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

by Fields, MJ

  I begin unpacking my stuff when he says, “I noticed last night. It looks good, by the way.”

  I turn to him, and he gestures to my arm.

  My stomach warms. “Yes. You were right about that. It’s still bruised, but it’s okay.” I inhale, his smell invading my senses. Stepping back, I need to make more space between us. I’m here to find myself and figure out what the heck I’m doing with my life—not fawn over a completely inaccessible man who doesn’t see me as anything more than a good lay.

  “Let’s just have a good time. Friends?” I plaster a smile on my face, hoping he agrees. If I can play it off as though he didn’t massively offend me, I can get through this vacation in one piece.

  He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Of course. Like I said, we’re cool.”

  My phone pings and I pull it out from my back pocket to check.

  Eve: Hey there. Everything okay in the room? Not sure why both of you were so opposed to sharing, but if you want, I can have Vincent and Slade stay together, and we can share a room.

  Lauren: Nooo. No way. You have your romantic weekend. I’m fine.

  Eve: Are you positive? We’d have fun. I don’t want you feeling uncomfortable. You’re here to rest.

  Lauren: I’m all good. Trust me!

  Eve: Okay. Love you, and if you need me, call the room or text. Xoxo.

  Lauren: Are we having dinner together?

  Eve: I think Vincent and I are going to lay low. Unless you want to go out?

  Lauren: That’s okay. I’m exhausted, too. See you tomorrow morning.

  I turn back to the massive man before me. “Turns out, we aren’t meeting for dinner.”

  I pull the tie out of my hair, and it falls around my shoulders. His nostrils slightly flare, but other than that, he remains completely stoic.

  “Yep.”

  When he moves his thick arms behind his head, I bite the side of my cheek.

  “Well”—I lift the class schedule in front of my face and skim through the times—“looks like a yoga class is starting in ten minutes. I’m going to go.”

  Calmly, I bend down to find my exercise clothes. This hotel is gorgeous and the epitome of tranquility. I plan on using the time to clear my head.

  “I’ll join you.” He sits up.

  I drop my hands to my hips. “What?”

  “I do yoga.” He opens his own bag, pulling out a fresh pair of black shorts and a T-shirt.

  “You do not,” I practically scream. Clearing my throat, I repeat myself in a calmer tone, “You do not.”

  “I do.” He smiles. “And I’m coming, Sunshine.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we’ve both changed into exercise attire. I’m in a white sports bra, cropped white T-shirt, and gray lizard-print leggings. I try to keep my head up and off the fact that his shorts show off his dick imprint. Long, thick, and utterly perfect. I inhale and exhale, trying to get my breathing under control.

  He’s a jerk. An asshole. I hate him. I repeat these lines like a mantra.

  Slade pushes the down arrow for the elevator. It lights up in red. “How long have you done yoga?”

  “On and off over the last seven years. And you?”

  I begin braiding my hair, moving it to the side. His eyes trail my fingers.

  “Not too long.”

  “Well, you can watch me if you need.”

  He chuckles. “I’ll be sure to do that.”

  I could swear, there is a twinkle in his eye.

  I keep my back straight as we walk soundlessly to the studio.

  With floor-to-ceiling doors opened wide and facing the mountains, the room is the ultimate in peace, just what I want. Slade takes two beige-colored mats from the corner of the room, handing one to me. I lay it vertically on the wooden floor, facing the windows. We’re side by side, stretching, as four other people enter the room.

  “Yoga’s good. I wish I did it more.”

  “I try every morning for at least fifteen minutes. It just clears my head in a way nothing else can,” I reply.

  And then the class begins. It’s slow at first, but the flow increases.

  Slade effortlessly moves from position to position. At first, I’m impressed. But it doesn’t take long for annoyance to take hold. I’ve been doing yoga for years, focusing on the elevation of my practice. Instead of concentrating on myself right now, all I can see is his huge, muscular body contorting in positions that even I have trouble doing.

  “Let the pose ground you,” the instructor says, gliding between the two of us. “But don’t go beyond your edge or push yourself too far,” she adds, staring at me. “Feel your Apana moving downward through your body as you settle into your squat.”

