Ladies Man

by Katy Evans

  I decide to answer as naturally as possible. “I dialed by mistake, no need to call back.”

  There are giggles in the background and the sound of a closing door. “What’s up, Regina?” He sounds amused.

  “I just had sex with Trent and the condom broke.”

  Silence.

  “It broke and I couldn’t find it,” I blurt out, my voice breaking unexpectedly. I scowl and stare into the glass doors of the hospital, my stupid voice still wavering. “I just had the most humiliating moment of my life at the hospital while some guy…” I shudder. “Anyway, the condom broke and I’m on my way to get a morning-after pill—I just don’t want to go back in there and ask for one.” I sigh. “What about you, you seem very busy. I don’t think the tied woman will appreciate staying tied while you hear about my evening.”

  I hear a muffled, “Untie her and show yourselves to the door,” and then his voice sounds close to the speaker. “I’ll be right over.”

  “What? No!”

  He hangs up.

  I text him.

  I’m not even home!

  Where are you?

  I hesitate, then give him the name of the hospital.

  I’m pacing as I wait. The tires of his car screech soon afterward on the hospital driveway, and he swings open the passenger door from the inside.

  And he’s so good-looking—he looks especially perfect tonight—I purse my lips, humiliated all over again, and at the same time, relieved.

  I don’t know why I called him out of all the people in my contacts list. I don’t know why I bolted so fast out of my apartment, refusing to even look at Trent or ask him to come with me.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, as I was going through the uncomfortable and humiliating moment of spreading my legs open so a gloved hand could retrieve the condom, I found comfort in the thought of Tahoe. I used him to distract myself, to keep from feeling dirty and alone. And now here I am, standing in the hospital driveway while he leans across the passenger seat and waits for me to move.

  “Get in,” he says, all lowered brows, his eyes glimmering with protectiveness and concern.

  I do, shutting the door to find myself enclosed in the confined space of his white Ghost.

  The scent of leather and pine trees hits me, a scent I associate strongly with him.

  There’s a silence as I sit in the passenger seat, and he sits there, his hands gripping the wheel, his jaw set as he inhales. And I realize I must smell awful, like a hospital, like antiseptic and maybe even sex. He turns around as if to say something.

  “Don’t give me shit,” I warn angrily.

  He scowls. “I’m not.”

  I scoff.

  He shifts gears and pulls into traffic and laughs darkly.

  He’s pissed off as he drives, I can tell.

  “I’m upset on your behalf. What kind of moth—”

  “It was an accident, okay?”

  He growls under his breath, “Bullshit,” then eyes me, his voice painfully tender as he reaches out to take my chin and draw my gaze to his. “Hey. Gina. You okay?”

  His touch could break me right now. My eyes water and I glance out the window. He drops his hand and puts it back on the gearshift.

  “So he’s not perfect,” I blurt, throwing my arms in the air. “Sometimes the guys you’re dating never are. You start to wonder why you even bother…” I glare out the window. “But then you think of the cuddling, and just having someone’s warmth in bed, and who cares about perfection?”

  Silence.

  I glare defensively and cross my arms tightly over my chest. “Why am I telling you this? You wouldn’t even know. I doubt you’ve slept with a woman after…you know.”

  “That’s right, Gina. I just use them then kick them out the door,” he says sarcastically, almost with self-loathing.

  We end up at the pharmacy, buying me a morning-after pill. Just in case.

  He adds a pack of Trident bubblegum, then fishes out his card and pays for everything.

  “Thank you,” I whisper as I pull out his gum, hand it over, and carry the bag to his car. “I’ve never taken one of these but Wynn has and she says she felt absolutely awful, crampy and like shit,” I complain as he opens the car door for me.

  He climbs behind the wheel, and he’s dead silent and unnervingly thoughtful as he drives me to my place. He parks the car, and as I say thank you and get out, he turns off the ignition and follows me into my apartment.

  Silence up the elevator.

