Intoxicated

by Cynthia Dane

  ‘What does that mean, exactly?”

  Our gazes lock. Although his is unwavering, I fight the urge to look away again. “It means I like you, Cher. Does it have to mean anything more than that?”

  He doesn’t love me. He likes me.

  Do you realize no guy has ever said that to me before? They always jump from “you’re interesting” or “you’re fun” to “I fucking love you, Cher. Marry me, baby.” The men I date have no damn chill. Including the ones not looking for a Missus soon fall into the trap of pledging their hearts to me, assuming I’ve strung them along enough. (Some of them fall faster than others, though. The longest I worked a guy to get him to love me was about four months. Most only take half that time of constant dates.) But like? A guy realizing that we might have something, but it’s not going to happen overnight… that’s as rare as a potential mother-in-law fawning over me. I have no idea how to react. Like. Love. Those two are so fundamentally different, yet one has the power to transform into the other. Like blossoming into love is a tale as old as time. Love into like? That’s a death knell. Once you hit love, there’s no going back. Watching men bend over to hit that like their gas pedals hit sixty in three seconds means I know their real infatuations are being misconstrued as love. That’s when I leave. That’s when I pack it in and get the hell out while I still can.

  Like. Drew Benton likes me. That’s like saying, “Let’s take this slow, hon.” Our sex life may be anything but slow, but emotions have the chance to catch up if we let them.

  “Do you mean that?” I ask. “You like me?”

  “Is that so hard to believe? I like you enough that I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I value the fun we have together. I’m not gonna give you credit for changing my life or anything, but I admit that since I’ve met you, I’ve had a good, hard think about what kind of man I want to be. Maybe we won’t be talking to each other six months from now, but I think there’s potential here for us to not regret a thing.”

  “What in the world do you like about me?” Whispers claim my voice. Is it because I need to swallow more? To wet my tongue? To lick my lips? “I’m not likeable. Even I know that.” I’m that bitch. That harpy. That siren who steals your husband to get into his pocketbook. I don’t have real friends for a reason. My own family doesn’t like me. I’m charming until I’ve got what I need from you. In my ideal world, I float through life with only myself to rely on. Only me to be my own friend. “You must be crazy.”

  Why is Drew laughing? Is this so funny? “You’re hilarious, for one. Even when you’re being a cynical bitch, I can’t help but laugh. I appreciate that viewpoint of the world. Also, uh… you’ve got a great body?”

  I roll my eyes. I should have guessed.

  When my vision settles on his face again, I witness a curious, analytical look that has me holding my arms to my chest, fingers tapping against my chin as I anticipate his final advance. “What?” I ask. “You need something, Benton?”

  “Yes, Lieberman.” He lowers his face toward mine, although he doesn’t go for the kill quite yet. “I need to kiss you. If you’ll let me.”

  Of course he’s put that ball in my court! Drew insists on being an infuriating bastard like that. One that I can’t help but lean in to kiss, because damn my body, and damn my heart.

  I didn’t realize I had one until my lips meet his tonight.

  Chapter 23

  CHER

  Gone are the urges to do nothing but throw each other down on the bed and slam bodies like jackhammers. Although my skin is on fire to touch, caress, and be stimulated in return, I’m not thinking about the hottest sex. I don’t care that Drew is packing a dick made for me. Nor do I consider how good he feels when we’re on the same diabolical wavelength. Our whole so-called relationship has been nothing but rough and passionate sex. Now it might simply be passionate.

  Slow, but passionate.

  I haven’t willingly made love to someone in so long that I barely remember what it’s like. Oh, I’ve done the whole slow and methodical sex thing with my exes. Because that’s what they wanted. Me… well, you know what I’m like. I want to slip into an effortless fantasy full of hard fucking and a slight sentiment of danger. I want bruises on my hips from where my man has held me down to do the dirtiest of deeds. I want hickies on my throat and cum all over and all up in me. I want to be so sore in the morning that I forget how to walk, let alone in flats or heels. That’s what I fantasize about. Big, hungry dick and impossible positions that make me feel both possessed and utterly possessive. Slow lovemaking? Things called lovemaking? That’s reserved for people who are earning my heart. You have to be one special bastard for me to take my time kissing your lips while you slowly undress me and get between my legs.

