Page 60 of Dessert Flirt Repeat
I let go of Becca’s hand and step forward and into Ben’s space. He stumbles back a step. This jerkoff might be taller than me, but a few inches of height doesn’t mean shit if he can’t back it up with muscle and skill. I’ve got at least fifteen pounds on this guy. And the way his eyes widened when I stepped up to him tells me he’s all talk.
“It absolutely involves me,” I say to him, “because you’re telling lies about my friend. You’re the asshole, Ben. You cheated. You stole. Be a fucking grown-up and take responsibility.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Chrissa shaking her head. She crosses her arms as she glowers at Ben. “We’re done.”
She looks past me to Becca. “Thanks for the warning.” When she looks at me, her gaze turns focused before her eyes go wide. “Oh my god! You’re that sexy chef guy from TikTok!That’swhere I recognize you from!”
I’m thrown off by her reaction. “Uh, yeah. That’s me.”
Chrissa looks at Becca once more. “You traded up, honey.” She twists to Ben. “Go to hell.”
She marches toward the exit. Ben runs after her, pleading for her to stop and hear him out. But before they even make it to the door, she grabs a nearby glass of water, spins around, and splashes him in the face. “I said, we’re done. Leave me alone.”
A chorus of gasps from the nearby tables follows. Chrissa walks out of the restaurant and hops into a rideshare. Ben stands there, his face dripping wet. A guy sitting at a nearby table hands him his napkin.
“Ouch, dude. I think you better cut your losses and go home.”
Ben rips the napkin from the guy’s hand and scrubs it over his face, muttering profanity. He walks out of the champagne bar and stomps off down the street.
When I turn to check on Becca, there’s a punch to my gut. Her eyes are misty, and she’s still shaking.
“Hey,” I say softly. “It’s okay.”
She shakes her head. “I need a drink.”
I hold back a wince. She’s clearly upset. Distraught, actually. I don’t know if downing alcohol is the smartest way to cope.
“How about some water?”
That dazed look fades. She looks determined now. “No. I need something harder than what this place has to offer.”
“Becca, I don’t know if drinking is the best—”
She holds up a hand, cutting me off. “I just ran into my ex-boyfriend with another woman. I had to stand there as he looked me in the eye and lied about me. I deserve some hard alcohol.” She glances around the dimly lit space. “This place is too romantic.” She gestures at the décor: the candles, the low mood lighting, the white rose centerpieces. Most of the tables look like they’re couples on dates.
I sigh. “Fair enough. There’s a dive bar next door. Let’s go.”
* * *
Becca stumbles forward as I walk her back to her apartment. “God, what a dick Ben is,” she slurs.
A trio of people walking past us stops their conversation to glance at us, probably because the volume of her voice is a hair under a shout.
I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her close to me to help steady her as she walks. “I agree. That guy is the biggest dick I’ve ever met.”
She looks up at me, her crystal blue eyes glazed over from the three tequila shots and two cocktails she downed in the last ninety minutes. “You know what wasn’t that big? Ben’s dick.”
I help her stay steady while walking along the sidewalk. She stops suddenly and turns to look at me. Her eyebrows crash together, and her expression turns worried. “Oh gosh, that was so mean, wasn’t it?”
I shrug. “It’s not mean if it’s true. It’s just stating facts.”
Her expression turns thoughtful, and she nods to herself. “Okay, truth? Ben’s dick was actually a good size. It’s just that he acted like such a massive dick tonight—way, way bigger than the dick he actually has.”
I laugh. “That’s a fair assessment.”
We continue walking. “It’s not like the only thing I care about is size. It’s not. I swear. Girth is just as important. And technique. And open-mindedness. He hated that I used a vibrator. Can you believe that?”
I make a choking sound, but Becca doesn’t seem to notice. Christ. Just the thought of Becca using a vibrator on herself is enough to make my head explode. An image of her writhing in bed, face flushed, moaning and panting as she presses a vibrator between her legs sends a wave of heat to my dick. I swallow and force myself to look at the pavement below. I focus on the grainy texture, how it’s more of a brown-gray color than a true gray—anything to keep my mind from wandering to that filthy place.
