Yeah—you’re right—he probably does.
An hour later, we’re on our way to dinner. Drew surprised me with a new dress—white eyelet and strapless, with a hem that flares out just above my knee. My hair is down with a slight curl, the way I know he loves it.
As for my boyfriend—I can’t take my eyes off him. Tan slacks and a crisp white shirt, the top few buttons open, the sleeves rolled up halfway.
Gorgeous.
We arrive at the restaurant.
I’ve always thought the Latino culture was interesting. The music. The people. They’re vibrant. Volatile.
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 fucking 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.
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.
A beautiful blond woman with legs as long as my whole body.
She’s wearing silver stilettos and a sequined minidress. She looks . . . fun. You know the type—one of those cool girls who guys love to hang out with because they burp and watch sports. She’s smiling.
More important, Drew is smiling back.
And do you see the way she’s leaning toward him? The tilt of her head? The subtle rubbing of her thighs?
They’ve had sex. No doubt about it.
Son of a bitch.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been faced with one of Drew’s past random hookups. In fact, it’s pretty much an everyday occurrence—the waitress at Nobu, the bartender at McCarthy’s Bar and Grill, several random patrons at Starbucks. Drew is polite but brisk, paying them no more attention than an old classmate from high school whose name you can’t quite remember.
So it doesn’t normally bother me.
But like I said, this isn’t a normal week. Fatigue has made me short-tempered. Overly sensitive. Pissed off.
And he’s still fucking talking to her.
She puts her hand on his arm, and my inner cavewoman pounds her chest like King Kong in drag. There’s an empty glass in front of me. Remember Marcia Brady and the football? Think I could reach them from here?
Have you ever noticed that serial killers and mass murderers are almost always male? That’s because men like to spread agony around. Females, however, turn our pain inward. Keep it to ourselves. Let it fester.
Yes, I took Psych 101 in college.
But the point is, instead of going over there and ripping out Blondie’s hair extensions like I want to, I stand up.
“I’m going home.”
Delores blinks. “What? Why?” Then she sees my face. “What the hell did that moron do now?”
Some advice—when you’re angry with your significant other, try not to tell your friends. Because after you’ve forgiven him? They’ll never forget.
I recommend complaining to his family instead. They’ve already seen all his negative, selfish, immature traits in full swing—so it’s not like you’re letting the cat out of the bag.
I shake my head, “Nothing. I’m just . . . tired.”
She doesn’t buy it. And her gaze locks on to where I’m still looking. Legs throws her head back and laughs. Her teeth are pearly white and perfect. Apparently the bulimia hasn’t rotted the enamel away.
Yet.
Delores turns to her husband. “Matthew, go collect your friend. Before I go over, because then you’ll need a mop to collect him.”
I raise my chin stubbornly, “No, Matthew—don’t. Drew is obviously happy right where he is. Why drag him away?”
Immature? Possibly.
Do I care? Nope.
Matthew looks back and forth between us. Then he rushes off in Drew’s direction.
Dee Dee has him so well trained. She puts the Dog Whisperer to shame.
I hug her good-bye. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
And then I head for the door without looking back.
I’ve never lived by myself.
At eighteen, I went from my parents’ house to a dorm room. Sophomore year, Billy joined Delores and me in Pennsylvania, and we leased a huge dilapidated house off campus with four other students. The roof leaked and the heat sucked, but the rent was right.
After Delores left for New York, while I was still at Wharton, Billy and I got a place of our own. Then we moved to the city too—and you know the rest.
Why am I telling you this?
Because I’m not as independent as I come off. I’m one of those women. The kind who turns on every light in the house when she’s home by herself. The kind who sleeps over at a friend’s when her boyfriend’s out of town.
I’ve never been alone. Never not had a boyfriend. It’s one of the reasons Billy and I lasted so long—because I preferred an expired relationship to none at all.
When I get back to the apartment, I head to the bedroom and change into a tank top and cherry-colored pajama pants. As I finish washing the makeup off my face, I hear the front door open and close.
“Kate?”
I don’t answer.
His footsteps come down the hall, and a moment later Drew fills the bathroom doorway. “Hey. Why’d you leave? I came back with the drinks and Delores starts chucking ice cubes at my head, calling me a shit heel.”
I don’t make eye contact. And my voice is stiff. Dismissive. “I was tired.”
Why don’t I just tell him what’s bothering me? Because this is the game women play. We want you to drag it out of us. To show us you’re interested. It’s a test—to see how much you care.
Drew follows me into the bedroom. “Why didn’t you wait for me? I would’ve come with you.”
I raise my eyes to his. My face is tight, my body tense, ready for battle. “You were otherwise occupied.”
He looks down, eyes squinting. Trying to decode my words.
Then he gives up.
“What are you talking about?”
I spell it out for him.
“The blonde, Drew. At the bar?”
He regards me with curiosity. “What about her?”
“You tell me. Did you fuck her?”
Drew scoffs. “Of course I didn’t fuck her. I left two minutes after you did. We both know I last a hell of a lot longer than that. Or do you need a reminder?”
No, he’s not as obtuse as he seems. It’s kind of brilliant, actually. He’s trying to be cute. Sexy. Trying to distract me.
It’s what he does. And usually it works. But not tonight.