  “Fuck my life,” I whisper under my breath, watching Slade fall into a perfect position.

  “What was that?” he whispers, smirking.

  Sweat drips into my eyes, the salt burning my pupils.

  “Don’t talk to me. I’m centering,” I hiss under my breath.

  “Get lower in your squat, Sunshine.”

  I glance up just in time to see the tease coating his eyes.

  Asshole!

  That’s it. I’ve had it. I pick up my mat and move behind Slade, so he no longer has the perfect view of me. Unfortunately, that means I’m the one with the view.

  When class is over, the instructor flits over to Slade, asking him where he studies. I decide there is no reason to sit here and watch them flirt. I need a shower.

  I arrive back in our room in a huff. Stripping my clothes off my body, I step angrily into the hot spray. The nerve! Pouring shampoo into my hand, I scrub my hair. With each pass over my scalp, my anger intensifies. And, surprisingly, it isn’t because of the fact that I was just in the midst of a mass shooting. Actually, ever since I came out here, I’ve been feeling a whole lot better. The cause of my anxiety is tall, muscular, and moody. The man who saved my life and washed the blood off my body is gone. In his place is a smug and cocky asshole, who’s probably fucking the yoga instructor right now—in the back of his car! I can only imagine the positions she can contort herself into.

  Bitch.

  My soapy hand glides over my nipples, and I shut my eyes. Flashes of his face, smile, and body overwhelm me. The truth is unstoppable. I want Slade because he’s hot and cool and kind. And so smart. He makes me laugh and makes me happy in a way I haven’t felt in … ever. And he doesn’t want anything with me other than sex. It hurts.

  A loud knock brings me back to the present.

  “Can you get out already? It’s been over twenty minutes.”

  I quickly rinse the conditioner from my hair, wrapping one white towel around my body and a second one turban-style around my hair. When I exit the bathroom, steam billows behind me. He’s waiting, leaning against the doorframe in a casual stance with some clothes balled in his hand.

  “It’s about time,” he drawls, a slight tinge of a Southern accent coming through. His eyes wander from my toes up to my face.

  I tighten the towel around me, trying not to glower. “I’m surprised you’re back so soon with the way that yoga teacher was checking you out.” I raise my brows.

  There’s no reason I should be so furious right now. Rationally, I know this. But it doesn’t change the truth. I like him despite the fact that he doesn’t think highly of me. I know I’m acting like a child with an unrequited crush, but I can’t help myself. Deep down, I want to show him that I’m more than he thinks. Instead, it’s all coming out as anger. I finally get out of my head enough to notice his gorgeous chest is bare.

  “Don’t worry. She’s not my type.” And, with one last good look, he steps by me and walks into the bathroom. The door shuts with a thud.

  “God help me,” I moan, face-planting on the bed.

  He comes out freshly showered and changed into a pair of soft, worn-looking jeans and a white T-shirt, feet bare and smelling clean and soapy warm. His hair has grown out some, the strands shiny and thick.

 
The doorbell rings.

  “Hope you don’t mind, but I ordered us an early dinner. Can’t stand to eat late at night,” Slade says before opening the door.

  The waiter sets up the food on our small terrace where he pulls out plate after plate, each with a silver cover. He seems to have ordered enough food for five. After signing the bill, he takes out a bottle of white wine from the minibar.

  I gasp. “How did you get that?”

  “I’ve got my ways.” He chuckles.

  “And here I was, thinking you were a good and honest all-American boy,” I joke, trying to shake out my earlier fury.

  “You thought wrong, Lauren. I’m anything but good.”

  His eyes move to mine. What I see surprises me. I see … pain. I think about Sienna and what she told me. Is that what this is—a post-war agony?

  He sits tall, placing a large Caesar salad in front of me, topped with roasted salmon. “Hope you don’t mind that I got this. I remember you ordered it at The Blue.”

  I nod my head, overwhelmed by his thoughtfulness. He remembers what I ate. That’s a good sign, right? Or maybe he just has a really good memory.