  I don’t know how I’ve fallen so easily for this. Drew said the right words, that’s all. I’m emotionally vulnerable. I’m probably ovulating. Some women get mad PMS. I get my most emotional when my ovaries are craving some fertilization. This is the time of the month when I watch Hallmark movies and dive into romance novels that are more than wall-to-wall kinky sex. (Yes, I own a whole two of those books.) So is it really a surprise that a man like Drew could turn on the romantic charm and cajole me into bed for lovemaking?

  Honestly, saying the word makes me want to shudder.

  We don’t say a single word as we make our way into Drew’s bedroom and start the undressing. He pulls my T-shirt over my head, mouth diving for my throat while my hands fight for a place to go. I should feel self-conscious in nothing but a pair of unflattering leggings and an old sports bra that takes much more effort than usual to get off. Yet Drew’s attentive motions keep lulling me into a false sense of security. I sway in his arms, ready to fall onto the bed at any moment. Even when he takes off his shirt and tosses it on top of mine, all I can think about is turning off the lights and exploring his body. It’s no longer about getting hard, getting wet, or getting off all night. It’s about indulging my stupid heart as it navigates these unknown and treacherous waters.

  Would it be too boring to describe such simple sex? While I’m not the one to gab to my girlfriends about raucous cowgirling or leg shaking doggying, I do feel that I should have something interesting to say about the sex I’m having. Yet it’s so simple, isn’t it? Drew takes off the rest of my clothes. He slides between my legs, kissing every inch of my skin that stretches from forehead to shoulders. The intentional hicky he leaves on my neck isn’t the side effect of giving into forbidden pleasures. It’s his way of marking me as his for at least one night. Every time I look in the mirror for the next few days, I’ll see that unflattering mark. Then I’ll smile to see it, remembering this tender moment when Drew Benton slipped his tongue into my mouth and his cock into my body.

  There’s never any hurry to get off between us. Never has been. Definitely not tonight, as he takes his slow time to undulate against me. Sometimes he lies still, the only sensations of sex existing in the hardness inside of me. I accommodate him as easily as ever, yet without the constant thrusting and groaning, I have more time to appreciate the softer moments that occur between two people having sex. The way he caresses my breast before wrapping his lips around my nipple will haunt my memory for at least a few years. That sweet demeanor I see every time I open my eyes almost makes me feel like a kid again. Back in those days when people didn’t seem to play so many games with each other. You took people for how they presented themselves. That girl in second grade was awful to you, but at least you knew it from the moment you met her. It wasn’t until later you realized that manipulation and machinations make up a bulk of the human experience. Everything was tainted after that. Cynicism settled in.

  Don’t I know what it’s like.

  Allowing myself to be raw in front of anyone is deceptively freeing. I almost fall for it. This idea that there is one person out there I can bare myself to, heart and soul. Maybe there are people out there suited for that. Me? I don’t know.

  Maybe I don’t want to know
.

  “You are so gorgeous.” Drew distracts me from my worries to tell me something that almost means nothing. This man has called me all sorts of things in the bedroom. We easily go from “damn, you’re beautiful,” to “who’s a big ol’ nasty slut, huh?” I call him hot. That’s about it. Oh, and bastard. Asshole. Total shithead. But it’s not that kind of night, is it?

  My hands curl around his shoulders. I urge him to continue his slow and deep thrusts before I regret what we’re doing. Yet he’s too focused on my face, looking me in the cloudy eyes as I fight to regain any clarity in my brain. “You like stating the obvious, huh?” I ask, my husky voice absolutely unintentional. I’ll take it if it means he starts going again.

  “Sorry. I can’t stop looking at this mesmerizing face of yours.”

