Ladies Man (Manwhore #4)(13)

He laughs quietly, almost incredulously.

I lift my head, frowning, all the warm, fuzzy feelings I was feeling toward him gone. “What? We’re not?” I accuse.

“I’m zipping it.” He zips his mouth with a fingertip.

“No. Really. You don’t want to be friends with me? So that I don’t call and interrupt your fun times?”

“Regina. I’m glad we’re friends.”

I feel myself frown, but relax a little because his smile is all over his face, even in his eyes, and it has this effect on me. “I owe you one.”

He grabs the remote from my nightstand. “Don’t worry, I’ll collect.”

“You’ve only been in my apartment for an hour and you’re already taking over both my TVs.” I scowl.

I plump my pillow and make certain there are enough inches separating us, head to toe.

“Just stay on that side of the bed.”





TRENCH COAT


He spooned me.

I’m at work the next day, organizing the makeup drawers, remembering the pitch black of my bedroom when we lay there falling asleep.

Him shifting in bed. His eyes finding mine in the dark. His hand splaying over my stomach. Pulling me closer. My back flattening against the front of his body.

Neither of us said a word about it the next morning as we had coffee and pancakes. He didn’t even kiss my cheek when he left for work; he was late to some meeting and in a rush to go. He just lifted two fingers in a peace sign and shut the door behind him.

I call Wynn during my break.

“Why would he spoon you?” Wynn’s voice sounds dubious over the phone.

“I don’t know.”

“Go over there and bang him.”

The urge to do just that burns so fiercely inside me that I can’t think straight. No rationalizations can quell the fierce little fire burning in me now.



*



That evening when my shift is over, I put on a trench coat with nothing but a pink thong underneath. I head to his place. I’ve been here a couple of times, and the thing about Tahoe Roth is, his doormen know he’s a total player. They seem to allow all his girls free access. The uniformed man in the elevator only nods formally when you tell him you’re going to the penthouse, which requires him to slide in a special access card.

He wears a gold name tag that says Ernest.

He’s still stoic when we reach Tahoe’s floor and I thank him under my breath.

I wander inside his apartment and spot his blue and yellow Van Gogh on the fireplace mantel in his study. There’s music in the background. “Walk” by Kwabs. A total make-out song; a total everything song. I wander into the living room…and then see the two women surrounding that blond head of his. He’s standing in nothing but ripped muscles and naturally gold skin, and they’re also naked.

I catch my breath. He moves out of my vision as he urges one to lie down on the couch.

I peer over the back of the couch and he’s bent over one. His ass flexing, his body moving powerfully. “Ladies first,” he’s telling the woman as she starts to come.

I hurry back down the hall as fast as my noisy heels allow without drawing attention, and suddenly I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t even have words to describe what I saw to Wynn.

Ladies first…

Oh my god.

He’s such a…

I’ve been closed off for years, but lately feeling like I should give men another chance. Why I’m obsessed with this one is beyond my comprehension. He’s worse than Paul.

Beast. Stud. He’s hot. Irreverent. Insatiable. Incorrigible. Pure I, I, I—cause he’s selfish too, and he’ll never care for anyone more than he cares about Tahoe.

I hurry back to the elevator and press the down arrow repeatedly until it tings.

Too bad the elevator tings just when the Kwabs song ends and the room falls silent. Which means that, very likely, he heard.

I board quickly and hit the lobby button, riding with another elevator man. Richard.

I stare anxiously at the numbers as we descend, step briskly out into the massive lobby and am heading straight for the revolving doors when I hear another elevator ting—

Then, in a familiar light Texan drawl, “Regina.”

I stop in my tracks, knot my sash tighter.

“Thanks, Ernest,” I hear Tahoe say, his drawl still a little noticeable.

I turn to face him and nearly buckle when my eyes meet his puzzled blue ones.

“Hey,” I say.

His brows rise questioningly.

“I came to visit my client and totally messed up my floors,” I hastily explain as he walks over in an open white shirt, his lips raw, his eyes raw, his hair mussed, so beautiful. It hurts that he’s so out of my reach.

I turn to leave but he takes a step. “Why are you leaving then?”

“Oh, because I realized I have a message. A message she’s canceling, and I didn’t know. So.”

Realizing I’m madly waving my phone in the air like a nitwit, I tuck it into my pocket and turn away quickly.

Then he reaches out and puts his hand on the back of my trench coat, turning me a little toward him. I’m careening on my axis, my senses out of control at the unexpected touch. I don’t understand it.