Taryn

I didn’t find the home as creepy as the first time I’d seen it. It seemed nothing was the same when I was sober. When drunk, McDonald’s served a gourmet meal. Sober, I couldn’t choke it down if forced.

Convinced I needed to take his advice and refrain from getting drunk, I sat down on the end of the armless loveseat. “It seems less creepy in here.”

He looked around the room. “I’ve never seen it as creepy. I find it calming.”

“Grow some ovaries, start producing estrogen, and get shit-faced. I bet you’d see it differently.”

He chuckled and then sat across from me. “You’re probably right.”

“It’s just.” I glanced into the kitchen, scanned the length of the windowed wall, and then met his gaze. “It’s really minimalistic. I mean, as far as decorating goes. It’s not creepy, it’s just really tidy.”

“There are many things in life I’m incapable of changing. Therefore, I’m forced to accept them. It isn’t always easy, believe me. Your hair for instance. I liked it blonde. Now, it’s wine-colored. I must accept it, and I will. As soon as I do, you’ll no doubt change it to some other color. The things in life I cannot control used to cause me tremendous grief. A tree not centered in a yard. Vehicles parked crookedly. Placement of items in the grocery store where they clearly don’t belong. A picture hanging on a wall that’s tilted ever so slightly. Life’s clutter, if you will. When I was younger, it drove me crazy that I couldn’t fix everything. I can, however, control this.” He waved his hands toward the open room. “I keep it neat, and without clutter, because as much as I want to do that with the world, I can’t. I find this place therapeutic.”

After his explanation, the clutter free home made perfect sense. I took one last look at my surroundings, and realized just how vast the interior space of the home was.

“That makes sense. The crooked car thing drives me crazy, too.”

He smiled.

By my best estimate, he was in his mid-thirties. I wasn’t a real estate agent, but I knew enough about beachfront property to know his home had to be worth millions. I couldn’t help but wonder what he did to afford such a nice piece of real estate.

“So, what do you do?” I asked.

“That’s an open-ended question. I do a lot of things.”

He was one of those guys. I was going to have to be more specific with my questions. I crossed my legs and folded my hands into my lap. “How do you afford this place?”

“Oh. That.” He scanned the room, and then looked at me. “I was in the military. After six years of service, I decided to remain in Iraq, but work as a private contractor. It paid extremely well.”

I should have known he was in the military. His chiseled physique, mechanized manner of walking, and the weird tattoo were dead giveaways. Oceanside was filled with Marines, all of which I normally tried to avoid.

“You were a Marine?”

He tensed. His eyes burned through me for a moment, then he responded. “I was not.”

It seemed that I’d hit a nerve, so I explained my thought process. “Oh. I thought you were probably from Camp Pendleton.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” he said dryly.

I was far from disappointed. Being lied to or cheated on by another Marine wasn’t on my current to-do list. “Actually, I’m relieved.”

He studied me for a moment, and then crossed one of his ankles over the other. “Can I get you a drink?”

The last time I was drunk in his house, I screamed and ran like a teen being chased by a knife-wielding clown in a horror movie. I decided I’d go sans alcohol for the evening and see if I could coerce him into tying me to his bedposts and spanking me with something soft.

“For now, I’m going to take your advice, and refrain.”

He grinned ever so slightly. “Water?”

“No, thank you.”

“Coffee?”

“Uhhm. No,” I said, my tone making clear that coffee was on the list of vile substances that didn’t pass my lips.

Sitting calmly in the center of the sectional, he looked me up one side and down the other, making no effort to hide his satisfaction as he did so. As I watched him watching me, my mind drifted to thoughts of nipple clamps, pseudo chokings, and having him tug on my hair like a boss.

I found the thought of him being a sado-macho-whatever intriguing. I had no idea what he had planned, but hoped we could discuss the intricacies of bondage, butt plugs, and studded bras that were fashioned of black leather. I had countless questions for him, most of which revolved around me having multiple orgasms as a result of his handiwork.

“Tonight, did you come to the bar to find me? Was that your intention?” he asked.

I wanted to tell him I simply stumbled upon him by accident, but I suspected he watched me the entire time. If he had, he would have known that I walked through the door and right to him.

“Yes.”

“Why did you come back?”

“To apologize.”

“After you did so, why didn’t you leave?”

“I didn’t want to.”

“You wanted to start over where we left off. Correct?”

“Yes.”

He interlaced his fingers and locked eyes with me. “Where exactly did we leave off? If you hadn’t convinced yourself that I was a mass murderer, and if the night had gone as you’d hoped, explain what would have happened?”

The tee shirt he wore clung to his wide chest and draped loosely over his flat stomach. I tried to imagine what he’d look like if it were on the floor beside him. In no time, I was uncomfortably aroused.

I decided to roll the sexual dice. “We would have had sex.”

