kiss that was as hot as his La Cornue’s Grand Palais range or the heat from his body as he continued to be connected to my mouth. A kiss that caused my knees to wobble and my mind to stray to distant beaches or inside castles along the Black Forest. Puncturing. Maddening. Likable. Potent. Of certainty. There were so many ways to describe the kiss. Inebriated with the man, I was his for now. We were two men together in his top-of-the-line kitchen and…

  Chapter 7: Please Stay

  I couldn’t drive, and he could barely walk. My nose touched his nose, we giggled, and I asked, “What did we do to ourselves, Ben?”

  He reached to his right, fingered some rich and creamy rum-flavored icing off the cake, and placed the finger against my lips. “Do you think my dick tastes this good?”

  I didn’t mind dirty talk, even when it came to drunk pastry chefs. “One of these days, I might have to find out.” I opened my mouth, and he slipped the digit inside. Damn, what a great tasting icing: sweet, thick, buttery, and full all at the same time.

  “How about tonight?”

  “You’re almost ready to pass out. I don’t think that’s an option.”

  “How sad.” He pulled away. “We should be getting to bed.”

  “You should,” I said. “I have to call a cab to take me home. My Fusion is at the station.”

  “You’re trapped at Marshdale. I guess it could be worse for you.”

  One could never be too trapped if they knew how to dial a phone number. I ignored his comment and asked, “What do you say I help you get upstairs and tuck you in for the night? How would you feel about that?”

  “That would be very nice of you, Sand. I hope you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Of course, I wouldn’t mind. What are new friends for? Time for bed.” I stood at the island, walked behind him, and started manhandling his hips, pushing my arms under his, clamping my palms to the sides of his chest, and guiding him to bed. “Up we go.”

  “Nice moves, friend. I like what you’re doing.” He hiccupped once, then twice, capable of walking but considerably inebriated.

  “One step at a time,” I told him, babying the man, acting as if he were more like a best friend than someone I wanted to kiss.

  We made our way from the bottom floor to the second floor. He wobbled within my grasp, falling to the right, then to the left, and laughed a little while doing so, smashed like a college kid. I couldn’t help but take in the Colonial and its beauty. Margaret Keane originals hung on the walls, the mahogany wood lining the stairwell gleamed with a red-brown hue, and the ceiling was tray-styled with baroque, lacunar squares, and stucco angels at play. The second floor opened up to a long and narrow hallway that was carpeted in a ruby red. More Keane paintings decorated the walls, three primitive five-light colonial chandeliers in black finish illuminated the hallway with golden-white light. Four doors were on the right of the hallway, and five were on the left.

  Ben leaned into me and pointed to the first door on the right. He slurred, “Bedroom,” and clumsily tromped forward.

  His roo
m looked like something out of Traditional Home, large in size with lots of wood, wrought iron, and maple-colored walls. A reading chair, desk, wall of hardback cookbooks, and a Nain Persian rug accented the room.

  “Bed,” he mumbled and attempted to move toward the king-sized structure against the far wall. His balance was off, though. He started to fall face forward, which would have ended in a bloody and broken nose had I not balanced him.

  Once at his bed, Ben sat down and fell against its covers, his head hitting the pillow. He garbled, “No…clothes,” and smacked his left palm off his hip. “Can’t…sleep in…them.”

  I understood.

  I peeled his pullover sweater off with its white T-shirt and exposed his hairy, ginger-colored chest, plump nipples, and abs. Never had I seen such a beautiful chest with its post-summertime tan and freckles that splotched his shoulders.

  Not completely drunk, but semi-buzzed, I unintentionally licked my lips and whispered, “My God, you are a beautiful man.”

  He drunkenly laughed and said, “Just imagine what’s below my belt.”

  “Just imagine.”

  He took his belt off and dropped it to the floor, squirmed out of his slacks after unbuckling them, and dropped the material next to his belt. “What do you think of the rest of me, Mr. Oliver?”

  At the sight of his round and somewhat firm package, I thought…I thought the world was going to overheat and every waterfall, river, and lake would dry up. I thought the snow would melt and the temperature outside would skyrocket to over a hundred degrees, creating a timeless summer that would never be forgotten. I thought I would faint at the sight of his white briefs, plentiful package, and the strings of ginger-colored hair that lined his thighs. I thought…

  “You look good, Ben.”

  “I spy,” he murmured.

  “You mean try.”

  He laughed and nodded. “Yeah. That’s what I do.”

  I told him to get under the sheet and comforter, and I would tuck him in.

  He pulled part of the bedding over him, shuffled to his right, patted the empty spot next to him, and said, “Bend the night with me.”

  “Spend,” I corrected him. “Not bend.”

  “Yeah. Spend the night with me. I promise not to mess with you.”

  I chuckled. “What if I want to be messed with?”

  “I aim to please. Whatever stays in the bedroom happens in the bedroom.”

  I chuckled at his drunkenness and told him, “Next time, I’ll spend the night with you. You’re a little too drunk tonight.”

  He rifted, chuckled, and blinked a few times. “Tuck me in.”

