Chapter Nine

Teala

My heart is hammering in my chest. This is a normal occurrence. I’ve had many hot men in my apartment over the years. The problem is I called my mom on the way to my house and she heard it in my voice. The excitement, the nerves, the anxiety. Leave it to a mother to alert you to the fact that you should be more nervous than you actually are. Macs is gazing out of the window, looking down at the traffic and people walking the streets. I’m on the eighth floor and my view is awesome. It’s why I purchased this apartment.

The exterior of my building still has the original swooping curves and gray gargoyles. There’s a panel of glass that spans across my whole living room. Off to the right you can see the bay in the distance and to the left are the exquisite, bustling city views I’ve come to crave. I like to know I’m surrounded by people even if I’m mostly alone. My hand shakes as I measure a shot of bourbon into a lowball.

“On ice?” I ask, looking at him over my shoulder. My kitchen is open to the living area.

“Neat,” he replies, spinning to make eye contact at the sound of my voice.

I shiver. I nod and hold out the glass for him, and set it on the concrete counter. While the exterior is beautiful and original, the inside of my unit is modern and sleek. Cool tones with matte metal finishing touches, only punctuated by the colorful artwork I have dripping on every available wall. I stare down at the twenty-two cents on the counter and smile.

Stalking forward, he slides the glass toward his chest and then picks it up. “Thank you,” he says. “You have quite the place here, Tay-la.” He takes a sip and closes his eyes. “This is good. Real good.”

Watching his lips starts an erotic movie reel in my mind. I close my own eyes, but for a different reason.

“I’ve been here forever. I love it. The views are perfect,” I reply, turning quickly to the bar to make myself a drink.

The liquor bottles are lined neatly on a metal cart. I choose vodka and then excuse myself to change out of my workout clothing. Hesitantly, he agrees to let me leave the room. Because I’m sick in the head, I pray he follows me. He’ll walk in when I’m naked and he’ll take me right then and there. I don’t have to prove anything to anyone. My friends would never know the difference and even if they did, I can more than afford my own way to Vegas.

I toss on a black maxi dress with a racer back. It shows off my shoulders and back muscles. If anyone can appreciate those, it’s him. As I walk past my low, black dresser, I swipe my chapstick and glide it on. I pick up my vodka from the coaster and join Macs next to the window. I don’t keep curtains or shades on my windows. I like the possibility of someone seeing me naked. Or fucking. Or just watching me when I least suspect it. Life is too boring.

Macs’ scent permeates my living space. It’s terrific. Man musk, deodorant, and whatever cologne he wears. He coughs on a sip of his drink and cranes his neck when he hears me padding up behind him.

“Trying to sneak up on me?”

“Even I know I can’t sneak up on a SEAL.”

The smile drops from his face. What did I say? I’ve mentally noted not to bring up his profession again. That must be an issue for him.

“Unless you want me to sneak up on you?” I add on.

Eyeing me over the rim of his glass, he throws it back to finish in a large swallow. He makes a show of putting his empty glass down on the table next to the couch. “I like your dress,” he says, when he turns his attention back to me. With his hand still cool from the glass he traces my bare shoulders with two fingers. “It shows how hard you work.”

Exactly as I thought. “Thank you. It’s sort of in my job description. You’re a pretty hard worker yourself,” I reply, placing my hand on his bicep.

Macs watches my hand on his arm.

“So, is this the part where you kiss the ever-loving shit out of me?” I ask, drinking the rest of my cocktail and setting my own glass next to his.

He’s wearing a clean shirt, so I’ve surmised he must have changed in the car. He still has the goddamn workout shorts on. I bet a woman designed them. They’re the kind that show a hard-on from six miles away. Macs has one. A big one. Kissing isn’t going to help that problem. Well, him kissing me on the lips isn’t going to fix that problem. Me kissing him somewhere else would fix it quite easily.

Quirking one brow, he runs a hand through his hair. “I could. Are you going to be a good host and show me the rest of your place first?”

Ah, hidden agendas. Yes.

I nod. “Well, you’ve seen my living room and kitchen.” I wave my arm to the large room we’re standing in.

He follows me down a hallway next to the kitchen.