Both his eyebrows raised ever so slightly. “That was your hope?”

My throat went tight, making a verbal response difficult. I wished I could change my response, but decided to own it.

I crossed my legs and gave a nod. “Yes.”

“I’d like to explain some things to you,” he said.

“Okay.”

“When it comes to sex, I’m fairly certain I stand alone.”

I liked that he was getting right to the crux of the matter, and not beating around the sexual bush. Certain that I was one short story away from having a ball gag in my mouth for the first time, I wiped the back of my hand against my mouth and fought not to grin like the Cheshire Cat.

Intrigued, and still recovering from my visions of him sitting shirtless, I exhaled into my cupped hands, and then met his gaze.

“You stand alone?” I asked. “How?”

“If we reach the point that we become sexual, it will immediately become clear. Until then, I’m afraid an explanation would simply complicate matters.”

Complicate matters? I wanted him to complicate matters. I decided to throw him a bone. “When it comes to sex, I’m very open-minded,” I said, my voice thick with pride. “And my sexual appetite is insatiable.”

“If I thought for one moment that you weren’t, and that it wasn’t, you wouldn’t be here.”

I’d all but forgotten his assessment of me. Hell, he knew more about me than my friends did, and we had yet to have a meaningful conversation. As I fidgeted in my seat, he cleared his throat. My attention shifted to him.

“Although I experimented when I was young,” he said. “I’ve been in only one sexual relationship as an adult. There’s a reason for it, and I’d like to explain.”

“I’d like to hear it.”

Wait. What? One?

It dawned on me what he’d said. I’d heard the word sex, and jumped at the chance to hear more. If he’d been in one relationship, I doubted he’d come close to understanding my sexual past. Knowing what questions were bound to be asked, I struggled to count the amount of men I’d slept with.

When I got to thirteen, he leaned forward and locked eyes with me.

“As far as I’m concerned, attempting to make something work with someone I’m not convinced is suitable for me is ridiculous,” he said flatly. “So, when I find someone who I believe to be a good fit, I give the relationship thirty days to develop. At the end of thirty days, I make a decision. I’ll either see potential in the person, or I won’t. If I see – or feel – nothing, there’s no value in continuing. It wouldn’t be fair to either parties. However, if at the end of thirty days there’s interest from both people, the relationship is worth continuing. As fate would have it, I’ve only found one person who showed promise.”

I found his monotone voice and calm demeanor comforting. He looked at me when he spoke to me, and although it made me nervous at first, I was now growing fond of it. It felt like I was being interrogated, but he was doing it in a manner that made me feel as if we were simply having a conversation.

I wanted to make sure I wasn’t jumping to any sexual conclusions. He hadn’t said I was suitable, but he’d sure led me to believe I was. He had my full interest, that was for sure. I simply needed to know more. I couldn’t help but wonder if my responses to his questions were going to determine my fate.

“So, you’ve only continued with one?”

He straightened his posture. “That is correct.”

“You’ve never had sex with the others?”

“Also correct. Having sex to solidify – or to start – a relationship isn’t fair to either person or to their emotions. That’s my opinion, anyway.”

I rearranged his words in my mind, trying to make sure I understood what he had said. If he gave a relationship thirty days to develop, and only had sex with one person, he would have had to abstain for the thirty-day period with anyone else he’d had any interest in.

Stefanie’s description of Kate’s experience with him began to make sense.

If I was correct, his self-restraint was remarkable. I didn’t even know him, and I was already developing respect for him and his system of beliefs. But. If I was attracted to someone, waiting thirty minutes to have sex was a stretch.

Thirty days would be nothing short of impossible.

“Wait,” I blurted. “So, if you and I…if…say we decide…”

My thoughts became jumbled in my head, and conveying them wasn’t coming easily. Sexually, I was drawn to him as soon as Stefanie told me about him. His assessment of me in the bar only made matters worse. Now that he explained ‘when it comes to sex, I stand alone’, I really wanted him.

I shook my head, hoping to clear it of my thoughts. After no such luck, I looked right at him. “You wait at least thirty days before you have sex?”

He nodded. “I do.”

“No matter what?”

He nodded again. “No matter what.”

I pressed my hands to my temples and blinked repeatedly. “That’s crazy.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Is it?”

I felt bad for labeling it as crazy. It wasn’t crazy. It was absurd. “I mean. Not crazy. Just hard to imagine.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “Does the amount of men you’ve had sex with equal the amount of relationships you’ve been in?”

I spit out a laugh laced with sarcasm.

He remained stoic.

“I’m sorry.” I chuckled. “Hold on a minute.”

I struggled to contain my laughter. The question was ridiculous. If the men I’d made the mistake of fucking had dicks that somehow turned to diamonds, I could open a jewelry store.

One that might rival Tiffany’s.

Yet. I could count my relationships on three fingers.

