The fact that hasn’t occurred to me until now is-Kate Brooks is single. Free. Available. The only real obstacle that stood between her and me and my office couch just shot himself in the foot. Holy shit. This is what Superman must have felt like when he turned back time and pulled Lois out of that car. It’s a do-over. A second shot. Recommencing lift off.
I fold my hands behind my head and settle back into my pillows with the biggest, brightest can’t-wait-for-tomorrow smile you have ever seen.
It’s been four days since I found out Dipshit broke up with Kate. That next day, she came into work looking like herself again. For all intents and purposes, she seemed completely over the moron. But Mackenzie caught a cold, so Alexandra had to reschedule our lunch for next week. With the weekend Kate had, it was probably for the best.
Oh yeah. Just one more little detail you should know: I haven’t gotten laid in twelve days.
Twelve days.
Two hundred and eighty-eight sex-free hours. I can’t calculate the minutes-it’s too depressing. Remember all work and no play makes Drew a cranky boy? Well, at this point, Drew is practically a goddamn psychopath, okay?
Twelve days may not seem like a long time for you amateurs out there, but for a guy like me? It’s a frigging record. I haven’t had a drought like this since the winter of ninety-nine. That January, a massive blizzard blanketed the tri-state area with twenty-eight inches of snow. Only official vehicles were allowed on the roads, so I was stuck in the penthouse with my parents.
And I was seventeen. A year in a guy’s life when a light breeze is capable of giving him a boner. I spent so much time in the bathroom, my mother thought I had a virus. Finally, after the seventh day, I couldn’t take it anymore. I braved the elements and walked to Rebecca Whitehouse’s condo uptown. We humped like bunnies in the janitor’s closet of her parent’s building.
She was a nice girl.
Anyway, once again, I’ve been reduced to jerking off in the shower. It’s humiliating. I feel so dirty. Not that there’s anything wrong with a good rub and tug in the morning to start the day off right. Particularly if, like myself, last weekend’s typical Saturday score night had to be bypassed because of family-related holiday obligations. But if that’s the only action you’re getting? Well, that’s just…sad.
The reason behind my recent extended sexual famine? I blame Kate. It’s all her frigging fault.
Apparently, I’ve grown a conscience. I don’t know when it happened, I don’t know how it happened, but I am not happy about it.
If I could, I would squash that Jiminy Cricket fucker like the roach he is.
Because you know how some people have gay-dar? Well, I have dump-dar. That means I can pick out a recently dumped female a mile away. They’re easy pickings. All you have to tell them is that their ex is an idiot for letting them go, and they’ll be begging you to nail them.
Kate now falls into the aforementioned dumped category. Should be a sure thing, right?
Wrong. Here’s where Jiminy rears his ugly little bug head.
I can’t bring myself to make a move. The idea makes me feel like a goddamn predator. It’s hard to tell if she’s still raw. She doesn’t seem to be, but you never know. She could just be putting up a good front. And if she is-hurt and vulnerable-that’s not how I want her. When it happens for Kate and me, I want her ripping at my clothes, and her own for that matter, because she can’t wait a second longer to have me pounding into her. I want her moaning my name, scratching my back and screaming because of the sheer magnificence of it.
Damn it, there I go again. I’ve got a hard-on just thinking about it.
What a mess. I can’t fuck Kate, and I don’t want to fuck anyone else. It’s my own personal Perfect Storm. Told you I’d get what I deserve. Are you happy now?
I turn off the lights in my office and walk over to Kate’s. She doesn’t see me right away, so I cross my arms and lean against the doorframe, just watching her. Her hair’s down, and she’s standing, bent over her desk, looking at her computer. And she’s singing:
No more drinks with the guys
No more hitting on girls
I’d give it all up
And it’d be worth it in the end
If you were my lady
I would comprehend
How it feels to have something real
I would want to be a good man…
She really does have a great voice. And the way she’s bending over her desk like that…I just want to walk up behind her and…Christ. Never mind. I’m just torturing myself.
“Rihanna better watch her back.” She looks up at the sound of my voice, and her face breaks into a wide, embarrassed grin. I request, “Don’t stop on my account. I was enjoying the show.”
“Very funny. Show’s over.”
I crook my finger at her. “Come on. I’m kicking you out. It’s after eleven on a Friday night, and you haven’t eaten yet. I know a place. My treat. They make a great turkey club.”
Kate turns off her screen and grabs her bag. “Oohh, they’re my favorite.”