“This is my spare room.” I open the door to a teal and white fluffy wonderland. They’re my mom’s favorite colors. She stays here sometimes, so I decorated the room with her in mind.

Macs bites his lip, uninterested in anything except his main goal. “And your room?”

“For the record, I don’t think you’re supposed to be seeing my bedroom this early in the dating process.” I close the door behind me and show him the guest bathroom. It’s solid white, including the hand soap bottle, but for the large artwork above the toilet.

“Also for the record, if we aren’t fucking in your bedroom, I don’t think it matters what room I’m seeing.” He nods at the artwork. “Sloths?” he asks with a smile.

I laugh as the uncomfortable sensation takes over my stomach. No one understands my obsession. Charlotte got me this picture last Christmas. It’s probably my favorite.

“You did say they were your favorites,” he amends, remembering one of our first conversations.

“Listen. Do something for me. Look at it,” I command.

He does, a small smile appearing on his lips.

“See? You can’t help but smile when you see a sloth. It’s like a happy pill. There’s something about the fur, the lumbering limbs, and sleepy faces. Nothing about them makes you upset.” Some people have Zen. I have sloths and a yoga studio.

I tug him out of the room, but not before I see his smile stretch a little further. Sloths. Gets them every time. “And this is my bedroom.” It’s black and gold. Like, shockingly black and gold. “I’m a sucker for a good theme,” I explain. The dark bed frame matches my black duvet and the furry pillows perfectly. “Before you ask, no, I’m not a vampire.” I tug the corner of my lip while I wait for his appraisal.

Spinning toward me, he quirks a brow. “Do you sparkle?” It’s an innocent, funny question, but it doesn’t match the feral look in his eyes as he goes back to surveying my bed. “I could make you sparkle,” he says, without looking at me.

“I’ve never been propositioned with that before,” I reply.

Macs prowls around my room, touching the surface of my dresser and the tall poster of my bed as he makes his way toward the window that looks out into the office building across the street. I trace the outline of my thumbnail with my ring finger. My nerves are at an all time high, watching him in my space. He takes up so much room.

“Great views in here too,” I say, nervously. I do have black and gold striped heavy drapes that cover this window. They’re open now, the soft glow of the city night flooding my bedroom, casting busy shadows on the black wooden floorboards.

He turns, leaning his back on the thick glass as he does. He slides his hands into the pockets of his shorts, and he visibly adjusts his dick from one side to the other. “I’d have to agree about that view,” he says, gaze zeroed in on me.

He lifts his shoulders off the glass and leans back on it again, as if he’s testing it for durability. It’s durable. A man once railed me so hard against it I was afraid it would break. The building orgasm was so intense, I didn’t even stop him. Death by orgasm. It describes everything that’s wrong with my life in one sexual escapade.

With one shaking hand, I grab the poster of my bed. “It’s sort of grandiose and stunning.”

He grins. I bite my cheek.

“People would kill for the view.”

“Yeah?” he asks. “But everyone isn’t granted that opportunity, are they? To kill for something they want?”

He’s a tease in the best kind of way. I’m so wet he could go swimming in my vagina and get lost in the current. His muscles flex and bunch as he talks and he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. He’s so cocky. He’s an asshole. A mean guy. The definition of sex encapsulated in a package so divine I can’t control myself while he’s in my proximity. No woman can. That’s why he is the way he is. Women are to blame for this. And I still want him.

“They aren’t granted opportunity. It’s an exclusive building,” I reply. I can keep this charade up as long as he can. It’s distracting me from the fact a perfectly comfortable bed resides mere feet away from this man’s body.

Leaning up, he tucks his chin to his chest. He crosses to me in two large steps. “The thing with me is I’m privy to all exclusive things. People don’t tell me no. Ever.”

“Women don’t tell you no, you mean?” I amend his obvious untrue statement.

He shakes his head, puts his forefinger under my chin, and lifts my head to look up at him. “Sweetheart, you won’t tell me no. I can have you any which way I want.”

He could. I lose my breath looking at his face. The darkness enhances his perfect features. Shadows cut across the planes of his masculine physique.

“You couldn’t.” I hear my own lie. So does he.