  I encase his cheeks, bringing him down for a kiss. Drew resists me.

  “You don’t understand,” he says. “You look like an angel every time you’re into it.”

  “You’re trying to tell me that you’d rather talk about my O face than keep fucking me?”

  “I can take a little break. Why, can’t you?”

  “Maybe taking a break means I lose all concentration.”

  “I’d love to see what you look like when you’re really concentrating.”

  “There are ways to facilitate that, you know.”

  We figure out the best way in another five seconds. I may have been beneath him a moment before, but now I’m top, my legs easily spreading across his pelvis as my own drops into his lap. Drew pierces me right in my core. The ache for him remains, long after he’s filled me like he always does. It’s not enough, though. Neither is bracing my hands against his sturdy chest or letting my hair fall between us. Drew draws his hands up from my hips and down my arms, hands momentarily encasing mine before raising them back up to stroke my face.

  No more words, all right? I don’t want to say anything. He better not say anything. I’m conflicted enough as it is, since I barely know how to have sex without the fury of need and desire fueling my every motion. All I want to do is finish this. I don’t care how it feels. I only know that, to enjoy it a little, I need to throw my whole consciousness into it. I’ve gotta ride this man until the saddle gives out and I land with my face up to the grand, blue sky.

  There’s only one way to go. I don’t know which way that is. Does it matter? Let fate take the reins and drag my horse wherever it needs to go. I’d rather follow the current of this moment than get bogged down in the fears that constantly plague my heart. Yeah. My heart. That stupid thing I had completely forgotten about until today. Who knew that thing could still feel shit? Not me. I’ve been too busy bringing feeling back to the rest of my body. Stimulating my brain and my clit. I hear they’re related.

  Drew can do whatever he wants, as long as he doesn’t speak. Grab my tits, hold my hips, or throw his hands down to his sides and maul the sheets. I don’t want to look at his handsomeness or whatever, either. I want to… be.

  I want to float on the breeze coming through his opened window. I want to remember what it’s like to not give a shit about inconsequential – or consequential – things. Let’s not consider what it means for a man to say he likes me. Let alone a man like Drew Benton. Even without his job, or the circumstances through which we met, there’s the fact that he’s his father’s son. He’s a Benton. He’s good looking, charming, and knows how to trick you into thinking he’s an everyday guy. Even when there’s no pretense with him, there’s a ton of pretense. He’ll always have that family history and experience backing everything he says or does in your presence.

  I’m not supposed to be thinking about that. I’m supposed to flying through the air, thinking of nothing but how good this feels. Right here. This moment.

  Do I come? Does he come? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter now, does it? Our lot in life is to lie next to one another, our chests gently rising and falling as our breaths sync. Drew folds his hands behind his head and considers the ceiling. I slowly close my eyes and try to remember what had me so angry earlier. It couldn’t have been so bad if I ended up in bed with him again.

  “Hey…” Drew breaks the silence, although he doesn’t break the unspoken vow between us to no longer touch. We’re both on our respective sides of his bed, never minding our nudity or thinking about going to the bathroom. Not yet. I’m too weirded out by what’s happened to get to that. “Why not be my girlfriend? Why not make it official?”

  I don’t turn my head. Such a question doesn’t deserve so much attention from me. “Come again?” I mutter.

  “I guess it’s a nice way to say we should make this exclusive. Not that I think you’re running around with a bunch of other guys. I mean, I haven’t been with…”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  He takes in an audibly deep breath. “Are you trying to say you don’t feel like there’s something more between us than sex? I mean, if that’s all there is, would it be so bad if we explored a possibility of more? At least then we’d know.”

  I want to say, “You mean you’ll know.” I don’t. That’s asking for an argument, and I don’t have the energy. “I don’t think it’s that deep between us. We have sex. That’s it.”

  “Things don’t really have to change,” he argues. “We meet up when we feel like it…”

  “No. That’s not how it would work.” I sit up. “A casual thing is meeting up when we feel like it. Calling each other something more than a fuck buddy is trying to meet up whenever we can.” That’s the distinction I must drive into his head. “There’s pressure. I don’t want pressure.”