  “Why are you looking all worried?” He opens the cover from one of the plates and digs into his chicken, placing a large piece in his mouth.

  “It’s nothing.”

  He uncorks the wine and pours it into the empty glass in front of me.

  He smirks. “Yeah, sure. Have some of my chicken. It’s better than your salad.” Cutting me a piece, he transfers it onto my plate.

  “Hey, don’t give me the leg. That’s the best part.”

  “You should always have the best.” Our eyes lock until he looks away.

  We eat quietly. It’s filled with warmth and comfort.

  You like him, my brain reminds me. So, so much. But he won’t ever give you more than his backseat, my heart reminds me.

  “So, your parents are from Iran?”

  My silver fork drops, clattering against the plate. “Who told you that?” The quiver in my voice is unmistakable.

  He laughs out loud. “I asked Eve.” Simple, his silence adds.

  My eyes narrow, as I feel oddly betrayed. How could she have told him this?

  Never in my life have I been ashamed of my heritage. All is well on the coasts where the left-wing reigns, and cultural diffusion is typical. But, in the rest of the country, I’m considered the other. And here is this man, a military man, who fought for my freedom.

  It worries me to believe that he would see me and think, She’s the enemy.

  Not that he’s ever given me a reason to believe that, but I’m still worried he would.

  Food rises to the back of my throat as tears prickle my eyes. I continuously swallow, trying to get rid of them. Luckily, I manage to bring the unshed tears down to the center of my body.

  True, my parents didn’t arrive via the Mayflower. But my Persian heritage is part of me, and I refuse to show any kind of embarrassment. I have nothing to hide. If he thinks worse of me, then he isn’t worth my time. And anyway—

  “Sunshine, it’s fine.” His words interrupt my thoughts. “I know your parents aren’t terrorists.” He lets out a dark, full-bellied laugh, assuring me that all is well. “Some of the best men I’ve ever known are Middle Eastern. You gotta think better of me, right? I know who you are, Lauren.”

  Does he?

  His words echo around my ribs, tapping on my heart.

  “Seeing as you’re the way you are, I’m sure your parents are wonderful people, too.”

  I nod, still not trusting myself to speak. I didn’t realize the extent of my worry until now.

  “And don’t get mad. I asked Eve an innocent question, and she had no reason to lie. Is that why you didn’t tell me when I asked at the wedding? You were afraid I wouldn’t like it?” he teases me, smiling as he cuts up more of his food.

  I burn from embarrassment because he’s right. I thought he’d run away if he knew.

  “Don’t mock me about this, Slade. I was worried. You’re right. But there’s a lot of hatred in the world. And how would I have known your views?”

  “I’ll try not to be offended.” He continues to eat, finishing his chicken and moving on to a steak with sliced beefsteak tomatoes on the side.

  I’m having my salad slowly and quietly, watching him eat every last bite until his plate is wiped clean.

  Standing, he pulls a pack of Marlboros from his back pocket. Pulling out a cigarette with two fingers, he drops it between his full lips before bringing up a lone match, lighting it up to a shining amber. “You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?” He sits back down.

  “No, I don’t mind.”

  With my agreement, he exhales.

  I’m not a fan of smoking. I want to live my best and healthiest life. But watching this huge man spreading his long denim-clad legs out in front of him, relaxing with a cigarette, does something to my insides. It’s undeniable. With his huge, muscular arms, tatted so well, and his heavy soldier’s body, I find myself clenching my thighs together. Intensely staring at him in the dim light, I swallow hard.

  “You should talk to someone about the shooting.” He takes a napkin from the silver holder and wipes his hands, cigarette dangling between his lips. “Don’t hold it in.” His voice is low and deep.

  “Actually, I think I’m doing okay.” My voice comes out surprisingly upbeat. “I had a bit of a breakdown before I came out here, but I feel a lot better already. How about you?” I take another bite of my salad.

  “Me? What about me?” He wrings his hands together.

  “Well, you were there, too. And I thought I saw you freeze up for a—”

  “Of course I’m fine,” he spits out. “Never been better.”

