Honestly, having him in my apartment is weird. He’s not a friend. He’s not a lover. He’s a walking, breathing erogenous zone who fascinates me and infuriates me in equal measure. He’s like a wild beast that can rip out my internal organs with no effort at all, and now that he’s invading my inner sanctum, I’m horrified to find I enjoy having him here. It’s bizarre and unsettling.
“May I ask you something?” I ask while blinking to try and focus my fuzzy vision.
“If you must.”
“If Brick hadn’t taken his hand off me tonight, would you really have broken his arm?”
Something clatters in the sink. “You don’t have to hit someone to do it damage.”
“Sounds like you speak from experience.”
He doesn’t answer me. I wish I had a notebook nearby, because while I can usually catalogue this stuff in my head, my brain is too fuzzy, and I want to come back to this subject when I’m sober.
“Have you ever gotten into a fight over a woman?” I ask.
“Several times.”
“And? Did you always win?”
Again, silence. Then he says, “No. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t do it again ... and do it better.” When the electric kettle beeps, I hear all manner of pouring and stirring.
A couple of minutes later, he places a steaming cup on the coffee table in front of me and pulls the table closer, so I can reach it. Holding his own cup, he sits in the armchair next to me.
I sip the tea, surprised that I like it. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. And for the record, I didn’t spike it. Just in case you were wondering.”
He watches me as I drink, and I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to how he looks at me. It’s like he’s trying to show me his true self through clairvoyance, while hiding everything else about him.
“I’m sorry I got angry with you earlier,” he says quietly. “When I came to the bar tonight, I wasn’t expecting to be accused of criminal activity. It took me by surprise.”
“Why did you come?”
He holds his cup with both hands and looks down into it, as if he’s searching for answers. “I wanted to apologize. I thought you ran out on me because of what happened when I hugged you.”
“Which was?”
He looks up at me, surprised. “You don’t know?”
I shake my head. “I was too busy being paranoid about being dosed and high. Did you steal my Starbucks loyalty card from my purse when I wasn’t looking or something? Because that would piss me off. I’m one star off getting a freebie.”
He puts his cup on the table and rests his elbows on his knees. “Miss Tate, I usually manage to keep a certain veneer of professionalism between myself and my clients, but last night with you, I ... failed.”
“Failed, how?”
He takes in a breath and exhales. “Do you really need me to say it?”
“Max, I’m highly medicated right now, and my brain isn’t firing on all cylinders, so, yeah. Please say it, so I can stop feeling dumb.”
Embarrassment flits across his features. “When you were upset after the song and I hugged you, I was ... aroused. I didn’t mean to be, but having you on my lap, and then hugging you, I ...” He looks at the floor and shakes his head. “I thought you felt it when I pressed against you. Or heard it when I moaned. That’s why I was ashamed of myself when you ran out.”
To be honest, I barely hear anything after ‘aroused’. That word uttered in his white-hot voice has set fire to my face and body. For the first time in a long time, I’m at a loss for words.
I do my best space cadet impersonation as I struggle to find something witty to say.
He looks over at me. “Miss Tate? Did you hear me?”
“Yes, I just ... uh .... apology accepted, I guess. Don’t beat yourself up.” When I realize my pun, I squeeze my eyes shut in embarrassment. “Sorry. Total accident. Plus, I have no idea if you beat yourself after I left. If you did, great. Go, you.”
A heavy silence falls between us, but my brain is still fixated on what he just told me.
“So,” I say, trying to connect the dots, “you were attracted to me? Or was is Caleb?”
He pauses for so long, I wonder if he’s going to answer. Then he says, “Both, and that’s something that I haven’t experienced before.” I stare at him, and he shifts in his seat. “Why do you seem so surprised?”
“I just didn’t think I’d be your type.”
He makes a scoffing noise in his throat. “You’re everyone’s type.”