He grins. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I reply, tone breathy.

He leans down. His breath is warm and it makes me delirious with lust. I’m about to combust. I can’t take it anymore. My body calls out to his. Goosebumps rise on my skin the second a shiver racks my body. My nipples are tiny peaks of excitement. They’re straining against the fabric of my dress. I’m asking to be fucked tonight and I’m surprised he hasn’t called me on it yet. He’s not a gentleman. Grabbing the back of his neck, I bring my mouth up to meet with his. I catch a glimpse of his fucking smirk a second before I kiss the ever-loving shit out him. He pulls my body to him so I can finally feel the steel hard erection against my stomach.

It’s heaven. It’s hell. His kiss is poison and pleasure wrapped into one. I know it’s a mistake and I want to make it. I want every single inch of this mistake. His tongue snakes in my mouth as he tilts my head back by a quick tug of my hair. The rough gesture makes me moan out. I don’t like a man taking control of my body by using another body part. It takes away from the moment. Usually. Nothing is usual or normal about Macs and his lips and this kiss.

You know the rush of adrenaline that comes when you’re doing something scary or new, or something you merely know damn well is wrong? It’s whirring in my bones so profusely that my head is swimming. He’s picked me up, the black stretchy cotton high on my hips, and my legs are wrapped around his waist. It only takes a few moments before he’s walking me back to the fucking window. The fucking window. That’s what I’ll call it. He’s holding me up using one arm. The other one is busy fondling my breast. I arch my back, because more than anything I want his mouth sucking on my nipple while his cock dives deep inside my body. Warmness of his large hands melts through the fabric and sends tingles spreading throughout my belly and neck.

More. More. It’s the solitary word traveling through my mind. If I weren’t wearing a thong, I’d be sliding him inside me. Macs halts his lips on my mouth and travels down to my neck. I hear him groan as he drives his hard cock into me, wishing we weren’t wearing any clothing. He’s wild. Out of control, only wanting one thing. He wants to take.

I want to give. He raises my weight with ease and yanks my dress down so one breast breaks free.

“Fucking perfect,” he mutters.

He looks at it for a second or two, just breathing heavily, almost like he’s forgotten that body part is attached to a live human, and then he takes my nipple between his teeth. I grind myself against him while the coolness of the window presses against my back. I hear the traffic below us, a honk of a car horn punctuated by the wet laps of his lips sliding around on my skin.

I’m almost there. My thighs tingle and the ball of pleasure is right at the cusp of spiraling out of control. I’m about to have a dry fucking orgasm. I’ve never been this worked up without penetration or oral sex before in my life. I know it’s this insane crackling chemistry between us. He feels it too. I sense it in every harried, frenzied touch. Every time his lips glide over mine, in every sound or begged plea of release. What does it mean? I don’t ponder long because his lips are back on my mouth, teeth clashing, moans synching in a ballad of ecstasy. My core clenches one final time before I cry out, eyes closed, orgasm tilting the room sideways, my arms wrapped around his chiseled neck tightly. I inhale the scent of the perfect male specimen, while I come apart in the cradle of his arms.

Macs places his lips right below my ear. He doesn’t kiss. He merely leaves them there, letting the wetness and his presence in the moment be known. “I can do whatever I want to you, can’t I?” he asks. His words ricochet to my core.

Breathing heavy, I wait to come down from the high, but it’s not happening. Not while his dick is pressing against me. Not with his sweaty skin so close and his words laced with so much promise for more.

“Can’t I?” he says again. “I wanted to hear you come. I wanted to see you come. I wanted to kiss you until you came. I do what I want.” Macs keeps his lips against my neck as he speaks.

“Yes. You can do whatever the fuck you want as long as you give me orgasms like that.”

His throaty chuckle rumbles against my chest. “You aren’t filtered when you’re satisfied. Noted.”

I shiver against his words. “You’re not filtered when you have blue balls, are you?”

He lets me slide down his body, sinfully, slowly, his hooded eyes concentrating on my face. My eyelids flutter closed as the rippling wall of his muscles slides against my body. I watch his face. He doesn’t respond, but I can see he wants to say something. His mouth is already open as he pants out long, drawn out breaths of longing.

