Love Me Like You Do: Books That Keep You In Bed

by Fields, MJ

  It’s been two months of popping benzos at night and crushing half in my morning coffee. Sometimes taking other pills to get me back up again. But I know this is just for now. Just until I get my head straight.

  He nods. “Don’t doubt it.”

  We pound fists before I turn away, going to find my girl.

  Three

  Lauren

  Pushing through clusters of people and trying to stay above the waves of dancing bodies, I reach the train of men and women who stand, waiting for the restroom. I cock my head to the side, trying to see how many people are ahead of me without stepping out of the queue when my eyes zero in on a great ass. It’s high and firm and encased in blue jeans. Shoulders super wide. Waist narrow. Tattoos line his arms. And he’s tall. I love tall. Something me and Sanam have always had in common.

  Marriage is obviously eons away from me. Maybe a wild night is what I need. Lord knows I haven’t had one of those in ages. Or at the very least, I could use a long, good look. Under normal circumstances, I’d be embarrassed to stare at a man this openly. But we’re in Vegas, and the chances of seeing him again after tonight are none.

  He takes a phone from his back pocket and sidesteps; I can now see his profile without any obstruction.

  Wow.

  Hair styled in a clean buzz cut. Straight Roman nose. Strong jaw, highlighted with dark scruff. Full and sensuous lips. Seeing him so straight and tall has me fixing my own posture; I immediately push my shoulders down and back.

  He turns, as though he can feel my gaze. We lock eyes—maybe. He’s wearing a black mask, covering the top of his face, so I can’t entirely tell where he’s looking. Ninety-five percent of me knows that he’s staring at me. Still, there’s that small sliver of thinking that maybe he isn’t. Even with his eyes covered—or maybe because of it—my body heats.

  I continue to watch as his lips quirk upward, showing me straight white teeth between a gorgeous mouth. And, in my bones, I know that grin is meant for me. Things have been so shitty lately, and it feels so good to just be looked at this way. From a sexy stranger, no less.

  The manscaped boys I’m used to can’t hold a candle to a man like this. With their chests waxed and legs encased in skinny trousers, there’s nothing about them that says, I will fuck the shit out of you and change your lightbulb if it’s out. Nope. This guy, on the other hand, is so … masculine. I’m all for women’s lib, but I can’t deny the fact that seeing a man so physically powerful makes me want to jump his bones before cooking him dinner.

  The last time I was with a man this hot—or with any man at all for that matter—was at Vincent and Eve’s wedding and … no, I’m not going there. That night was too good, and I refuse to think about what will never happen again. Sure, the sex was off the charts. But I’d made it clear that I was looking for someone long-term, and while he promised to call me, he never followed through.

  Whatever.

  Slade is totally not my type. He runs adventure races in the wilderness while I prefer the treadmill at the gym. He hunts and kills animals—with a gun—and then smokes them, for God’s sake. I barely even eat meat!

  I cringe, thinking of those poor baby deer he told me about. Alligators are one thing because, ew, alligators are gross. But deer? I let out a shudder. It was cool when he told me about how he used to hunt with his brother, and we joked around over it. But, after getting back home in LA and having detailed discussions with myself over whether or not I should be the one to call him first, I realized what he’d probably known from the start—we were completely incompatible.

  The masked hottie steps out of line and walks over to me. I seductively bite my lip, trying to get my flirt on and head back in the game.

  The girlie part of me shakes her ass, screaming, He’s coming over! He likes me!

  As if it’s happening in slow motion, he lifts the mask from his face, setting it on his forehead. My jaw slackens as a warm, sexy smile fills his face.

  “Hey, Lauren.” His voice is like an aphrodisiac to my senses.

  I blink, and, of course, that’s the moment the alcohol in my bloodstream begins to really hit me. I was buzzed, but that last drink took me to an entirely different plane. My memory chooses to remind me of the way he sounded during sex. Saying my name, deep and gravelly, as though he’d die if he stopped fucking me. Raising my leg over his massive shoulders—

  Oh shit. My blood travels way down south, pulsing down between my legs. It’s unstoppable.