His thirty-day rule sounded like something I should have started in high school. If I had, I would have saved myself a lot of grief, and a tremendous amount of heartache. In no time, I felt like an indecisive tramp. I was sure it was exactly what he had hoped for.

“No.” I shook my head and tried to remain straight-faced. “The numbers are a little lopsided.”

“I’m not judging you. Believe me, that’s not what this is about,” he said. “But. Do you wish they weren’t? Lopsided, that is.”

In all honesty, I did. I liked sex more than most women, that I was sure of. However, placing my sexual prowess on a shelf like a trophy wasn’t something I cared to do. At least not after a sober examination of it.

In short, I was embarrassed. I felt small. And foolish.

“I uhhm.” I shrugged, but it did little to fix how I felt. “It’s embarrassing. I wish I could change it.”

“It’s exactly why I do this. It saves me from regret, embarrassment, and it allows me to retain something as sacred as sex as being exactly what I believe it should be. Sacred.”

“Doesn’t help me much,” I said with a laugh. “As far as my past goes.”

“It’s impossible to change your past. Changing your process, and in turn, changing your future, isn’t.”

If I didn’t know better, I would guess he was offering me a thirty-day shot at a celibate relationship. Had the offer come from anyone else at any other time, I would have laughed and walked away.

Oddly, with him, I was considering it.

“Are you suggesting that I take your thirty-day course on how not to have sex?”

“It’s not a course,” he said flatly. “And, yes. That was my desire.”

I was flattered.

My gaze fell to the hardwood floor. I was certain going thirty days without having sex with him wasn’t going to be easy. If I was required to be in his presence, it would be impossible. He was far too handsome, far too intelligent, and far too sexy for me to keep my hands to myself.

I looked up.

He interlocked his hands behind his head and inadvertently flexed his biceps.

Jesus.

Yes, it was going to be impossible.

“How did this happen?” I asked.

He flexed again. “How did what happen.”

My nether regions tingled. There was no way I could make it for a month without attacking him. I crossed my legs, but it only made things worse. I uncrossed them and then wagged my knees back and forth.

“How did you pick me?” I asked. “How did you coerce me into this conversation?”

He undressed me with his eyes, taking his own sweet time to do so. Feeling vulnerable and naked, I folded my arms across my chest. It did nothing to comfort me. I crossed my legs.

Still nothing.

The eye-fucking continued.

Two can play this game, you sexy prick.

I tossed my hair and shot him a sultry look.

The corners of his mouth curled up.

I remembered I was sober, and wondered if it looked to him like I had gas. I licked my lips just to make sure he knew what I was thinking.

He cocked his head and continued to fuck me with his concrete-colored eyes. An unfamiliar tingling ran through me, and then I felt flush. I wondered at what point I would spontaneously combust.

“I picked you because you interest me,” he said, breaking the sexual tension between us. “Very few do, if that matters to you.”

“It does.” I didn’t sound very convincing. I cleared my throat and raised my voice a few octaves. “I’m flattered.”

“To clarify. You came here without coercion. Twice. This conversation, entirely, has been driven by you, Taryn.”

He was right. Or, at least he’d convinced me he was. I needed to know why he found interest in me, though.

“You said I interest you. What about me?”

“Your beauty.” He turned his palms up. “The beauty one sees satisfies the eyes. The beauty incapable of being seen satisfies the soul. You satisfy my eyes. Only time will tell if you satisfy my soul.”

Jesus. I wanted to stand up and slow clap. Instead, I took his previous advice. I stood and made an attempt to change my future.

“Thirty days?” I asked.

He nodded.

“We’ll see each other? Do things together? Hang out? Just not have sex?”

He stood. “That is correct.”

“And what is it? This thing? We’re just hanging out?”

“We’re in a relationship,” he said with a distinct certainty.

A relationship without sex was like Christmas without presents, a Bloody Mary without a celery stick, or a car without tires. It seemed counterproductive.

“But no sex?” I asked.

“Look at it this way. We’re in a relationship. No differently than if we’d met, had sex, and you thought you were madly in love with me. Now, exclude the sex, and leave the rest. That’s what we have. There will be no questions of how am I doing? or is everything to your liking? That simply complicates matters.”

“What do you mean?”

“If we were in a conventional relationship, you wouldn’t ask me how you were doing, would you? If the relationship was going to go the distance?”

“I suppose not.”

“It’s important that we proceed along those lines. It allows us to be as close to our natural selves as we can be. If you agree, we’ll spend thirty days together in as natural of a setting as we can create. Then, in thirty days we’ll decide if we should continue.”

The muscles in his biceps twitched. Again. He was torturing me, and it appeared he didn’t realize it. I shifted my gaze from his arms to his eyes.

I hope I don’t regret this.

I tossed my hair over my shoulder and smiled. “Where do I sign?”