CHAPTER 31

I pull my hand, which suddenly feels very clammy, out of his and play dumb. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Eduardo’s great, the kind of man every woman dreams of finding and spending the rest of her life with. I can’t imagine a more perfect husband.”

“I see. So, the perfect husband in your mind is one who shows more interest in his work than you, who doesn’t want to get to know the people you’re close to, who leaves you alone and/or ignores you for long stretches of time, and who can’t be bothered to show up and support you at a family event that’s really important to you?”

“You’re judging Eduardo on a few isolated incidents—”

“Isolated?” He snort laughs. “What I just described has been your life since you started dating Eduardo, and if you think it’s going to change or get any better after you marry him, you are kidding yourself. Eduardo’s passion is clearly his job, not you.”

“Not true!” I retort hotly because what he said is uncomfortably close to being spot on. “Eduardo adores me; he’s always telling me how beautiful and sexy I am.”

Zane shakes his head disparagingly. “If that’s all he’s come away with after being in an intimate relationship with you for months, then he’s even more shallow and obtuse than I thought. The man you marry should recognize and appreciate all the things that make you special—your quick mind, your snarky sense of humor, your fieriness, your unpredictability, your fierce loyalty to the people you care about, your incredible zest for life and how you try to wring every ounce of pleasure you can out of it.”

Z really does know me inside and out, but that’s because he’s been exposed to the many wonderful facets of my Izzyness for four years while Eduardo’s only had four months, so it’s not fair to compare the two. “Just because Eduardo’s not composing haikus that liken my spiritual essence to a zeppelin doesn’t mean he only values my superficial qualities.”

“A zephyr,” Z corrects me on what his poetry-writing ex, Lucy, once equated his essence to. “It’s a gentle breeze.”

“Whatever,” I say irritably. “The point is that Eduardo is a man of action, not words. He doesn’t have to wax rhapsodic about me to show he cares.”

“If Eduardo’s behavior is the best indicator of his feelings for you, then you shouldn’t even be dating him much less marrying him. The way he acted at your engagment photo shoot—”

I groan with frustration. “Not this again! Why are you so hung up on that day? You’ve had a hate on for Eduardo ever since it happened.”

“Because it pissed me off!” Zane exclaims with unusual vehemence, then clamps his mouth shut and clenches his jaw as if he’s trying to keep more harsh words from escaping. He drops his head and sighs before continuing, “When you announced your engagement to Eduardo after knowing him for just a few months, I was shocked because it was so out of character for you, but then I thought, ‘Izzy must really love this guy to be willing to make a serious commitment like this,’ and naturally, I assumed he felt the same way about you. That illusion was shattered when I saw the two of you at that photo shoot and it was painfully clear that Eduardo doesn’t love you, and you sure as hell don’t love him. On a day when all the newly engaged couples I’ve ever worked with have been totally wrapped up in each other and radiating happiness, you and your husband-to-be were just going through the motions. Is that really how you want to spend the next forty or fifty years of your life? Pasting a smile on your face and pretending your relationship with Eduardo is something it’s not?”

It’s my turn to expel a beleaguered breath.

“Has it ever occurred to you that not everyone wants the same things out of a relationship, or marriage, that you do? You’re one of those touchy-feely romantics who wants to connect with a partner on some deep, spiritual level, but that emotional bond isn’t something that’s a must-have for me. I’m pragmatic. When I met Eduardo, what I saw wasn’t a potential soul mate, it was an opportunity and I would have been a fool not to take advantage of it.”

There; I was honest with him, which felt good. Having to fake that Eduardo and I were some kind of love match all these months just so Zane wouldn’t think less of me has been a lot of work. The truth is out now, so let the chips (or Cheetos) fall where they may.

Z gazes at me thoughtfully for a moment, then declares, “I get it. You lost the career that validated you and made you feel like you were worth something, along with your only source of income, and you were scared. Eduardo was the first lifeboat that passed by, so you grabbed on to him and held on for dear life, thinking he was your only hope of a financially stable future.”