  “Um, hey, Slade.” I keep my voice steady, trying not to falter.

  I seriously cannot believe he’s the one I’ve been ogling. Is he the only masculine man on the West Coast? I let out a small cry over the coincidence, hoping the loud music drowns out the sound.

  The first time I met Slade was in the hospital when Vincent, his boss and best friend, was in a coma. I was there to help my friend Eve, who is now Vincent’s wife. Despite the horrible circumstances, I took one look at Slade, and my mind turned to jelly. He’s just so strong. And his eyes? I look into them and feel like I could get lost and still be safe. Maybe it’s because Eve told me he was a Navy SEAL. My mind has obviously gotten mangled between the hero dream man and reality. I mean, sure, he’s protected our country, but—

  “You’re here. In Vegas.” His voice is sure. Friendly even. So warm.

  “Looks like we both are.”

  The hours we shared in his truck at the wedding? Arguably, the best I’ve ever had. Maybe I need to look on the bright side. Sure, my friends and I have hit a crossroads, and, at this rate, I might never find love and marry. But I’ve got Slade in front of me—also known as the best sex of my life. He doesn’t want anything long-term with me—this I know to be true. Maybe God is throwing me a bone for the night. Who am I to say no to a miracle?

  A finger taps the center of my back. “That one’s free.”

  I turn to the bald guy behind me, who points to the second door on the right.

  “Ladies first.” Slade grins. “I’ll meet you by the sinks.”

  I walk into the hallway, lined on each side with individual bathrooms, and try not to sway. I can feel Slade’s eyes trained on my backside and give myself a mental high-five because I know my ass looks good tonight. I’m not dressed as slutty as most of the girls in this club, but my costume still shows that I’ve got the goods. When I step in, the door shuts behind me. After sliding the mangled silver lock closed, I finally let out the scream I was holding in.

  “Slade! SLADE! He’s here!” I do a little dance, careful not to let my legs brush against the nasty toilet, but I curse when I realize there is no mirror in the stall to evaluate how I look.

  After finishing my business, I step out to the communal sink and check myself out in the large, horizontal mirror.

  I’m glad to see my shelf life is still kicking with no expiration date in sight. My eye makeup is smudged, but it looks dark and smoky. My hair is in tousled waves, which is perfect for a hot and sweaty night. I switch the part in my hair to give it a little extra volume, noting that I’m overdue for highlights; my black roots are showing more than usual. No thanks to my Persian heritage, my naturally jet-black hair is crazy thick and difficult to handle.

  I turn on the sink and begin washing my hands when Slade moves up next to me. There is no soap, so after drying my hands with a paper towel, I pull out a small bottle of Purell from my bag. His eyes squint in confusion as I squeeze a few drops into my hand.

  “Want?” I lift the small bottle like an offering when he gives me a shit-eating grin.

  “You carry hand sanitizer?”

  “Of course I do. There’s no soap in places like this.” My voice comes out more defensive than I intended.

  “You realize you’re in the middle of a nightclub in Vegas. It’s almost one o’clock in the morning, and you just took a piss in a communal restroom.”

  I grimace from his word choice. “And?”

  “Well”—he chuckles—“good to know you never lose your sense of hy
giene.”

  He puts out his hand, and I squeeze some in the center of his huge, callous palm. He presses his hands together.

  “Ready? Or are you planning to floss, too?” His lips quirk up. “I can wait if you want.” He crosses his huge arms in front of his chest.

  “You’re funny, Slade.” I shake my head as though he’s ridiculous when, really, I’m holding back my own laughter. Because I do in fact have a miniature floss in my bag. What can I say? I’m serious about clean teeth.

  We both turn to leave when a tall, lanky man exits the stall to our right, sweaty and panting as though he just sprinted ten miles.

  “I can make you feel good,” he says in a singsong voice, coming at me with yellowed teeth as his grabs at his crotch. Dark, beady eyes roam over my body.

  I’m ready to yell when Slade steps to my right, pulling me into his thick chest. “Back up.”

  It’s only two words, but they’re said in such a way that the guy spins off, running.

