Tamed(10)

**

Where’s the goddamn aerial support? My men are dying out there!

**

Not going out like this—taking as many of them with me as I can. Ahhhhhhhh!

**

Thanks a lot, dumbass. I’m dead. If you make a move on my widow I’ll haunt you.

And finally, the last one just says:

Fucker.

I laugh out loud and send him an apologetic text, telling him something suddenly came up. Steven’s great at reading between the lines:

You mean your dick suddenly came up. What happened to bros before hoes? You owe me. I expect payment in the form of babysitting hours so I can take my wife out . . . or stay in. ;)

Personally, I think he spends too much time with his wife as it is—as demonstrated by the winky face in his text.

Dee comes back from the bathroom and stands close to my chair. “You want to get out of here?”

Yes, please.

With a devastating grin, I answer, “Absolutely. You want to go to my place? I’d love to show you the view.”

She glances at my crotch. “What view would that be?”

“The kind you’ll never want to stop looking at, baby.”

She chuckles. “I was thinking more along the lines of dancing?”

“Then we’re thinking alike. Horizontal is my favorite dance.”

She runs her hand up the sleeve of my black button-down shirt. “The vertical kind is a nice prelude—gets me in the mood. There’s a club around the corner from my apartment. Their Wednesday night DJ is the shit. You want to come with me, Clit-boy?”

I put my hand over hers and rub my thumb slowly against it. “I don’t think I like that nickname.”

She shrugs unapologetically. “Too bad. You never get a second chance to make a first impression. You’re Clit-boy until you give me a reason to think of you as something else.”

I lean in closer. Goose bumps rise on the flesh of her chest as my breath tickles her ear. “By the end of this night, I’ll have you calling me ‘God.’?”

Her breathing picks up slightly, and the pulse point at her neck thumps faster. I want to put my mouth on it, suck on the skin and experience her taste.

But I don’t get the chance.

Delores steps back, her amber eyes practically glowing with anticipation. And she commands, “You pay the tab, I’ll get the taxi.”

Independence in a woman is damn sexy. Only insecure losers get turned on by a chick who clings like you’re the oxygen she needs to survive. Although it’s obvious Delores is the stand-on-her-own-two-feet kind of girl, I like that she lets me pay the tab. I would’ve insisted on it anyway. Opening a door, paying a bill: These are not digs against a lady’s capabilities. Sometimes a guy just wants to do the old-fashioned thing.

Let us.

Think of it as considerate prepayment against our future screwups, which are pretty much guaranteed to occur.

I take care of the bartender and join Dee on the sidewalk, where she stands next to an awaiting cab. And—get this—Delores reaches out and opens the door to the taxi for me. There’s a playful gleam in her eye that makes me suspect she can read my mind. I just smile, say thanks, and get in.



The club Delores suggested is called Greenhouse, in SoHo. Although I’ve heard of it, this is the first time I’ve walked through its doors. It’s surprisingly crowded. The bar area walls and ceiling are coated with moss and lit up with blue, red, and green spotlights. The dance floor has a cave motif, with long jagged crystals hanging from the ceiling in hues of blue, purple, and pink. It’s dimly lit—shadowy—perfect for some up against the wall action. That’ll come in handy later on.

The music is loud, too noisy for any kind of conversation, but that’s fine with me. Talking is nice—action is better. We get our drinks and grab a table near the dance floor. Dee takes a sip from her glass, puts it down on the table, and gives me a sexy, “watch this” kind of smile before making a beeline for the dance floor.

I sit down at the table, lean comfortably back in the chair, knees spread, content to caress her with my eyes for now. She closes her eyes and rocks her head in time with the beat of the music. Her hips sway, and her arms rise over her head. The blue and pink lights dance over her hair—lighting her up—making her seem magical. The music gets faster, louder, and Dee keeps up. Shaking her shoulders and her ass, bending her knees and sinking toward the floor, before swirling back upward.

She knows how to move, and it makes me want her more. I glance around and notice Delores has gained the attention of several guys—make that every guy—in the club. They watch her dance with appreciative, slimy smiles on their faces and hoping-to-tap-that gleams in their eyes.

I’m not usually a possessive person. I’ve gone to clubs with girls before and ended the evening with both of us leaving with someone else. It’s par for the course.

But at the moment, my fists are clenching, ready to shove the first f*cker who tries to approach Delores through the wall and out to the street. It pisses me off that they’re even looking at her—that she’s fodder for their wishful thinking and deviant desires.

Maybe I feel like this because I haven’t screwed her yet. Maybe I don’t want to share a dessert I haven’t gotten to taste.

Or maybe, it’s because Delores Warren is just . . . different . . . in a way I can’t yet explain. What I know about her, I like—a lot—and there’s a part of me I haven’t consciously acknowledged with a deep craving to know more.