  “What pressure? You’re not feeling pressured right now, are you?”

  “I’m not talking about that kind of pressure…” If he conflates what I said for failing to secure consent, then I don’t know what to tell him. Here’s hoping it was the sex that addled his poor, dumb brain.

  “What are you talking about, then? Do you really not care that I like you? Does this truly mean nothing to you?”

  Who is this man and where did he come from? Why the fuck is he asking me these stupid questions? You know, I keep thinking stuff like that, yet all I really get out of this is… fatigue. I flop back down onto the bed, tears forming in the corners of my eyes. Not to cry, no. I’m not upset enough over nothing to cry. The water in my eyes is more about frustration. Why do I have to be dealing with this right now? Drew isn’t someone who should be on my radar. I shouldn’t be considering his prospect that we meet up every weekend to giggle over drinks and swing in hammocks by the sea. If I agree to be his girlfriend, this ends. No more hooking up. No more playing fun little games to see who can outdo who. I can ask the man paid to ruin me to go ahead and fuck me like the town bitch everyone despises. I can’t ask my boyfriend that. He’ll want more of what we did tonight. Even if he gets so horny he can’t help from pounding me like a drum, he’ll always be holding something back. I’ll have to meet his insufferable family. We’ll start showing up in the society pages. Jason, my blasted ex, will make Drew’s life hell. Every ex of mine will come up to Drew and ask him what the hell he’s doing throwing his precious life away on me.

  You see, I know how this goes. And I’m not sure I have the energy – or the fortitude – to play that long con with Drew Benton, no matter how much I like hanging out with him or how much money he’s got in his bank account. He can give up his business today and start doing something much more respectable tomorrow, and it would only be another sign that he’s changing… because of me.

  That’s when it goes south. That’s when I start planning my escape. Things will change. I will change. He’s already changing.

  Fuck me.

  I get up and grab my clothes. It takes me a while to find my T-shirt, since I forgot it disappeared underneath his. Funny. What a lovely example of where we’re heading. A metaphor for how we have sex when it’s most convenient. Him. Smothering me.

  “Cher.” Drew is up in his bed, one arm tentati
vely reaching toward me. The man is naked and waiting for me to come to him. Yet here I am, getting dressed, putting up my shields of plain, inconsiderate fabric. “Talk to me. I don’t mean to put pressure on you. It was something I was thinking about.” He flings back against his headboard. “Damn me for mentioning it.”

  “I shouldn’t have come here.” That’s what I say as I pull my shirt over my stomach. My hair is a mess, but I need to get out of here. There’s no time to stand in front of his mirror and primp. I’ll be taking a Lyft home, anyway. I don’t need to look nice for a Lyft driver, who will probably smell the sex on me.

  “Don’t say that,” Drew says. “I wanted you to come so I could explain myself. Why do you think I drove all the way down here from Seattle?”

  “I didn’t ask you to.”

  Drew snaps his mouth closed. He’s utterly silent as I finish getting dressed, grab my bag, and head out.

  He doesn’t follow me. He doesn’t text me as I head to the lobby of his building and ignore the concierge in favor of hailing a Lyft. The way the guy looks at me insinuates he knows why I was there. To get laid. Probably with Drew, a hot guy with a lot of money and one of the more expensive apartments overlooking the Willamette.

  It’s not like I want Drew to follow me, to blow up my phone, or otherwise intrude upon my life tonight. His silence speaks the volumes he couldn’t upstairs.

  I get in the back of a white Subaru. My driver makes very little small talk as he takes the fastest route to Northwest Portland. The only sound I hear is the hum of the jazz station and the gentle rumbles of the car on the road.

  And my heart. It thunders in my head.

  Chapter 24

  DREW

  What do you do when the girl you like runs out after making love?

  I was hoping you could tell me, because I’m honestly at my wit’s end here.