  Slade just laughs. “You should have seen your face.”

  “He could have killed me!”

  He pushes an errant hair from my face. “Don’t you know never to worry when I’m around?”

  I look into his eyes and know he’s telling the truth.

  “You need a drink.” He smiles playfully, breaking the moment and throwing a heavy arm around my shoulder. He bends down, putting his lips near my ear. “Let’s go.”

  I can feel his breath, hot in my ear.

  I should play hard to get, right? I take him in and pause. Oh, who the hell am I kidding? There’s no way I’m turning him down. He’s so hot; I can’t even pretend to be unsure.

  I open my hand as he reaches for it, and he takes us away from the restrooms. I’m drunk, and he doesn’t want a future. But that doesn’t mean I can’t have fun tonight, right?

  We step onto the dance floor, but this time, I feel no anxiety. I’m hanging on to a man who my bones know would never let me get clobbered. Slade, in all his bigness, plows through dancing fairies, badass-looking demons, and jumpsuit-wearing jailbirds. He’s a man on a mission. My drunk mind wanders to how he probably looks in his uniform. And then without the uniform. The images swirling through my mind have my temperature rising to new heights.

  We finally get to the bar where he pulls me close to his side. “Gin, vodka, or tequila?”

  I press against him. “Tequila. It’s what I’ve been drinking tonight.”

  “Hey, you,” the bartender purrs to Slade, cat eyes glowing with interest.

  I look between them, trying not to look jealous or territorial. The way she’s staring at him makes me wonder if they’ve hooked up.

  “Two tequila limes,” he requests, not unkindly.

  I step up closer to Slade, wanting her to know he isn’t alone. At least, not anymore. She takes a nice, long look at me, and I her. Her eyes are judgmental, telling me to step down. I raise my brows as if her wordless request is laughable. Pursing her red lips in annoyance, she grabs two shot glasses and fills them to the brim. My friends in LA are the hugest bitches on earth. If she thinks an evil glare is enough to shake me, she has no idea whom she’s dealing with.

  “I’ll add it to your tab,” she tells Slade, seductively inching closer to him.

  I’ve got to give her props; she doesn’t give up easily.

  I put my hand on his arm to regain his attention. When he turns to me, a liquid smile moves across his face, and I know I’ve won. The bartender, no matter how high her tits are pushed up or how little she’s wearing, doesn’t stand a chance. Clinking our glasses, we shoot them back. I make sure to look at her from my side-eye. She’s watching—and now, she knows. I wrap my arms around his thick neck and press my lips against his. They’re hot and full and so good. Tonight, this man is mine.

  The strobe lights fly across the room in riotous colors. We’ve been dancing and drinking nonstop. His heavy hands roam over my body on the dance floor when I realize I haven’t had this much fun since we were together at the wedding. As I bite my cheek, my smile won’t wane.

  I’m the type of girl who pictures all possible outcomes before I get myself involved in anything. But, with Slade, I’m somehow free. With him, I don’t feel the need to know every detail or potential result. Maybe it’s because he and I are so different, and a future between us is so improbable that there’s nothing to think about other than the moment. Whatever it is, I love it. And, by the way he’s acting, he does, too.

  “So fucking glad you’re here,” he says again, pulling me back to the bar to order more shots.

  We don’t have time to sip on drinks. We want to get drunk and dance. Perspiration beads at his forehead, and I get another flashback of how he sweat above me in the back of his truck. His smile tells me he knows what I’m thinking. At this point, all embarrassment is gone. I’m glad he knows. I want it again.

  We clink our glasses together—I think it’s my third and his fifth—and swallow them down before he moves his hands to my face and angles it upward. Our kiss is scorching. His tongue, so hot in my mouth, is a direct line to my panties. I’m soaked.

  Back on the dance floor, I give in to the hip-hop music, letting my body burn from the heavy beat and dirty lyrics.

  “Bend over and spread ’em, girl …”

  I drunkenly laugh because regular Lauren would be disgusted by what’s coming out of these rappers’ mouths. I mean, to call these lyrics raunchy is an understatement. But, right now, I can’t even be bothered to care.