Aw, crap. He’s being all sweet and understanding. That’s almost worse than him telling me I should be ashamed of myself for marrying for money instead of love. Why does he have to be so darn nice? He believes in me more than I believe in myself, he’s always there for me (I’m sure he had better things to do than hang out at a kid’s birthday party last Saturday and I didn’t even pay him for taking those pictures!), and he thinks I’m awesome—flaws and all. This realization makes me wonder why I’ve been giving the cold shoulder to decent, kindhearted guys like Zane all these years. Maybe I thought they weren’t exciting enough, or they’d want more than I was willing to give. Bad boys and narcissistic alpha males were just easier, I guess. And now I’m marrying one of the latter because . . .

“Eduardo is a good provider, and he’s incredibly generous. I haven’t wanted for anything since we got together.” Well, except for his time and attention, but who cares, right? If that old saying is to be believed, familiarity just breeds contempt.

“You know who else is a good provider?” Zane asks. “Kenneth Lyndon, Sybil’s husband,” he answers the question without giving me a chance to respond. “He bought her a big estate in a gated community in Bal Harbour, a garage full of luxury cars, and so much priceless jewelry she has to keep all the pieces locked in a vault that can only be opened with a retinal scan. He even bought her an art gallery so that she’d have something productive to do with her time. What he doesn’t give her is companionship. He’s away on business trips half the year and Sybil said she barely sees him when he is in town and when she does, he’s always preoccupied with matters he considers to be more important than her. She’s desperately lonely and starved for affection, which is why she’s always looking to other men to fill that void for her.”

“She needs a shrink, or better yet, a divorce. Why stay with a man who treats you so badly?”

When Zane raises an eyebrow, I exclaim, “It’s not the same for Eduardo and me! He would never lose interest in me the way Sybil’s husband has with her. I know how to keep a man happy and coming back for more.”

Okay, so I did have to ambush Eduardo at his office and dress like a Frederick’s of Hollywood model in order to get some action today and even then I wasn’t able to close the deal, but that was an anomaly . . . or was it? I have been feeling like an afterthought in his life for a while now.

“Of course, you do,” Zane reaches out and takes my hands again, “but it’s tough to compete with the demands of a multimillion-dollar business and I just don’t want to see you end up like Sybil. Despite all the stuff she has, her life is empty because she’s not being fulfilled emotionally, and it’s incredibly sad.”

It’s hard for me to work up any sympathy for the woman when she probably wipes with 24-karat gold toilet paper, but that’s okay because Zane seems to have enough compassion for the both of us. He’s worried about Sybil, he’s worried about me, and he’s being very intense about it, which is strangely hot. Also hot, the way his right thumb is casually stroking the inside of my wrist. I’m not sure he even realizes he’s doing it, but his touch is sending a ripple of warmth up my arm, making it feel all noodly.

“Not that sad,” I say, my eyes fixed on his. “She has you, doesn’t she? You listen to all her moaning and groaning about her sexless marriage, which is probably a good outlet for her, and you geek out over art stuff together. She’s lucky to have a caring and supportive friend like you in her life. I am, too.”

A smile plays at the corners of Zane’s mouth. “Are my ears playing tricks on me, or did you just say I was the world’s most amazing friend?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” I chastise him. “I didn’t say anything about you being amazing.”

“But you implied it with that compliment.” He grins, which seems to illuminate the gold flecks in his eyes. “And for the record, I think you’re amazing, too.” Lifting the hand that’s attached to my noodly arm, he gently presses his lips to my palm and all I can think is how I’d like to feel those lips on my mouth.

Where the hell did that come from? It has to be the heat. When the temperature rises, so does my libido. And I have been locked up in these close, non-air-conditioned quarters with Zane for several hours now. Sweaty is a really good look on him, too. He’s not drenched and stinky like a lot of men would be. Perspiration glistens on his pale skin, and his wife beater is sticking to his chest in all the right places. Also, he smells fantastic, like delicious, chocolate-y cocoa butter, which must be in whatever soap he uses. I find myself licking my lips as I watch a bead of moisture trickle down his neck, falling into the hollow at the base of his throat.

“Truth or dare?” I query in a voice that sounds much huskier than usual.

He frowns. “We’re still playing the game?”

I nod.

“Well, I think we’ve had enough truth for one evening, so give me a dare.”

