Tamed (18 page)

Thanks a lot, God. Way to cut me a fucking break.

I weave between pedestrians—trying my best not to get an eye gouged out by the flurry of umbrellas along the way. When I catch up to Dee, I grab her arm, spin her around, and yell, “Would you stop running! I told you not to freak out!”

She motions back toward my building and shouts, “How am I supposed to not freak out when you’ve got a naked girl in your apartment?”

“Because I’m not up there with her! I’m down here—probably contracting pneumonia—chasing the fuck after you!”

“Why?”

And it’s then that I realize I’ve asked Dee to trust me—to believe that I’m different from the assholes of her past—without really giving her a reason to. Any guy can show a girl a good time—thoughtful presents, fun dates—but that doesn’t mean he’s honest. He could just be putting up a convincing front. Shielding an ulterior motive or a player persona.

To prove you’re not hiding anything, sometimes you have to empty your pockets, open your bag, submit to a pat down. Even if it’s uncomfortable or embarrassing. Trust has to be earned . . . sometimes by stripping yourself bare.

“We dated for two years in college. I wanted to marry her—and I thought she wanted the same thing. But she didn’t. She was cheating on me the whole time with an older, richer guy, and I was too fucking blind to see it. She dumped me when he got her pregnant. She broke my fucking heart . . . and . . . and now, I’m so glad she did. Because if not . . . I never would have met you.”

Delores looks surprised. Then sympathetic—but lingering doubt is there too.

“She’s so beautiful.”

I gaze at Dee’s wet, matted hair, her mascara-smeared face, her blue tinged-from-the-cold lips. Then I shake my head.

“Not to me.”

She takes in my words, and after a moment gives me a small smile. I hold out my hand. “Can we please go back inside now?”

She takes it. “Okay.”

We walk quickly back to my building. As we get close, I see Rosaline step out of the lobby door—wearing dark sunglasses despite the weather, an impeccably belted trench coat, with her hair pulled back into a low, neat knot. Her driver holds an umbrella over her head as she walks to the open door of the limo. I don’t bother to watch her drive away—I’m just relieved that she does.

Back in my apartment, Dee wraps her arms around herself, but that doesn’t stop her teeth from chattering. We strip out of our wet, cold clothes, and I fill the double-wide Jacuzzi with water, just short of scalding. Although few things are better than a splashing, slippery screw in a bathtub, that’s not what this is about. I’m not going to get all corny and say I just want to “hold” her—I want much more than that.

Just . . . not right now.

I relax against the back of the tub, my arms on the edges, with Dee’s head resting on my chest, her body laid out beside me, turned toward mine. I close my eyes, enjoying the feel of the hot water as it loosens my muscles and warms our skin. The mirror-fogged room is quiet, peaceful—both of us content just to be.

Until Dee whispers, “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

I open my eyes, tilt my head so I can see her face. “You ask the weirdest questions.”

I see her smile. She explains, “Good deeds are easy to talk about. But bad things tell you more.”

I inhale a gulp of steam and do a mental rundown of all my transgressions. Then I confess. “I . . . cheated . . . on every girlfriend I ever had, in high school and college . . . before Rosaline. And the few times I got caught, I made them feel like it was their fault.”

There’s no judgment in Delores’s expression. No horror or revulsion. Just curiosity. “Why did you do that?”

Why do guys cheat? It’s an age-old question with varied answers. The simplest is—because they’re guys. But that doesn’t tell the whole story.

Some guys get bored. Tapping the same ass—even if it looks like Kate Upton’s—can get old. For others, it’s a game. The thrill of getting away with something they shouldn’t, the excitement of possibly getting caught. A final few are just cowards. They don’t have the balls to admit to a girl who loves them that they don’t feel the same way. They think they’re shielding her from hurt by letting her believe their commitment means more than it actually does.

“Because I was young and stupid. Selfish. Because I wanted them enough to bang them, but not enough to stop banging other women. Because I didn’t know how fucking awful and humiliating it felt to be lied to like that.

“Karma’s a righteous bitch, though. After Rosaline . . . then I knew. And I swore I’d never make someone else feel like that again.”

In a messed-up way, Rosaline did me a favor—taught me a much-needed lesson. Made me a better man. For the women who came after her.

For Delores.

I touch my finger to Dee’s chin and bring her eyes to mine. “I would
never
do that to you. You know that, right?”

Please, God . . . please let her believe.

She searches my eyes, trying to read me—then she gives me a crooked smile. “Yes, I know that.” She lays her head back down against me. “But, I’ll still need a reminder once in awhile.”

“What about you?” I wonder. “What skeletons are in your closet?”

She doesn’t answer right away. When she does speak, her voice is hushed. “I had an abortion when I was sixteen years old. He was my first—good-looking, cocky, came from the better end of town. He said he loved me and . . . I believed him.”

She watches her hand move under the water, creating a ripple effect. “And, I know I’m supposed to have this . . . regret . . . about it. Guilt. But I don’t. It was the right decision at the time.”

“Still,” she continues, “every now and then, I’ll think to myself—I could have a kid right now. He or she would be about nine years old. And I’m not . . . sad . . . exactly, but I wonder what my life would be like, if things had been different.”

She looks up into my eyes. “Do you think I’m awful?”

“Not even a little.” I pull her closer against me and kiss the top of her head.