  I lift my eyes back to his. They shine.

  “Want to get out of here?” His masculine, deep voice is a growl.

  “Yes,” I yell, needing him to hear me. If I sound overly excited, it’s because I am.

  His hand takes mine as we move back to the bar.

  Raising his hand, he nods to the nearest bartender, who immediately comes over. “Close my tab.” The request is brisk.

  He signs the bill and my mouth waters from need.

  We start moving again through the throng, but a sound goes off like firecrackers around me. Is it just the music? Something feels off. In my gut, I know it’s not drunkenness. My mind sobers as my internal alarm beeps. It’s a slow and steady rhythm that won’t let up. The air is restless. The faces of some partygoers look strange, too. Are they on drugs? Or is it me? I rub the side of my head. Before I can squeeze Slade’s hand, wanting to ask if he feels the change, he stops in his tracks and pulls me into his chest in a move meant to secure. He scans the room. He senses something is off, too.

  The music blasts while people around me turn left to right, seemingly confused as well.

  “What’s going on here?”

  The strobe lights have the entire room painted red.

  My eyes pause on a woman dressed like a Catholic schoolgirl, dancing on a high pedestal. It feels like slow motion when she drops, falling to the ground like a rag doll. People jump back until I have the perfect view of her splayed on the floor. With long hair twisted behind her and spray-tanned legs awkwardly bent, her white button-down shirt bleeds, turning black. Is the light playing tricks? The blood begins pooling around her like spilled ink. It could be motor oil but for the smell—a putrid copper. A deep shiver moves down my spine, undulating over each disc in my back.

  People scream, pointing at the girl, as Slade pushes me behind him, shielding me from what’s ahead. His body, while stationed, pivots left to right. The heavy bass pounds straight up into my chest. I want to run and hide. I want to tell myself that, of course, this is just part of the game. It’s Vegas. Everything is a mirage. It must be a play of light. Everything is fine.

  I count to ten and will myself to lift my head. I want to confirm that nothing is wrong. Slade wrings his hands together before tensing up. He’s completely still now, barely breathing. Shouldn’t we be moving or running or … something? My breathing picks up. It’s panic. People are running, but we aren’t.

  The murmuring grows louder until it drowns out the music in my ea
rs. Person by person, happy turns to mortified; it’s a domino effect. Club security comes barreling toward us as partygoers flood toward the exit. Slade and I seem to be cemented in place. That’s when the music shuts down.

  A horrible silence descends among the crowd. I raise my arm and squeeze his shoulder, but still, he doesn’t move. It’s as though he’s in a trance.

  The ringing in my ears continues to echo, pounding straight into my heart.

  A unified quiet before a mixture of, “What the fuck?” and, “Oh my God,” fills the void.

  A voice, dark and heavy, comes on a microphone at the DJ booth. It towers above, in control. We’re the tiny ants below, crushable.

  The club, like a collective, tilts their heads upward. A gasp bounces off the walls, the sound rebounding. Slade continues to methodically wring his hands together, left to right. I’m holding on to him, a solid and straight wall.

  The man breathes into the microphone, and the sound cracks. His mouth opens as he yells, “There’s only one ruler on these motherfuckin’ streets!” He points a gun to the ceiling.

  It dawns on me that I’ve never seen a real gun in all my life. Is that really it? This tiny black handheld can … kill?

  He pulls the trigger into the crowd; it’s thunder.

  “No!” The word tears from my lips into the world around us. A pit, the size of my fist, flies to the center of my throat. I want to breathe, but I can’t.

  The blood in my arteries flashes to molasses.

  That’s when the shots begin to spray.

  Slade grabs my arm and runs.

  “No, we’re going the wrong way,” I scream, trying to stop him.

  But he won’t allow me to turn or pause, and it’s as though he’s been taken over and turned into a robot. I’m tripping over my heeled feet, being dragged behind this massive man-machine who won’t let me go. While everyone in the club seems to be going left, we’re moving against the tide.

  I keep yelling, “I’m going to get trampled,” but Slade continues to push forward, his hand like a vise around my wrist.