  So I did. I pulled the covers up to his chin, leaned over, wiped drunken spittle away from his lips with a thumb, and kissed him on the forehead, behaving myself.

  “Thanks for that.”

  “My pleasure.”

  He looked up at me, into my eyes, and blinked a few more times. “You’re a sweetheart.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I love sometimes, Sand.”

  Buzzed with elation, I told him goodnight, exited his bedroom, turned off the light, and went downstairs, holding the stairwell’s mahogany banister the entire way, realizing that I was more drunk than I believed.

  * * * *

  I didn’t call a cab to pick me up at Ben’s estate, although many drove along Marshdale Road, carrying travelers from Radar to its sister town of Madden. Instead, I chose to spend the night in the downstairs study, cuddled on a long couch, and overlooked by Ethan Frome, Sister Carrie, and Rosemary’s Baby.

  The couch could have been more comfortable for my lower back and hips. I took the light pain like a man, attempted to close my eyes, and dealt with its nonsense. The wind outside beat against the Colonial and howled, twisting and turning in different directions, keeping me awake. Snow blew along the window panes, washing over the glass. The snowstorm outside had grown within the last few hours, tempestuous by nature.

  Eventually, soothed by the wind’s melodramatic contempt of a lullaby, I drifted off to sleep, nightly dreams, and slept peacefully until the next morning.

  Chapter 8: The Next Morning

  I stared at a strange ceiling and felt an unfamiliar couch underneath me. Beginnings hadn’t nudged my nose or cheek, waking me; something she always did. There were books everywhere. Hardback. Leather. Gold-trimmed. Fiction and nonfiction. And dawn emerged in the window to my right: white light twisting with snow and wind; the predicted snowstorm at hand. The wind howled outside and slapped against Ben’s house. Yes, that’s where I was at. Ben’s Colonial at his Marshdale Estate; a big house with cold and airy rooms. I recalled being in Ben’s study and spent the night, sleeping over after our date, the rum cake, drinking, and late night chatter.

  I yawned and fell back asleep. The sound of the outside wind floated me to a different world, dimension, time, and place. Barefoot and walking slowly, I passed through a giant stainless-steel kitchen, looking from left to right. There were a dozen or more ovens, transparent canisters of whipped cream, and mewing cats, which circled my bare feet. Angels were singing hymnals in the distance, but I couldn’t see them. Pies were baking and filled the vast room with a variety of mixed scents: cinnamon, blueberry, peppermint, peach, apple, fig, and chocolate. The aromas wafted within the room, circling. On the far wall was the symbol no4, which I didn’t understand. Dreams weren’t supposed to be clear at all times, though. And certainly not ones while sleeping on a stranger’s couch in an unfamiliar study.

  “Sand…Sandford…”

  I heard my name being whispered, pulling me out of the strange dream. Then I felt a nudge to my left arm, opened my eyes, and stared into Ben’s beautiful green eyes.

  “It’s almost ten o’clock. I thought you might want to get up.”

  Ten o’clock? I couldn’t remember sleeping in that late in the last six months or longer. I sat up, yawned, and felt Ben’s palm brush through my hair.

  “You’re a wreck.”

  “Thanks for the compliment.”

  He joked, “My pleasure.”

  I couldn’t believe what happened next, blown away by his actions. Ben leaned into me, applied a kiss to my cheek, and pulled away.

  “You’re sexy as hell in the morning. Do you know that?”

  “Funny thing…every guy says that when I sleep on their couch.”

  He grazed a finger across one of my cheeks and replied, “Something tells me you don’t spend a lot of nights with other men.”

  “I don’t. Although I was pretty frisky when I was eighteen.”

  “Weren’t we all?” he said, laughing.

  I was curious and said, “You don’t have a hangover this morning after all the alcohol you had last night?”

  “My head and body are all clear. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that drinking spell cleaned me out. Sometimes I become tanked and will vomit the next morning. I never know what the outcome will be.”

  “Good to know.” I sat up.

  Again, he leaned into me and kissed me on the lips without warning. Not that I minded, of course. The kiss proved that he knew what he was doing with his mouth. It melted me and caused my temperature to rise. It also caused butterflies to spin inside my stomach, which I had no control over. I closed my eyes, felt dreamy and bewildered, and at a loss for thoughts and rationale. My mind raced with nothing important, swirling with funnels of deep reds, blues, and greens. He darted his tongue into my mouth, pulled it out, darted it ever so slightly inside my mouth again and…

  I felt his hand on my T-shirt-covered chest. His palm and fingers glided over one of my pecs, then the other, and he started to steer the appendage southward with movement, heading for my private parts. His tongue started to pry lips apart when I pulled away from him and shook my head.

  “It’s too soon for this.” I moved his hand off my stomach and added, “I really like you and…don’t want to mess this up between us.”

  He stood, brushed the same palm and fingers down and over his chest, and said, “I get that. No problem. Whatever you say, Sand.”

  What I said and how I felt were two different agendas. Frankly, I wanted him to peel me out of my clothes and kiss every part of my body with his mouth, applying his tongue to some specifically sensual areas. My mind was in charge of my mouth, though, and the sensible part of me knew that if I slept with him, I wouldn’t see him again.