My hackles rise. “Are you judging me for having a healthy sex life? Because it might not have filtered into your eighteenth-century gentleman’s brain, but these days women are free to sleep with whomever they choose, as often as they like, and in whatever position floats their boat. And I don’t think it’s fair for you to –”
“Miss Tate ...” He gives me a patient look. “I wasn’t making a moral judgement. I was trying to say that you’re an amazing woman, and you’d be hard-pressed to find a man who wasn’t attracted to you.”
Goddammit. That’s even worse. “You don’t have to say that. We’re not on a date right now.”
“I’m aware of that.”
I drop my gaze and look at his chest. “Men say those things all the time without meaning them.”
“I’m saying them because they’re true.”
He stares, unflinching in his conviction. I stare back, more affected by him and his smooth words than I should be. Despite the commotion that starts in my body every time we’re together, I don’t crave this feeling, and I don’t crave him. He may be different from any man I’ve met, but that doesn’t make him a good man. There must be something wrong with someone who gets his jollies by turning women into piles of aroused goo.
“Why aren’t you out tonight with some client?”
“I’m not seeing clients right now.”
“Because?”
He sips his tea. “I’m seeing you.”
“You can’t do both?”
“I’d rather not.” He looks down at his hands. “Out of all the ladies I know, I find you the most ... interesting.”
“I’m not interesting at all. I’m a simple creature with simple needs.”
“I disagree. You’re one of the most complicated women I’ve ever met.” He leans forward and brushes my hair away from my face, and I blame the drugs for making me feel so entirely mesmerized by him.
“Miss Tate, may I ask you a personal question?”
“Hmmm?”
“Have you ever had sex with someone you loved?”
For a second, I think he’s making another criticism about my sex life, but when I check his expression, I see only open sincerity.
“No,” I say, unsure whether I should be admitting that. “Have you?”
“Off the record?”
“Yeah.”
He shakes his head. “The one thing I’ve learned while doing this work is that as much as I enjoy playing out romantic fantasies, it’s still just pretend, and more and more I’m craving something real.”
For a few seconds he studies my face, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. Then he comes and sits next to me on the couch and coaxes me up until my back is facing him. “Lift your shirt. I want to assess the damage.” I help him ease up my shirt, so he can see my lower back. “Still painful?”
“A little.”
He places his hand over the area and presses gently. The heat of his skin is a nice change after the ice. He lowers the shirt then runs his fingers slowly up and down my spine over the top of the fabric. It makes me shiver with goosebumps and at the same time drains the tension from my muscles. When I drop my head forward to give him better access, he gently scrapes his nails from my tailbone up into the hair at the base of my neck. The sensation is so incredible, I moan.
“Feel good?”
“God ... yessss.” He keeps going, and I can’t remember a time when a man has touched me in such a selfless way. Why is he do
ing this? Hanging around. Making sure I’m okay. I mean, he gets bonus points for just escorting me home. Why the rest of this charade?
“Max, do you usually pamper clients in your spare time?”
He pauses his movements. “No. In fact, I make a point of not interacting with them outside of a business setting. Otherwise, the situation can get complicated.”
“I figured. So why are you here? Taking care of me?”
“Because you needed someone to make sure you were okay.”
“Not really. I would have coped by myself.”
“Is that your goal in life? To just cope? Alone?”
“No, I just ... if you’re trying to suck up so I’ll give you a good write up, or whatever, well ...” He starts with his fingernails again, and I let out a low moan. “Oh, maaaaan. Good job.”
He chuckles, and I close my eyes and sigh. I’m going to have to amend my opinion on magic to exclude Max’s hands. drop my head forward and hover in a bizarre zone of part relaxation, part arousal.
“Max, have your clients ever complained about your whole sex ban on dates? I mean, you’re an attractive guy. How can they be satisfied with only kissing you?”
He takes his hands away, and when I turn to look at him, I can see amusement on his face.