“I don’t know,” he whispers. “I’ve never had blue balls before.” He smiles.

It’s all teeth and seduction. In the same breath, he drops me and backs away, his hands balled in fists by his sides. When he reaches my bed, he bends over and places his palms flat on the mattress and lowers his head.

“Kissing’s over?” I ask. I’ve nearly caught my breath, but everything else is on fire. “I can help you with the problem, you know. There’s no need to be scared.” I giggle. It sounds so petulant given the type of man in my bedroom, but I can’t do anything to stop it. He causes me to giggle, and I think I hate that fact. I can’t be sure.

My stomach flips when he turns his focus back to me.

“I have twenty-two cents riding on this. I can’t be sure, but I think what you did against that window probably doesn’t count as just kissing. I know for a fact you helping my aching stomach and balls is off-limits. Second date, remember? I want to fuck you. No amount of time with your mouth spent on my cock is going to fix the problem,” he says. He runs the palm of his hand down his erection and cringes a little. “Fucking you is the only thing that will put this thing to bed. Do you understand?”

“You’re underestimating my blow jobs, Macs. Just saying,” I reply, pushing my lips to one side. He is well and truly underestimating me. “Three minutes tops.”

His eyes widen as he interlocks his hands over his head, and I can’t help but look at his shorts and the huge hard cock that lies just below the surface. I want to drown in his naked body like come in a bukkake porno. My heart races along in anticipation even though the words coming out of his mouth make perfect sense. My friends don’t matter right now. Neither does Vegas or the bet, or even my goddamn self-worth.

“I want you,” I say.

I step toward his direction, but he moves away briskly. It’s like a game of cat and mouse. His grin transforms into a laugh as he walks backward out of my room and into the living area. I follow him.

“You may have escaped my dungeon, but you’ll be back.” They always want back. Even men like Macs.

“That’s a promise,” he says.

I lick my lips. “Another drink then?”

He’s already shaking his head before the full question leaves my lips.

“Water? An ice pack? Something for the pain?”

He flops down on the white linen sofa. I try not to make a face. It’s not really a sofa for sitting. More for admiring. It took me several weeks to locate the throw that’s perfectly draping over the left arm. I saw it on Pinterest and located it using reverse image searches and a lot of phone calls to random home décor stores. Macs leans down and puts his head on it.

I sit on the opposite end, the one where there aren’t any expensive, clean blankets and drop his bare feet on my lap. “Okay, what next then?” I ask.

“Give me a few. I’m still trying to erase the image of you writhing against me while moaning from my mind.”

I bite my lip as my core clenches again. Tightly this time. It wants sex. Macs’ sex. “After you do the impossible, what then?”

My cell phone buzzes on the countertop. He turns his head. I’m not sure if he’s wondering if it’s his, or if the sight of my cell phone reminds him of something, but he stands up. Pacing back to the window, he looks down again. I fluff the blanket and go to stand next to him.

“I should go,” he whispers. When he looks at me, his face is changed. It’s weird having him here and not naked in my bedroom, so it’s hard for me to not agree.

I nudge him from the side. “We’re doing such a good job, though.”

He laughs. It’s a joke. We’re seconds from having sex on every surface in my house.

“I understand if you want to take off.”

He needs to get off.

He tells me he has a work trip and probably won’t see me for a while. I try, and probably fail, to hide my disappointment. I tell him I’m busy at the studio anyways. He gets nervous, turning his head as if to stretch his neck.

“Spit it out,” I prompt him.

“So we,” he says, motioning between our bodies, “we’re exclusive?” He grimaces, and it’s over exaggerated, so it clues me into a couple of things. He’s uncomfortable asking so he’s using humor, and he’s also testing the waters with regard to our fake dating deal. It seems less fake every second we’re together. There’s no way I’d tell him that.

“You’re not banging dudes?”

I raise one brow and suck in a long breath. “You’re not banging chicks?”

He turns away. My cell buzzes on the counter again. It draws his attention immediately. I know why.

“You can do whatever you want to do, Macs. I’m not your girlfriend. Or your mom. Just go.”

He smiles. It hurts my stomach. It’s what he wants to hear. “You’re my dream come true, you know that?” he exclaims.

