Ladies Man (Manwhore #4)(28)

Tahoe has been silent the entire ride, letting me bluff it out as he stews a little bit too.

He jerks the gearshift almost angrily as he parks in my building’s underground lot, and I leap out of the car, surprised when I hear a second car door slam shut. Tahoe is at my heels boarding the elevator, walking—more like stalking—by my side as I head to my apartment door.

“Oh, wait! My keys. Ha!” I pull them out and jingle them noisily. I open the door, step inside and flip on the light switch. “Home sweet home. Ahh.”

I turn to fake-smile at him, but when I meet his concerned, furious blue eyes, my smile starts to tremble. The knot in my throat doubles in size, and I don’t know what it is about this man, I don’t know why seeing Paul made me feel so little and so unworthy, I don’t know why seeing Tahoe’s anger and frustration on my behalf makes my cheeks grow wet. One second I’m fine and the next, the tears are spilling.

He shuts the door behind him, his voice gruff with tenderness. “Come here,” he says.

He seizes my face and draws me close and his thumbs streak across my cheeks.

“He’s such an *,” I sniffle as he swipes my tears away. “Even now he acts like he was too—too—too good for me.”

He presses his lips together in anger and looks deeply into my eyes. His face grows blurry as the tears keep streaming. He leaves me for a moment to head into the kitchen, run the faucet to dampen a small clean towel, and head back to me.

“What are you…?” I protest as he runs the towel gently over my eyes. “You’re smearing my makeup—”

“No.” He cuts me off with a sly smirk and violently concerned eyes. “Your tears are.” He wipes my cheeks and under my eyes.

I fall still as the tears stop, and I notice the look of harsh tenderness on his face. “Did I…were you busy right now?” I croak.

“Yeah. Some event I was only too glad to get away from, trust me.”

It makes me realize his life is full of obligations as well, even if he’s rich.

He tosses the towel aside and just when I’m thankful he left on my lipstick, he starts wiping it off with his thumbs. One thumb scrapes over my lips to the right, the other thumb to the left. The knot in my throat starts burning with some new emotion, something other than pain, something I don’t understand amidst my panic of being completely makeup-less.

But I can feel the lipstick smearing over my cheeks as he gets it off my lips, and with every stroke, he seems to look more deeply into my eyes until I can feel the bareness of my lips.

I’m bare—more self-conscious about my face than I am about my body. My plump lips and wide, expressive eyes. And right now, Tahoe Roth is taking it all in.

Taking all of me in.

I’ve never been seen like this, since Paul. I’ve never allowed people to see me like this. Not a man, not anyone. I’m not even comfortable looking at myself like this.

Tahoe is oblivious to that, and he stares at my face for a long time. He stares with such searing intensity I could burn to ash.

His blue eyes look and feel intense on my face, his hands still on my jaw. I raise my hands up to his as he leans forward, exhaling, and he kisses my cheek. His beard scrapes over my skin, and I don’t move a muscle. My eyes shut, and when I open them again, I start to caress his face. He’s studying me. Still holding my jaw.

I run my fingers over his beard. “It’s past the prickly part. It’s soft now,” I croak.

He laughs softly and rubs the knuckle of his thumb over my lipstick-less lips, his eyes a little heavy looking. “My beard isn’t soft; these are soft,” he contradicts.

I trail my fingertips over his beard, and then, impulsively, over his lips.

He opens his lips as though he means to taste me. He seems to catch himself, taking my wrist in one hand and lowering my arm.

His vexation over Paul is evident in his voice. “Where is it?”

“What?”

“The shit letter he sent you. Where is it?”

More than be affronted at the anger in his voice, I’m surprised by the intensity in his tone as I look up. I sense that he’s not mad at me, but for me, frustrated that he can’t help me.

“I…you remember that?” When he only looks at me with a black look, I go to my room then open the drawer. “Under all my…stuff…”

He reaches through dozens of panties, feeling through my drawer. His hand is big and my panties look so flimsy as he burrows among them up to his thick wrist. He finds the letter, tucks it in his back pocket, and closes my drawer.

“Let’s go do something. We’re going to make this disappear, and then we’re going to chill, and not for one second will you be thinking of him.”

He leads me across my apartment and opens the door, and as I pass, he warns me with a determined look, “That’s the last time you cry for some motherf*cker.”



*



We’re at Navy Pier, sitting on the dock with our feet hanging over the water. The rides and shops are quiet. Tahoe called Saint on the drive over, and apparently he knew someone who let us in.

It’s a dream here. A nearly finished six-pack of beers sits to my right, Tahoe to my left. It’s freezing, so we sit as close as we can get. The sounds of night surround us, so distant they could be a memory. I take a deep breath, finally relaxed.