  He takes the key when I fish it out and opens the door, then he waits for me to pass. I’ve never had Tahoe in my apartment. It’s a little jarring to see him step inside. He throws his jacket aside, rolls up the sleeves of his navy-blue sweater, and settles on the couch.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  I don’t know why, but the sight of Tahoe invading my apartment and taking up my couch makes me feel vulnerable. The situation strangely intimate.

  He kicks off his shoes.

  “You’re not planning to stay here, are you?”

  He raises a brow and grabs the remote from the coffee table. “In case you don’t feel well. Get crampy and shit.” He quotes me, smirking.

  I frown.

  He turns on the TV. And the last show I had been watching, Vikings, flares on the screen.

  Reluctantly I admire the man on the screen, and then the man on the couch in my apartment. Both so raw, so blond, so virile. One of them—the one in my apartment—wreaking havoc with my lungs.

  “You look like him, you know,” I say in a bit of an accusatory tone. “Ragnar. That hunting look in your eyes. You don’t look polished even in your business suits. You look like you belong somewhere outside.” Wild and untamed. “Like a Neanderthal.”

  He frowns back, then pats the couch. “Come here.”

  “I’m not a dog, don’t tell me ‘come here.’”

  But I go anyway, kicking my shoes off and dropping at his side. He wraps his arm around me and I feel myself stiffen. His chest is like a wall. He smooths his hand down my arm and chuckles softly. “Come on, relax,” he whispers, his smile accidentally grazing my ear.

  It feels insanely good just to be held—no expectations, no sexy times ahead, just being held. My eyes flutter closed, relaxation seeping into my bones.

  “I can’t afford this apartment anymore,” I tell him. “I’m not renewing my lease. Wynn is moving in with Emmett, and I really don’t feel like acquiring a roommate. I’m going to look for a new place, a small one, just for me.”

  I hadn’t realized I was stroking his chest. He’s watching me with a heavy-lidded gaze. The air thickens with awareness.

  Our eyes hold.

  His expression is so hungry, and inside that gaze is that primitive look, so intense it borders on pain.

  “I should go,” he says softly.

  “You should,” I say just as softly.

  He releases me reluctantly, then grabs his jacket and leaves without another word.

  * * *

  Minutes later, Tahoe stands in my doorway with his jacket still in hand, his other hand shoved into the pocket of his dark-wash jeans, that navy-blue sweater draped sexily over his chest.

  “Your doorman let me back in.”

  I feel myself stand like a sleepwalker, getting sucked into his gaze. “I can see that.”

  He shuts the door behind him. “I’m spending the night.”

  “You are? I mean…no, really, you’re not.”

  He walks back in and throws his jacket on the couch we’d been sitting on and starts to prowl my place like some beast on the loose. “Where’s your bedroom?”

  “There—” I point down the hall, stunned when he immediately heads in that direction. “But what are you doing?”

  “Look, I’ve probably got a shit-ton of girls still back at my place. I really don’t feel like playing the player tonight.”

  “I don’t care what you feel like. I don’t feel like having you—”

&
nbsp; He lies on my bed.

  “—lie on my bed and—”

  He takes off his shoes, wearing no socks; his feet are sexy.

  “—and putting your feet on my—”

  He puts his feet up and jerks off his sweater, and he’s suddenly bare-chested and I struggle to talk.

  “—on my, on my… No! Don’t get under the covers!”

  He gets under the covers, barefoot, bare-chested, in his jeans. And then he smirks and shoves one muscled arm under the sheets, and then I see him toss his jeans into the corner.

  I grab a pillow and sigh, dropping onto the other side of the bed.

  “Get under,” he says, no-nonsense.

  “Wait, what?”

  “Get under the sheets. You’ll have a warm bed tonight, Regina.”

  I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out.

  Cuddling and a warm bed…friends do that, too, right?

  I swallow, head to my bathroom, close the door, brush my teeth, and look at my face in the mirror. I still have my makeup on, but not as perfectly as I’d like. I find myself retouching, my hands trembling and I don’t know why. I certainly don’t plan to sleep with him. Ever.