“Tell me,” he says. “What’s the point of sex?”
“Do you think that because I’m a woman I’ll say ‘intimacy’, or ‘the physical expression of love’?”
“No. Give me your honest answer. Why do you have sex?”
I tilt my chin up. “Orgasms.”
“But you can have them by yourself.”
Okay. Good point. “It feels better when someone else does it.”
“Why?”
“I ... don’t know.”
He maneuvers me so my back is against the arm of the couch before shoving some pillows behind me for support.
“Okay, then I’ll tell you. Sex is a ritual. It’s more than just physical reactions.” He pulls my legs up into his lap then takes my hand and lays it, palm up, in his. As he talks, he draws a spiral on the sensitive skin over and over again. “If you think of sex as a generator, fueled by the relentless build-up of tension, then the release happens when the tension snaps, providing waves of pleasure. Yes?”
Jesus, that single finger moving over my palm is drawing me tighter each second. With the amount of sex I’ve had over the years, how the hell is this the most erotic experience that’s ever happened to me?
“Miss Tate?”
“What? I mean, uh ... yes.”
“We don’t need to be naked to simulate a similar concept.”
He places my hand back in my lap and focuses on my mouth. “When you kiss someone for the first time, adrenaline courses through your veins.” He inches forward, just enough for me to become fixated on his mouth. “See how our muscles tighten? And the closer we get, the stronger the sensations become.” His eyelids become heavy as he gazes at me. “This intense sexual tension is pleasurable in itself, right? It makes your heart race. Your lungs seize.”
At this point I realize how shallow my breaths are. How ragged and fast. The tension he’s speaking of is turning in on itself and creating a ball that’s filling my chest.
When he cups my cheek, the brush of his skin against mine makes the ball expand.
“And as my lips move closer and closer,” he says, his voice soft, “… the tension is almost unbearable. Want turns into need, which turns into compulsion.”
He’s so close now, we’re breathing the same air, and I can almost feel the crackle of electricity surrounding us.
“And when our lips finally touch,” he whispers, closer still. “all the breath will rush from our lungs, because it’s like a tightrope has snapped beneath our feet, and all we can do is close our eyes and revel in how it feels to fall.”
He stays there, keeping me at the pinnacle of sensation, dizzy and breathless and trembling with more need than I knew my body could feel.
His deep, rough voice adds another layer to my reaction.
“Do you want me to kiss you, Miss Tate?”
God, yes.
And God, no.
There’s no easy answer to this question. Kissing him would be wonderful and terrible. It would be like claiming a lion as a pet and counting down the days until it mauled me.
“It’s not a hard question,” he says. “Either you want it to or you don’t.”
“Is this your way of seducing me into dropping my story?”
His nose brushes mine, and I shiver as I grip the front of his shirt.
“That’s one explanation. A cynical one, of course, but I’ve come to expect that from you. Maybe I want to kiss you. Find out how your lips taste.”
“Then why don’t you just do it?”
“Because I promised I wouldn’t without your permission, and honestly, you’re too out of it right now to give informed consent.”
I lean my head against his, so desperate, the ache inside me borders on painful. “Then why are you still torturing me?”
He angles my head the other way, keeping his mouth tantalizingly out of reach.
“Because I wanted you to understand that what you’re feeling right now ... this euphoria ... this is where the essence of romance lives. Have you ever felt this way with any of your sexual partners?”
“Hell, no.” I’ve never felt this with anyone. It’s like every single nerve ending is being magnetically drawn to him, so desperate for contact it’s painful to deny.
He makes a needful sound in his throat. “Then maybe you should move onto a better class of man. One who doesn’t treat you like a vending machine. One you’re genuinely attracted to instead of one who’s just convenient.”
I’m so blurred by hormones and pain killers, it takes me a moment to notice he’s moved off the couch and is now staring down at me. I feel foolish when I realize I’m still pursing my lips, expecting contact.