“Yeah, I know.”
We grab a table in the bar area and order. The waitress brings our drinks, and Kate takes a sip of the margarita I ordered for her. “Mmm. This is just what I wanted right now.”
I told you I was good at the drink thing-remember? We talk comfortably for a few minutes, and then…watch this.
Kate’s eyes go wide as saucers, and she dives under the table. I look around. What the hell? I duck my head and take a peek at her. “What are you doing?”
She looks panicked. “Billy’s here. Upstairs, in the loft over the dance floor. And he’s not alone.” I start to lift my head when she yells, “Don’t look!”
Jesus Christ-this is ridiculous. So much for being over the dickwit.
“It’s just…I can’t let him see me like this.”
Now I’m confused. “What are you talking about? You look great.” She always looks great.
“No, not in these clothes. He said it wasn’t attractive that I was so driven. It was one of the reasons he wanted to break up. That I…he said I was too…masculine.”
You have got to be fucking kidding me. I’m masculine. Hillary Clinton is masculine. Kate Brooks doesn’t have a goddamn masculine cell in her body. She’s all woman, believe me.
But I know what the fucker was going for. Kate is intelligent, outspoken, ambitious. Lots of men-like the shit-eating asshole, for instance-can’t handle a woman like that. So they twist it around. Make those qualities seem unappealing. Something to be ashamed of.
Screw this. I grab Kate’s hand and drag her out from under the table. She looks around quickly as I lead her to the dance floor.
“What are you doing?”
“Giving you back your dignity.”
I bump into several people on the way, making a slight ripple, so I’m sure Douchebag will notice us. “By the time I’m done, Billy Warren will be kissing your feet, your ass, and any other body part you tell him to, to get you back.”
She tries to pull out of my grasp. “No, Drew that’s not really…”
I turn to face her and put my arms around her waist. “Trust me, Kate.” Her body’s close to mine, her face so near I can see the green speckles in her eyes. Why the fuck am I doing this again?
“I’m a guy. I know how we think. No guy wants to see a girl that used to be his with someone else. Just go with me on this.”
She doesn’t answer. She just raises her arms around my neck, bringing us together-chest to chest, stomach to stomach, thigh to thigh.
It’s agony. Exquisite, delicious agony.
With a mind of its own, my thumb draws slow circles on her lower back. The music swirls around us, and I feel buzzed-not from the drinks, but from the feel of her. I want to ignore the perfect way her body fits against mine. I try to remember my noble intentions. I should glance up to see if Dirtbag is watching us. I should, but I don’t. I’m too caught up in the way she’s looking at me.
Maybe I’m deluding myself, but I swear it’s desire I see swimming in those dark beauties. Naked, uninhibited want. I lean in and brush my nose against hers, testing the waters.
I’m not doing this for me. Really. I’m not doing this because being this near to her is the closest to heaven that I’ll ever get.
This is for her. Part of the plan. To win back the scumbag who doesn’t deserve her.
I press my lips against hers softly. It’s tender at first, and then she melts against me. That’s when I start to lose it. She opens her mouth, and I slide my tongue in slowly. Then harder, firmer, more intense, like the downhill swoop of a rollercoaster.
I forgot how good she tastes. More decadent than the richest chocolate. Sinful. It’s different from the other times we’ve kissed. Better. There’s no anger behind it, no frustration or guilt or a point to prove. It’s unhurried, languid, and fucking sublime.
Our lips separate, and I force myself to look up, catching Warren’s devastated glare before he disappears into the crowd. I turn back to Kate and touch my forehead to hers. Our breaths mingle-mine panting, hers gasping slightly.
“It worked,” I tell her.
“What?”
I feel her fingers playing with the hair at the nape of my neck. And when she speaks, her voice is breathy. Needy. “Drew…could you? Drew…do you want…?”
“Anything, Kate. Ask me anything and I’ll do it.”
Her lips part, and she stares at me a moment. “Would you…kiss me again?”
Thank. You. God.
And as for you, Jiminy? Piss off.
Chapter 13
THE RIDE TO MY APARTMENT is an exercise in stunt driving. Trying desperately to keep my mouth on Kate and not get us killed. She sits on my lap straddling my waist, kissing my neck, tonguing my ear-driving me out of my frigging mind. I’ve got one hand on the steering wheel and the other wedged between us, gliding over her stomach, her neck, and those perfect breasts that tease me through her half-open shirt.
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.