Twisted(7)

Passionate.

All words that describe where we’re dining tonight. It’s dim—the only illumination comes from the candles on the tables and the twinkling lights on the ceiling. A pulsing rhythm emanates from a small band of musicians in the corner.

Drew requests in Spanish a table for two.

Yes—he speaks Spanish. And French. He’s working on Japanese. Did you think his voice was sexy? Trust me—until you’ve heard him whisper blush-worthy phrases in a foreign language, you don’t know the meaning of the word sexy.

We follow the robust, dark-haired hostess to a table in the corner.

Now, take a moment to look around. See all the female attention Drew gets, just by walking through the room? The appreciative glances, the inviting eyes?

I notice—I always do.

But here’s the thing: Drew doesn’t. Because he’s not looking. At any of them.

For you guys out there who think looking doesn’t hurt? You’re wrong. Because we women don’t think you’re just enjoying the view. We think you’re comparing, finding us lacking. And that stings. Like a paper cut on your eyeball.

I’m fully aware that Drew could have any woman he wants—the model in Beverly Hills, the heiress on Park Avenue. But he picked me. He fought for me. So when we go out, it’s a major boost to my confidence.

Because I’m the only woman he’s looking at.

We sit at the table and scan the menus. “So explain to me again how you made it through college and business school without ever drinking straight tequila?”

I laugh at the question, remembering. “Well, back in high school, we’d have these bonfires—campouts.”

You ever sleep with an empty two-liter soda bottle for a pillow? It’s not fun.

“So one night, Billy and the guys were drinking tequila—and Billy swallowed the worm. And then he started to hallucinate. We were working on amphibian anatomy in bio at the time, and as messed up as he was, Billy was convinced he was a frog—and that Delores was trying to dissect him. He hopped off into the woods by himself, and it took us three hours to find him—with his tongue in the dirt. I’ve been hesitant to try tequila ever since.”

Drew shakes his head. “Confirming, once again, what I’ve known all along. Billy Warren is, and always has been, a complete f*cking idiot.”

I’m used to Drew’s digs against Billy. And in this case? He’s not exactly wrong.

So I tell him, “As long as you don’t to make me swallow the worm, I’ll give it a go.”

His eyes light up, like a kid in a bike shop. “You know what this means?”

“What?”

He wiggles his brows. “I get to teach you how to do body shots.”



Although I don’t believe you need to be drunk to have great sex, having a good buzz certainly doesn’t hurt.

Drew and I are in the elevator heading back to our room, both of us more than tipsy from the tequila. I can taste it on Drew’s tongue—bitter with a touch of citrus. He has me pinned against the wall, my skirt bunched up around my hips, and we’re pushing and grinding against each other.

I’m glad there’s no one else in the elevator—although at this point? I’m really too far gone to give a damn.

We stumble into the room.

Still groping and kissing.

Drew slams the door and spins me around. In one quick movement he pulls the dress down my body, leaving me bare. Except for my heels.

I lean over the desk, resting on my elbows. I hear the hiss of a zipper—and then I feel him. Sliding his cock between my lips—testing the waters—making sure I’m ready.

I’m always ready for him.

“Don’t tease,” I whimper.

Between the tequila and the elevator, I’m really turned on. Needy. He pushes in slowly but to the hilt. And I sigh.

Now, we all know the old phrase that bigger is better. And Drew is big—not that I have a lot to compare him to, but he’s twice the size of Billy.

I’m not making you boys out there uncomfortable, am I? News flash—this is how woman talk. At least when you’re not around to listen.

Anyway, it’s not really size that makes the man. It’s rhythm—the pace—knowing how to hit all those delicious spots with just the right amount of pressure. So the next time you see an infomercial for Cockgrow or Miracle-Dick?

Save your money. Buy the Kama Sutra instead.

Drew grabs my hair, pulling my head back, and moves quicker. Hard and fast. I grip the edge of the desk, holding on for balance.

He kisses my shoulder and whispers in my ear, “You like that, baby?”

I moan. “Yes . . . yes . . . so much.”

He thrusts into me with more force, shaking the desk.

And just like that, I’m coming like an out-of-control locomotive.

I’m floating. Weightless.

And it’s sublime.

Drew slows the movement of his hips as I come down, drawing it out—making it last. He pulls me back against his chest and his fingers skate up across my stomach and up to my breasts, cupping and kneading them with both hands.

I raise my arms around his neck, turning my head, bringing his mouth to mine.

I love his mouth, his lips, his tongue. Kissing is an art form, and Drew Evans is Michelangelo.

He pulls out of me and I turn around to face him. Backing him up to the bed. Drew sits on the edge and I climb on, wrapping my legs around his waist.