The pain in my stomach turns solid and sinks even further. I can’t and won’t go on any dates with anyone else. Crossing my legs at the ankle, I try to squelch the desire coursing through every nerve ending. “Yeah, yeah. I get that a lot. So next date?”

Macs senses the change. He turns my face using one finger on my chin. He can’t see disappointment. I won’t let him. The shield is confidently in place.

“Third base date?” He studies my face, ostensibly looking for any sort of deceit. He won’t find it.

“You won’t leave with blue balls?” I try a joke.

He laughs, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He holds my chin in his hand, like I’m a petulant, disobedient child.

Instead of saying something meant to reassure me, he leans down and kisses me, his tongue diving in my mouth. He’s careful to keep his body away from mine. It’s just a kiss. Something I can’t say I’ve ever had. A kiss with desire and moans, one that doesn’t lead to anything else. No blow jobs, or finger banging, a meeting of mouths just because we both enjoy the way it feels. I think anyways. I can’t get a true read of him. Both of his hands are on either side of my face. He holds me reverently, gently.

He pulls away and looks at me through eyes that aren’t hiding anything for the moment. My kiss has disarmed him if only for a second or two. He’s just as intrigued by our chemistry as I am. “I’m not going to be with any other women, Tay-la,” he growls.

“Oh,” I say.

It doesn’t make any sense. Men don’t look one way and then act another. They always behave in a predictable way. Men like Macs take what they want from whoever they please.

“I don’t want to have sex with anyone else. Just to clear that up,” I explain.

“You don’t say?” He smiles.

I roll my eyes. “You’re so cocky. I should, just to spite you.”

Shaking his head, he says, “Never do anything to spite me. That would mean I care and I don’t. I’m not doing anything to ruin our science experiment. Now I’m curious as to how this will play out.” The smile fades from his face. He doesn’t like the idea of my having sex with another man. It’s something, I guess.

“I’m not a science experiment,” I deadpan.

He backs away from me, toward my large, ornate front door. “I don’t fuck experiments, babe.” He’s not fucking anything tonight. Or, according to him, he’s not. I’m not sure I believe him. “And I’m definitely fucking you. Your body is going to haunt my damn dreams,” he says, very obviously running his eyes up and down my body. A jolt of energy spikes in my system, like electricity taking the place of blood in my veins. “Not tonight. Call your friends back and tell them about the first kiss with a side of orgasm.”

I can almost feel his tongue on my neck from remembering it. I shiver. He watches. Forgetting his keys on my counter, he leans forward to grab them. I notice he glances at my phone.

Placing my hands on my hips, I say, “I’ll walk you out.”

Clutching his keys, he chuckles. “No, you won’t. Not unless you want to fuck in my backseat?” Macs tilts his head to the side in the direction of his car. When I don’t respond he says, “Thought so. Good night. I’d kiss you, but I can’t.”

My heart skips along this furious pace I’m not familiar with. I get a little light-headed. It has to be lust. I need to have sex, or engage in a long date with my vibrator. He flashes his dimples and he’s out of my door and heading down the hallway to the elevator. One of my neighbors is unlocking her door, her little barky dog in her arms. She gapes as Macs walks by, and as if I’m a second thought, she turns her huge brown eyes my way. I wave my hand and then put a finger under my chin and bring my lower jaw up to meet the top with a click of teeth. She scurries into her apartment with an embarrassed scowl on her face. I laugh but can’t tear my gaze from his retreating back.

The way you move says a lot about a person. I see it in yoga, through the poses and the fluidity of movement. I can decipher their skill level, determine things about their personalities. The way Macs moves is something else entirely. Something predatory lies in the depths of his stride. It drips with confidence and danger. He has a sway in his walk, his muscles preventing him from looking ordinary, even though he’s not even trying for extraordinary. It’s something that comes naturally to him. He doesn’t look back before he gets on the elevator.

Not even a quick backward glance in my direction. I hear my heartbeat in my ears, a cacophony reminding me I’m in dangerous territory, and feel the wetness between my legs. He doesn’t just walk like a predator. He is the goddamn king of those motherfuckers.