Ladies Man (Manwhore #4)(62)
I groan. “You act as if I’m this perfect little thing. I’m not. Okay, now I’m leaving, grumpy,” I say.
“No, you’re not.” He grabs my shoulders, guides me back into the bathroom, and forces me to face the mirror and look at my own reflection. After a confused moment, I look up at his.
Sternly, he says, his voice brushing warm just above my earlobe, “Now her.”
“I’m not going to your silly masquerade party…”
“Come on, Regina. I’m imagining a beautiful silver mask here for this beautiful lady.” He touches my cheekbone, once again looking at me through the mirror.
He’s so tall. The most striking black mask with silver and gold swirls covers the top of his face. The rest is scruff, and blue eyes, and chiseled and male.
“What am I supposed to mask myself as?”
He grins a mischievous smirk. “Exactly what you are now. An angel.” He leans to whisper in my ear as he tugs playfully on my halo. “Soon to be fallen.” The corners of his lips curve into a demon’s grin. “Come on, let’s go.”
I groan in complaint but feel a reluctant smile on my lips. “I’ll go, but I’m not painting my face.”
He’s surprised by that, I can tell.
I guess I’m just as surprised.
“I’m tired of painting my face, Tahoe.” Suddenly I just want him to see me, the real me, all of me, bare.
And I want him to like what he sees…
I don’t know where the thought comes from. It surprises me so much that I keep it to myself.
I text my coworkers to let them know I can’t make it. I leave my stuff at his apartment. We take the elevator downstairs—me dressed in white, him in black. Me with curly black hair, him with beautiful blond hair. Opposites, really. Him tall and muscled, me shorter and curvy.
So why does it always feel so right?
The party is in an apartment in Tahoe’s building, five floors below. The moment the apartment door opens and we step into the shimmering crowd and the pulsing music, a girl rushes him. She pries Tahoe’s cape off his neck and twirls it around herself, but he just laughs and retrieves it and swings it around his shoulder.
I try to ignore the sensation of having swallowed a brick. He’s a ladies’ man, and ladies’ men attract ladies, effortlessly, that’s what he does.
He makes such a wicked demon, and a beautiful phantom, but as we walk side by side through the costumed crowd, all I see is Tahoe Roth. The man I think of constantly. The man who lights me up.
Jack-o’-lanterns stuck on fake pikes flare with electric candles all across the room. People dance, drink, and make out.
We head to the dance floor and as girls start recognizing him by the eyes, the beard, the height, they start yelling happily, shouting, “Trick or treat?” and trying to get a kiss.
I walk away—sick of seeing the guy I want kissing everyone but me—when I hear him say, “Not tonight,” and when I turn around, I realize he’s pried free of them and is heading my way. The look in his eyes makes me breathless.
Is it chilly in here? My nipples stiffen under my top. I’ve never seen Tahoe stalk so slowly, but reach me so fast.
He curls his hand around the back of my neck and guides me to the dance floor. “Dance with me,” he whispers in my ear.
He grasps the neck of my heavy gown and tugs me forward until our bodies are flush and warm against each other. His body heat envelops me, head to toe. I slip my hands up his shoulders and into his hair. And we move…his eyes caressing me…making love to me in ways no man I’ve ever been with ever did with his whole body…
Dancing always makes me feel sexy. Dancing with Tahoe, however, has a whole other level of sexy attached to it. His fluid moves and the animal magnetism he emanates make me not only feel sexy, but sexual.
I dance and let go but at the same time, I try to repress the feelings of longing and desire awakening in my body.
His cape billows around us. He holds my back and looks at me, only me, as we sway. I know that I’m not classically pretty. I’m considered more sultry, but Tahoe’s stare right now makes me feel as if I’m both—as if I deserve to be deliciously f*cked and wonderfully protected. And as if he wants to be the man to do both.
For the first time I don’t feel guilty about being held by him in front of the world. I don’t feel guilty that my fingers want to crawl deeper into his hair, and I press my cheek into his chest and he presses his jaw into my hair, in the center of my halo, and inhales me.
“You want to know something?” he says with a sly smile, tipping my chin to his. “All the work put into dressing up, right now I just want to be me. And I just want you to be you.” He tugs on my halo and loosens it from my hair, smiling in mischief as he drops his cape along with my halo and sweeps me around the dance floor, leaving them behind.
I punch him and tell him, “You’re so silly,” but when he grabs my face and rubs my lipstick a little bit, as if he wants to get rid of the little makeup I’m wearing tonight, I ache.
He’s my best friend. The only person I love to be with, want to be with, always. He’s the only man I’ve ever wanted like this.
I stop his hands and lower them.
I step back so I can look into his eyes, and his smile wavers on his face—he’s still standing there with that black mask, but his eyes are all him, all blue, and all on me. I feel a prick of wetness in my eyes as every single feeling that I have for him flames and burns inside me.