Twisted(8)

God, yes.

This is how I like it best—chest to chest, mouth to mouth, not an inch of space between us. I take him in my hand and slide down onto him. My insides stretch with the fullness and Drew moans. I rise slowly and slam down hard. Testing the strength of the bed springs.

Squeak.

Squeak.

I move faster. Deeper. Our bodies are slick from the Mexican heat.

And then Drew is holding my face in his hands, his thumbs moving back and forth across my skin. Suddenly tender. Worshipful.

Our foreheads press together and in the dim light I can see his eyes looking down, watching where he moves in and out of me.

And I look down too.

It’s erotic. Sensual.

I push his hair back from his forehead.

And my voice is begging, “Tell me you love me.”

He doesn’t say it often. He prefers to show me. But I never get tired of hearing it. Because every time he actually says the words, I’m filled with same wonderment as the first time.

“I love you, Kate.”

His hands still hold my face. Both of us panting—moving faster—getting closer. It feels spiritual.

A holy communion.

Drew’s voice is hushed. Breathless. “Tell me you’ll never leave me.”

His eyes are soft now, liquid silver. Pleading for reassurance.

For all his audacity and overconfidence, I think there’s a part of him that’s still haunted by the week he thought I’d chosen Billy over him. I think that’s why he works so hard to prove how much he wants me.

To show me that I chose wisely.

I smile softly and look right into his eyes.

“Never. I’ll never leave you, Drew.”

The words feel like vows.

His hands grip my hips, raising me up, helping me move.

“God, Kate . . .” His eyes close.

And our mouths open, giving and taking each other’s breaths. He expands inside me, throbbing, as I clamp down hard around him.

And we come together. In perfect unison.

Perfect splendor.

Afterward, Drew’s arms tighten around me. I touch his face and kiss him gently. He falls backward on the bed, taking me with him, keeping me on top. We lie like that for a while until our heart rates come back down and our breathing slows.

And then Drew rolls me under him.

And we do it again.





Chapter 2


The New York City club scene.

Pounding music that only allows for conversation if you’re a lip-reader. Sweaty guidos in their I’m-too-sexy silk shirts, who think breathing is a sign that you’re interested. Impossibly long lines at the bar and insanely priced watered-down drinks.

Not really my favorite place to be.

I’m more of a bar girl. Bottled beer, jukeboxes, pool tables—I can be quite the pool shark when I need to be.

Not that I haven’t enjoyed a good rave or two in my time.

What? You thought pot was the only illegal substance to grace my bloodstream? Afraid not. Ecstasy, acid, ’shrooms—I’ve tried them all.

You look a little shocked. You shouldn’t be.

The whole drug culture was started by intellectuals in institutions of higher learning. Don’t even try and tell me Bill Gates came up with Windows—a maze of interconnected, multicolored pathways—without some serious psychedelic assistance.

Anyway, despite my preferences, four weeks after Cabo, Drew and I end up at the hottest club of the moment. With our best friends, Matthew and Delores. To celebrate their first anniversary.

You didn’t know they got married? It was great. Vegas. Need I say more?

Delores is into dance clubs. She enjoys any kind of sensory stimulation. When we were ten, her mother, Amelia, bought her a strobe light for her bedroom. Delores would sit and stare at it for hours, like it was a crystal ball or a Jackson Pollock painting.

Now that I think about that, it explains a lot.

Anyway, see us there? Delores and Matthew are just walking off the dance floor, to where I’m sitting in a circle of trendy overstuffed red chairs. Drew went to get another round.

I’m just too damn tired to dance tonight. Delores falls into the chair next to me, laughing.

I yawn.

“You look like shit, Petunia.”

A good friend should be able to tell you anything. Maybe your boyfriend’s screwing around, or a dress makes your love handles hang over like a shar-pei’s skin? In either case, if they’re not brave enough to tell it like it is? They’re not your best friend.

“Thanks, Dee Dee. Love you too.”

She flips her long blond hair back, crimped and shining with glitter for this evening’s festivities. “I’m just saying, you look like you could use a spa day.”

She’s not wrong. I’ve been exhausted all week—that full-body type of weariness that feels like you’re carrying weights on your ankles and your ribs. Yesterday, I actually fell asleep at my desk.

Maybe I’m coming down with the flu that’s going around.

Delores fans herself with her hand. “Where the hell is Drew with those drinks? I’m dying here.”

He’s been gone a few minutes, which isn’t unusual in a place like this.

Still, my eyes scan the room.

And then they find him. By the bar, drinks in hand, talking to a woman.