Ladies Man (Manwhore #4)(50)
It seems to give Trent the wrong impression.
“God, you look gorgeous right now. I can tell you like my gift. Get back together with me, Gina,” he begs. He moves to kiss me but I quickly turn my mouth out of reach.
Even though a part of me wants to press my mouth to his because I wish that he were capable of erasing Tahoe’s peck from my lips. I want to feel in his kiss just a fraction of the electric thrill I felt from Tahoe’s lips, so firmly, so warmly, on mine.
But I can’t do it. Nothing feels right anymore.
“Just give me time. I’m just confused. New apartment…” I signal around. “I don’t know, just give me a little time.”
I look at him, trying to find pieces of him to love, really trying to find something that even resembles what I feel when I’m with my playboy Viking.
*
When Trent finally leaves, every muscle in my body aches from hauling and unpacking boxes. I take a hot shower and after soaping up and shampooing my hair, I stand under the water with my eyes closed. I roll my shoulders under the spray, run my hands over my scalp and dig in my fingers, trying to relax the pounding in my head. Rivulets of water slide down my face. A drop of water clings to my top lip. The feel of Tahoe’s lips pressed against mine returns unbidden. Soft but firm and warm and…oh god.
Right now in my quiet new apartment, in a shower that still feels a little unfamiliar, I can’t believe I had the willpower to keep my mouth closed and not part my lips and taste him in a way I have dreamed of tasting him for what feels like my whole life. I picture how his lips would move against mine and instinctively I know that he would take charge, that he would be the one kissing even if I started the kiss.
The water is pounding on the top of my head and my lips are tingling and I let myself kiss him in my mind. I remember us sitting close enough for me to turn and run my hands through his hair and press into him in the way only women who really, really want sex do—nipples tight against his hard chest, hips lined up against his. I kiss him in a way I’ve only dreamed about, and then I’m enveloped in his arms, which feel familiar but are holding me so possessively now, and I’m transported back to Tahoe in the outdoor shower during spring break. Unapologetically gorgeous and male, so full of himself and so muscular and golden, and so very naked.
And he’s just as naked right here in my shower, every inch of his naked form is pressed up against every inch of mine. My hands follow the rivulets sliding down my body, and I move them and move them, picturing Tahoe’s fingers inside me. The thoughts drive me wild. Soon I’m grabbing him closer and he’s got me pinned against him. I picture him moving in me, and he’s kissing me everywhere I want to be kissed, and when he kisses me again—just a peck on my lips, like the one he gave me today, the real one, dry and firm and so very unexpected and so delicately powerful—a thousand shudders rock through me, one after the other.
I’m panting seconds later. I lean my temple against the shower wall. I’m standing on unsteady knees, bracing myself. I should feel better, more relaxed, sated, but though the ache between my thighs has calmed down some, the ache in my chest only feels heavier.
PLUS ONE
It’s early Friday morning when Tahoe picks me up for his plus-one event, and when I step outside, he’s waiting in the vintage car I saw on the book cover at his place, a silver Mercedes-Benz that looks fit for a museum. As he walks around and opens the door for me, I remember my previous night’s fantasy and feel myself flush head to toe.
“Good morning,” he murmurs. And there’s that smile. That dimple. That devilish look in his eyes.
“Hey.” I smile and try to keep my calm, but it’s so hard when I feel his piercing gaze on me.
He keeps staring at me as he takes his seat behind the wheel. “Are you flushed today?”
He leans over and tips my chin up, and I push his hand away and laugh. “Of course not! Why would I be?” I ask, and hate that I feel myself flushing more as I busily strap on my seat belt.
He smiles to himself as he starts the car and pulls out into the road. We stop to have coffee first. We sit in comfortable silence while Tahoe reads the newspaper and I watch the city awaken, minute by minute as the sun rises. And by the time the Blommer Chocolate Company opens and Tahoe is leading me toward the doors of the factory, not the store, I stop in my tracks.
“Tahoe, there’s a reason I haven’t used the voucher you gave me. People don’t go in here for tours. I’ve never even heard of it? people don’t do this,” I say.
“They don’t,” he agrees with a grin, and then he keeps heading toward the factory door. “But you do.”
Anticipation courses through my veins. I feel like I won the last golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s factory as Tahoe leads me straight into the noisy, monstrously large building. A man who clearly has an important position in the factory, based on his clothes, greets us and walks us through the building. There are no chocolate waterfalls or Oompa Loompas. This is modern-world business on a grand scale. Huge melting tanks bigger than I am, liquid chocolate, and cocoa and sugar are all around.
The best part comes when we finally hit the store and can get our hands on the chocolates. There is dark chocolate, milk chocolate, and white chocolate; chocolate-covered cashews, pretzels, bananas, strawberries, and cherries.