I clear my throat and compose myself. My heart is hammering so hard, I’m sure he can hear it.
I look up at him. From the expression on his face, I don’t think I’m the only one feeling tortured right now. Then my focus lowers down to his crotch, and dear God ... the long hardness I can spy straining the denim of his jeans is not helping anything right now.
He follows my gaze. “In case you’re wondering, it’s exactly as painful as it looks.”
“You sure I can’t help you out?”
“I’m positive you could, but that would violate even more rules from my personal code of conduct, and considering I’ve already set a record for unprofessional behavior tonight, I’m going to leave.” He looks around the apartment. “Is there anything else you need before I go?”
I want to say his hand down my pants, but I don’t think that’s the type of thing he means.
“Maybe you could take off your shirt and do some cleaning.”
He comes over and scoops me off the couch. “Or how about I put you into bed and stay with you until you fall asleep?”
He places me on the bed, and I wince as I turn on my side to get comfortable.
“I liked my idea better,” I say with a pout, as he pulls the covers over me. “Honestly, Max, you’re the worst shirtless-houseboy I’ve ever owned.” I yawn. “We’re going to have words at your next employee review.”
He chuckles as I close my eyes and start to fade. “Sorry to disappoint you, Miss Tate. I hope to please you more next time we meet.”
Unconsciousness begins to wrap me in soft grayness as I mumble, “You do that. More pleasing, less shirts. Your mistress demands it.”
I sink fast, but I’m still conscious enough to feel warm fingers brush my hair away from my face. “Goodnight, Eden. Sweet dreams.”
As soon as I hear the door to the apartment open and then close with a quiet click, I’m out.
* * *
“Sooooo,” Asha says the next morning as she spoons some scrambled eggs onto my plate. “I ran into a certain hot-bodied e
scort as I was coming home last night. Care to spill about what happened with him?”
“There’s nothing to spill. I hurt my back at the bar. He brought me home. End of story.”
“Oh, what crap, Eden. I saw his face when he arrived at the bar last night, and I saw it when he left our apartment. That man has it bad, so don’t tell me he didn’t get happy in his pants over you, because that’s a damn lie.”
I finish off my breakfast as quickly as possible. “Ash, come on. It’s too early for this.” Plus, I can’t tell you about Max, because that would make what I’m feeling for him way too real, and I’d rather just ignore it.
“Look, sis, I don’t want to make a big deal about this, but just between us ... how big a deal are we talking about?” She holds her hands five inches apart. “I’m just going to keep widening this gap, and you tell me when I’ve reached his Max-imum length, okay?”
I laugh as she keeps widening the gap. When she reaches what looks to be about nine inches, I raise my eyebrows, and she slaps the counter with both hands. “No way! Seriously?”
I walk around to wash up my plate. “Ash, I’m writing a story on him, and he’s sucking up to make sure I don’t crucify him. That’s it. We aren’t a thing. Please stop trying to make us one.”
“It is a thing if that man is carrying around a gargantuan boner for you. Don’t tell me you aren’t desperate to ride that fine piece of maleness.”
I kiss her on the cheek. “I have to go. I’ll see you tonight.”
“Eden! Have mercy! I’ve been waiting years for you to meet someone like him, and now you’re freezing me out? No fair!”
I can still hear her calling out to me when I close the door and head down the stairs. I’m halfway to the subway station when my phone buzzes with a message.
I feel myself smiling and immediately force myself to stop. I also put a kibosh on the urge to text him right back. And that giant swarm of butterflies that just took flight in my stomach can bite me, too. Feeling this way over a guy is not on my to-do list today; or ever, for that matter.
Maybe he didn’t drug me, but he certainly isn’t playing fair. He knows how attractive I find him and is systematically wearing me down so he can claim victory on our bet. Well, he’ll soon come to learn that conning a woman who slaps down dozens of romantic fantasies before breakfast is going to be harder than he thinks.