  He had his chance.

  We had our chance.

  We’re friends now.

  I head out and jerk off my dress, slip into a T-shirt, feeling him watch me as I remove my bra from under my shirt. I toss it aside and climb onto the bed. It squeaks as I lift the covers and slide in.

  He opens his arm, smiling a harmless smile, but the look in his eyes… God, that’s as harmless as the look of a demon. Even when I see all sorts of things lurking there—darkly in his gaze—I am tempted to trust him. Trust that despite his male reactions to me, he’s more determined to be friends.

  But I don’t want to be haunted by what it feels like to lie in those arms with veined muscles popping out, so I shake my head. “Don’t get touchy-touchy on me, alright? I like my space.”

  “Your space?” He chuckles and smirks. “I happen to be in your space, Regina. I thought you liked cuddling and warm beds?”

  “Beds warmed by lovers, not by guy friends. By the way, I’m really glad we’re friends,” I admit as I get settled under the blanket but make sure our bodies don’t touch. I get a glimpse of black tight boxers and long male legs and instantly jerk my gaze away when I feel a pinch between my legs.

  He laughs quietly, almost incredulously.

  I lift my head, frowning, all the warm, fuzzy feelings I was feeling toward him gone. “What? We’re not?” I accuse.

  “I’m zipping it.” He zips his mouth with a fingertip.

  “No. Really. You don’t want to be friends with me? So that I don’t call and interrupt your fun times?”

  “Regina. I’m glad we’re friends.”

  I feel myself frown, but relax a little because his smile is all over his face, even in his eyes, and it has this effect on me. “I owe you one.”

  He grabs the remote from my nightstand. “Don’t worry, I’ll collect.”

  “You’ve only been in my apartment for an hour and you’re already taking over both my TVs.” I scowl.

  I plump my pillow and make certain there are enough inches separating us, head to toe.

  “Just stay on that side of the bed.”

  TRENCH COAT

  He spooned me.

  I’m at work the next day, organizing the makeup drawers, remembering the pitch black of my bedroom when we lay there falling asleep.

  Him shifting in bed. His eyes finding mine in the dark. His hand splaying over my stomach. Pulling me closer. My back flattening against the front of his body.

  Neither of us said a word about it the next morning as we had coffee and pancakes. He didn’t even kiss my cheek when he left for work; he was late to some meeting and in a rush to go. He just lifted two fingers in a peace sign and shut the door behind him.

  I call Wynn during my break.

  “Why would he spoon you?” Wynn’s voice sounds dubious over the phone.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Go over there and bang him.”

  The urge to do just that burns so fiercely inside me that I can’t think straight. No rationalizations can quell the fierce little fire burning in me now.

  * * *

  That evening when my shift is over, I put on a trench coat with nothing but a pink thong underneath. I head to his place. I’ve been here a couple of times, and the thing about Tahoe Roth is, his doormen know he’s a total player. They seem to allow all his girls free access. The uniformed man in the elevator only nods formally when you tell him you’re going to the penthouse, which requires him to slide in a special access card.

  He wears a gold name tag that says Ernest.

  He’s still stoic when we reach Tahoe’s floor and I thank him under my breath.

  I wander inside his apartment and spot his blue and yellow Van Gogh on the fireplace mantel in his study. There’s music in the background. “Walk” by Kwabs. A total make-out song; a total everything song. I wander into the living room…and then see the two women surrounding that blond head of his. He’s standing in nothing but ripped muscles and naturally gold skin, and they’re also naked.

  I catch my breath. He moves out of my vision as he urges one to lie down on the couch.

  I peer over the back of the couch and he’s bent over one. His ass flexing, his body moving powerfully. “Ladies first,” he’s telling the woman as she starts to come.

  I hurry back down the hall as fast as my noisy heels allow without drawing attention, and suddenly I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t even have words to describe what I saw to Wynn.

  Ladies first…

  Oh my god.