  He lets out a dark laugh as he takes a hard pull of his cigarette. His demeanor has my guard moving up, but I tell myself to stop my overreaction.

  “Really? Because I noticed, when the shots first went off, you—”

  A stone face flashes to mine. “Don’t,” he snaps.

  I questioningly tilt my head to the side. “Wait. Why are you getting so upset?”

  The chair scrapes against the ground, and he stands to his full, hulking height. My jaw drops at the outburst as my heart lurches in my chest. What the hell is going on here? Maybe he’s the one who hasn’t dealt with his shit. He’s all about being helpful and doling out advice, but when the tables turn, it’s complete shutdown.

  I hesitantly stand, unsure if I should run away or wait this out. “I won’t press.” My voice is a whisper as I raise my hands in surrender. Part of me wants to run, but my heart won’t let me move.

  His eyes are suddenly dark and so empty. “There’s nothing to fucking press.” He bares his teeth and steps closer, raising the stakes and morphing into someone else entirely.

  He wouldn’t hurt me, right? I know Slade would never, but this man isn’t the Slade I know. I shiver, as though my body knows something that my mind refuses to register.

  “L-let’s just enjoy our dinner, okay? Let’s not talk about that night anymore. I’m okay. You’re okay. Everything’s great,” I whisper, as though trying to calm a rabid animal.

  I should run, get the hell out of here. But I don’t. The swirls in his eyes, normally flecked in gold, have darkened. Seconds pass in silence. I’m frozen while he continues to fume.

  A moment later, I ask “Slade?”

  Taking a risk and reaching out my hand, I touch his arm. Suddenly, his eyes soften. He opens and shuts his mouth, eyes darting around our small balcony before settling on me. He’s sad and angry and something else I just can’t name.

  He retakes his seat, and I let out the breath I was holding. Whatever gripped him a moment ago has passed.

  Slade has a dark side with a temper. I know it, and my body knows it, too. The night of the wedding, he seemed to be okay. But something happened, turning the fun and cool man I’d thought I knew into someone else.

  I swallow, my mouth feeling dry
as he lights up another cigarette, blowing smoke into the night.

  “I scared you.” His eyes flit back over to my face, assessing me.

  My heart pounds because, yes, I’m scared as hell. Still, I don’t want to back down. Not from the man I know, who is filled with so much decency and kindness.

  “I’m still here, aren’t I?” My voice shakes, and yet I sit taller.

  Smoky white wisps billow from his mouth as he nods his head. “You need to hear me now. I’m not the man you think I am. I’m not a savior. I’ve done some horrific shit, and now, here I am, living my life. You want to meet a good man, so you can get married, start a family? I can set you up. But it’s not me. I didn’t call you after the wedding because it would have been for nothing. You’re a great girl, but I’ll never be able to give you the white picket fence.”

  A pregnant pause wedges itself between us.

  “I don’t even know what to say to that.”

  “Say you’ll stay away. We had a few fun times, but we’re not suited for anything more. I need to know you understand.” He turns his head to mine, eyes blazing. “I see the way you look at me, like you’re dying to fuck and then meet my mom for dinner. You’ve got to stop that. Seeing as you’re Eve’s best friend, the last thing I need to do is screw around with you and piss her and Vincent off. So, do us both a favor and just back up.” He casually exhales, as though he didn’t just knife me with his words.

  I open and close my mouth in shock and hurt as heat rises into my face. Men see me as hot. They want my body, but they never want me. I thought maybe Slade was different, figuring we had a connection that went further than mere attraction. I was wrong. Tears well up in my eyes. I’m not asking for yachts and travel and fancy dinners. I just want someone who’ll open the covers in our bed when our kids come in the middle of the night. Someone to know and love the real me. I’m sick and tired of all the phony bullshit that surrounds me. But something about me magnetizes the wrong men. Something about me says, I’m good for one thing—and it isn’t talking.

  “Do you hear me? Say yes, Lauren,” he commands, sitting forward with his elbows leaning on his knees. His voice is sure, confident, and ice cold as he stares at me like he wouldn’t mind grabbing and shaking me.