#getting jealous

So you and Ben have been at the mall browsing for the past hour. Express for Men has some interesting finds; you already have a large pile of shirts, jackets, pants, and jeans set aside for him to try on.

Ben has strong opinions, especially on pants. He blatantly refuses skinny jeans, for which you begrudgingly concede. You have to pick your battles with your boyfriend, and this one's not the hill to die on, you think.

So you put down the tight pants in favor of some tasteful dark wash jeans. He eyes this pair also with wariness. "Why the fuck do they have holes in 'em?" he asks.

You have to bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing. "They're ripped jeans."

"On purpose?" he asks.

Oh lord. "Yes, Ben. They're distressed."

"Christ on a cross, so am I. This is what goes for fashion nowadays?"

God, give me fucking strength, you think. But you still smile. "You're gonna look good, I promise you."

So Ben gathers the pile you've created for him, and with a deep sigh, he heads over to the dressing room. There are two saleswomen stationed there. One visibly breathes in at the sight of him as she subtly taps the other one on the hip. Both greet him with bright eyes and smiles. "Hi there! Need a room?" the first one asks.

"Yeah," Ben nods, and she dutifully lets him into the biggest one. It has a cushioned bench and plenty of hooks on the wall for hanging the shirts and pants.

"Need any help laying these out?" she asks. He shakes his head. "No. I'm good, sweetheart."

She giggles a bit, like he's said something funny. "Okay! Well just let me know if you need any help. Like a different size, different color, if you need a belt, or anything like that."

Ben spots her blush and can't help but smile at her indulgently. "Sure." He has no intention of taking her up on her "help," but he knows the effect he has on women. Once she leaves, he closes the dressing room door and starts trying things on.

He's surprised to find he actually likes a lot of what you picked out for him. But then his superior hearing picks up what the women out front are whispering to each other in excitement.

"Oh my God, it's a criminal offense to have that jawline," says the one who helped him. "And that beard? Cut to perfection."

Ben smirks, both in amusement and with a well of pride welling in his chest. Still got it, fuckers.

The other scoffs. "Honey, I'd climb that man like a goddamn tree."

They snicker together, trying and failing to be quiet. "He looks so familiar though, I swear to God."

"Psh. Maybe in your dreams," one teases. The other hums. "Well, he'll definitely be making an appearance tonight...maybe when I'm still awake." Ben raises a brow at that.

"Hmm, looks like he's got a girlfriend though. She picked out all that stuff for him."

He then perks up a bit at the mention of you.

"Ehh, come on. She's gotta be a sister or something. Look at her."

"Aww, don't do that. She's cute."

"Cute doesn't bag a man like that." The other one chortles in response.

Ben frowns. He knew women were petty, but this takes the fucking cake. You're a New York "10," even in your old sweatpants and a bare face.

"What-fucking-ever, bitch. I'm gonna slip him my number. See if he needs any further assistance." Cue more obnoxious giggling.

The other one chimes in. "Ooh, you're bad. But I'm here for it. Get your man, girl."

"Excuse me." Oh, shit. Ben's brows raise of their own accord. That was your voice.

"Yes," one of the saleswomen greets you more professionally.

"I just want to check on how my boyfriend's doing. He's in that room, right?" you ask. Ben hears your tone though. It's clipped, direct, and intentional. He knows then: you definitely heard those twittering broads.

"Yes, right back there," one of the women directs you.

"Thank you," you reply flatly.

Ben smirks as he hears your brusque steps approaching. He checks himself out in the mirror real quick (the white shirt and black pants are simple, but they go well with the black jacket, he thinks). Then he unlocks the door and opens it, right as you were about to knock.

You blink up at him with surprise, and the remnants of a frown.

He leans against the doorframe, looking down at you with a charming smile. "Hey there, beautiful."

Your lips start to form a smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes. "Hey." You take in his current outfit with interest and approval. "Ooh, I like this. You look good...how do you feel in it?"

"Good," Ben says, but his eyes are focused on you. "Come 'ere."

He takes you by surprise when his hand guides you inside the dressing room by the waist. He locks it behind you. You look up at him in askance. He grasps your chin and tilts your face up to him.

"What's the matter?" he asks knowingly.

You raise a brow at him, shaking your head. "Nothing. Come on, did you try on this other stuff?"

Ben keeps a stubborn grip on your chin, so you can't turn away from him. "Don't tell me you're letting those maneating bimbos get to you."

Your eyes go wide and you raise a finger to your lips, reminding him to keep it quiet, but he doesn't give two fucks about that. He sits down on the soft bench and pulls you down with him. You sit across his lap and give him a rueful smile, stroking his cheek.

"I'll let you in on a little secret though," Ben says. Your expression crosses between amusement and intrigue. He leans in close your ear. "Jealousy looks fucking hot on you."

You guffaw in response, playfully smacking his arm.

"Hey, easy on the jacket," he smirks, but he claims you with a kiss. His fingers go to the button on your jeans, undoing it and slowly, torturously, guiding down the zipper. You suck in a breath.

"Ben, we can't," you say. But you're already moaning softly in his ear when his thick fingers begin to rub your pussy through your underwear. You blush at the naughtiness of this, even though the thought just turns you on even more.

He soon moves your panties aside to find your wet, soft heat.

You grip his hair tight, trying to bite your lip against a gasp as his fingers enter you, and begin to pulse inside. Your lower belly coils with heat, especially when his thumb finds your clit.

"We're paying customers," he says, with a deepening smirk. "We can do whatever we damn well please."

At the moment, you find it hard to argue with his logic.

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