Her tone is less weighted when she comments a moment later, “I mean, wouldn’t that be crazy? Me—raising a little boy or girl?”

“Do you want kids?” I ask. “Ever?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know—I’m not sure I’d be any good at it. My mom wasn’t exactly the finest example. I don’t think she was ready to be a mother. I was an accident; Billy was a charity case. She loved us and tried really hard, but nothing was ever . . .
stable . . . when I was growing up, you know what I mean? She was always changing jobs, trying to reinvent herself, looking for love in all the wrong places. She’s more of a friend than a parent. I’m afraid her inconsistency could be hereditary.”

Even though this conversation has gotten way more serious than I ever would have predicted, I can’t stop myself from picturing Dee as a mom. Cruising the city streets in her heels and halter tops, with an infant strapped to her chest in one of those baby-backpack contraptions.

And in my imaginings, the infant is the perfect blend of us: Dee’s strawberry blond locks, my hazel eyes.

“I think you’d be a great mom.”

Warm appreciation melts in her eyes and radiates from her smile. “Really?”

“Really.”

Delores reminds me a lot of Alexandra, actually. Fierce—fervent in her affection. A giver of tight hugs and plentiful kisses. That’s the makings of the best kind of mom.

There’s no more talk after that. We stay in the tub until the water turns cold, enjoying the comfortable silence—together.

Some women won’t appreciate hearing this, but I’m going to say it anyway: You don’t need love to have great sex. The most fantastic sexual experiences of my life didn’t involve emotions at all. They involved women I was pretty indifferent to, actually. I didn’t know them well enough to like them or dislike them. For some, I didn’t even know their names.

But I knew they were hot—I wanted them, was attracted to them, on a purely physical level.

Lust is easy. Clear. Exhilarating.

Love is messy. Confusing. Sometimes scary.

Lust is powerful. Primal. Driving.

Love is dubious. Transitory. It can fuck with your head.

I realize this opinion isn’t absolutely exclusive to men—but statistically speaking, guys are much more likely to get satisfaction from a random, emotionless sexual experience than women are.

Google it, if you don’t believe me.

Most women crave feelings with intercourse—they might not even be able to get off without it.

But Delores Warren isn’t most women. She screwed my brains out the first time we went out. Without knowing me well enough to feel anything, except lust. And it was awesome. For both of us. In fact, she seemed to have preferred it that way.

Like I said . . . lust is easy.

But the night after Rosaline invaded my apartment, something changes. Shifts.

Transforms.

I don’t just want Dee to come hard, I want to please her. I want her to feel happy, cherished—in or outside the bedroom. And I want to be the reason she feels that way.

She sighs in her sleep, and the sound awakens me. She’s on her stomach, the blanket only covering to her waist, exposing the flawless expanse of her back. I watch her face and wonder what she’s dreaming. Her features are relaxed, smooth—making her appear vulnerable and young.

Innocent.

And an ardent protectiveness fills my chest, clenching at my heart. My hand touches her first, softly trailing up her spine. Followed
by my lips. My tongue. I taste the sweet saltiness of her skin, from her backbone to her neck.

“Matthew.” She sighs. And I know she’s awake too.

She rolls over onto her back, her alert eyes finding mine in the darkness. I push the blanket away, and her thighs open for me. Welcoming me.

I move onto her, chests pressing, thighs aligning, her hips cradling. And when I kiss her lips, it’s so much more than just a kiss. Different than the others we’ve shared.

I want her to know what I feel. I want to show her—with every caress, every stroke—what she’s come to mean to me. And more than anything . . . I want to know I mean the same to her. I want to feel it from her.

I slide into her fully. Her gloriously tight wetness stretches, yields, then clutches at me as I pull back for another thrust. My mouth hovers above hers, our breaths blend, our pants mingle.

It’s fucking splendid.

She touches my face, and I kiss her chin, her cheek, her hair, her ear, showering her with my newfound feeling. Our movements are tender . . . not gentle or calm per se, but . . . meaningful.

Profound.

Her hips rise up to meet mine, fusing us deeper. I swallow the sob that falls from her lips as she comes before me. I plunge into her, unrelenting, through her orgasm, until I follow with an earth-shattering one of my own.

Her legs wrap around me, keeping me magnificently imprisoned in her embracing heat. We kiss as we come down, nibbling and biting at each other’s lips. I turn my face into her neck, resting my head against her clavicle, breathing in
her scent. Her hands skim my arms and settle on my shoulder blades.

A few minutes later, I reluctantly pull out. Dee’s arms tighten around me, so I don’t move off of her. We fall asleep in that same position—with my body serving as her heavy blanket, and hers my supple pillow.

O
ver the days and nights that follow, Delores and I literally spend every night together. She finally opens up and tells me all about her ex-boyfriends. There weren’t as many as you’re probably thinking, but the ones she had were some real winners.

There was the first prick, of course—the kid who knocked her up, then kicked her to the curb.

Douche bag number two turned out to be older than he’d first said. Like . . . ten years older. And married. With a kid.

The asshole after that—this would be during Delores’s college years—stole her bank account information, cleaned the frigging thing out, and took off for Vegas. The dickhead left her a note explaining he had a rampant gambling addiction that he’d been able to keep hidden from Dee for the months they were together.

And finally—there’s the last gash. The motherfucker who hit her.