  He’s such a…

  I’ve been closed off for years, but lately feeling like I should give men another chance. Why I’m obsessed with this one is beyond my comprehension. He’s worse than Paul.

  Beast. Stud. He’s hot. Irreverent. Insatiable. Incorrigible. Pure I, I, I—cause he’s selfish too, and he’ll never care for anyone more than he cares about Tahoe.

  I hurry back to the elevator and press the down arrow repeatedly until it tings.

  Too bad the elevator tings just when the Kwabs song ends and the room falls silent. Which means that, very likely, he heard.

  I board quickly and hit the lobby button, riding with another elevator man. Richard.

  I stare anxiously at the numbers as we descend, step briskly out into the massive lobby and am heading straight for the revolving doors when I hear another elevator ting—

  Then, in a familiar light Texan drawl, “Regina.”

  I stop in my tracks, knot my sash tighter.

  “Thanks, Ernest,” I hear Tahoe say, his drawl still a little noticeable.

  I turn to face him and nearly buckle when my eyes meet his puzzled blue ones.

  “Hey,” I say.

  His brows rise questioningly.

  “I came to visit my client and totally messed up my floors,” I hastily explain as he walks over in an open white shirt, his lips raw, his eyes raw, his hair mussed, so beautiful. It hurts that he’s so out of my reach.

  I turn to leave but he takes a step. “Why are you leaving then?”

  “Oh, because I realized I have a message. A message she’s canceling, and I didn’t know. So.”

  Realizing I’m madly waving my phone in the air like a nitwit, I tuck it into my pocket and turn away quickly.

  Then he reaches out and puts his hand on the back of my trench coat, turning me a little toward him. I’m careening on my axis, my senses out of control at the unexpected touch. I don’t understand it.

  He runs the back of one finger down my cheek, and the touch sparks fire.

  “Did you hear me?” he asks.

  His eyes glimmer dangerously with something.

  “No. What did you say?”

  Once again, I’m starstruck by those eyes, deep as oceans. “I asked if you want me to take you home.”


  As he speaks, the words ripple through my body in delicious little waves.

  His gaze lifts all of a sudden and stares intently past my forehead. “What’s with the hair?”

  “I combed it.”

  Two blunt fingers take my chin, hiking it up an inch as he studies me with an interested expression. “So you did. You look very nice. You should comb it more often.”

  I feel that familiar stomach pain I felt when we talked at my place and he was in my bed. When he looks down at me again, I feel like he’s peeling me open. Like he’s seeing what I came here for, what I want, something I’m afraid for him to see. “I’m fine taking a cab,” I say, suddenly too eager to be in that cab right now. “I have somewhere I need to go.”

  I’m desperate to leave so why am I still standing here, facing him?

  I like spending time with him more than I’ve enjoyed spending time with any other guy. I wake up and crave his company.

  “Thank you for offering, by the way,” I add. “You’re a great friend. Loyal.”

  “So are you.”

  “So why can’t you be loyal in relationships?”

  I don’t know why I ask this now, but for some reason I just can’t hold it back. He’s been a great friend to me; he’s equally loyal to Saint and Callan. I don’t understand how someone can be so loyal to his friends and so bad at relationships.

  “You can’t have such poor control over your anatomy.”

  “I can handle my anatomy just fine, Gina.” He laughs in amused disbelief and then smirks. “I was loyal once.” His voice sounds dark and somber.

  “What happened?”

  The look in his eyes turns cynical and cold. He sounds part angry and part resigned. “What else, Regina? Life.”

  Was he betrayed?

  Why would a girl betray him, the epitome of beastly manhood?

  We stand there, looking at each other. The doormen pretending not to look at us. I realize I have to leave, but he isn’t leaving either.

  He hikes his thumb and points upward, in the direction of the floors above. “Sorry you had to see that.”

  I wave dismissively, determined for him never to know how much it hurts that he’s good enough for others and not for me. “Oh, not at all, just the thing to get a girl in the mood.”