My heart starts pounding in my chest, beating a rhythm that matches the words my reckless, thrill-seeking inner voice is chanting, ‘Do it! Do it! Do it!’. I should point out that this inner voice is the same one that urged me to streak across the football field at halftime during the homecoming game my senior year (which led to me being suspended), hop into a Ferrari with my ex-con boyfriend, Marco, that turned out to be stolen (I was arrested), and do the nasty with a hunky delivery guy in my co-star’s dressing room at Éxtasis y Engaño (you already know how that worked out for me—not well). So, why should I listen to this bad advice-giving beeyatch now?

Because I really want to and I may never get this chance again.

“I dare you to kiss me,” I issue the challenge boldly before I can think better of the idea. And why should I? It’ll just be one little smooch between friends. A way to scratch an increasingly persistent itch and pass some time. No big deal.

Apparently, Zane agrees with me because he doesn’t refuse or voice any reservations about what I’ve proposed. Instead he places his hand on the side of my face and pulls me toward him. He meets me halfway where his mouth captures mine in what can best be described as a searing kiss that floods my entire body with heat.

¡Madre mía! If I’d known Z could kiss like this, I would have been swapping spit with him at every possible opportunity over these past four years. While his lips move feverishly over mine and our tongues dance, his hands slide into my hair, loosening my makeshift bun so that the strands unwind and come tumbling down. Z’s fingers skim the length of my hair, down to the middle of my back, then slip beneath the silky curtain and retrace the path back up my spine. When they hit the bare skin between my shoulder blades, a jolt of desire rockets through me and I’m overwhelmed with the need to get as close to him as I can.

Without breaking contact with his mouth, I climb into his lap and wrap my long legs around his waist. Zane’s hands drop to my thighs where he pushes at the hem of my dress, making it inch upwards. Through the lightheaded-with-lust fog that’s currently blanketing my brain comes the thought that this is headed in a very naughty direction and I should probably put a stop to it now while I still can. But then I wouldn’t get to see Zane naked or know what it feels like to have him moving inside me and that would be tragic. It’ll just be a one-time hook-up, and having sex won’t change things between us because our friendship is totally solid and ¡Ay, Dios mío! He’s doing that thumb-stroking move again, except this time it’s on the inside of my thigh not very far from my—

I moan and claw at the front of his wife beater, indicating that I’d like him to remove it, but that’s not really do-able unless we unsuction our mouths, and neither one of us seems to be keen on that idea. He shows more willpower than I do a few seconds later when he grabs me by the shoulders and forcibly pulls himself back, leaving me panting for air and my lips throbbing from all the kissing, sucking, and nibbling. Looking equally turned on and ready for what comes next, Zane raises his hands above his head, silently inviting me to undress him and I am more than happy to oblige. Once his chest is bare, I trail my fingers from his collarbone down to his belly, marveling at how lean and chiseled he is. I’m eager to explore every inch of his well-defined body with my hands and mouth, but first . . .

He’s stripped down to the waist, so it’s only fair that I return the favor and show him what he’s about to have the pleasure of possessing. Taking his hands, I guide them to the bottom of my slip dress, which he’s already shoved up to just below my booty. I raise myself up on my knees so that he can hike the dress up over my hips, then I lift my arms and wait for him to pull the dress off. He does it slowly, his knuckles grazing my curves along the way, and it’s absolute torture. I’m tempted to tell him to just rip the damn thing in half so that we can get on with this, but I know I shouldn’t rush it. This is only going to happen once (see my previous pledge), so it behooves me to savor every second of our encounter, especially since it’s been four years in the making.

Soon enough I’m sitting in front of him (well, technically, on top of him) in nothing but a peach-colored lace thong and the expression on his face is a potent mix of awe and desire, which is both gratifying and empowering. Digging my fingers into his thick, gorgeous hair, I swoop in to claim his lips in a bone-melting kiss which somehow manages to surpass the hotness of our first liplock. While his hands are busy getting to know the girls, I reach down to unbutton and unzip his shorts and since I’m already in the area, I can’t resist copping a feel. I need to know what I’m working with, don’t I? I’m happy to report that what Zane’s packing exceeds all of my expectations and now I’m even more excited about the end result of all this foreplay. My hand lingers so that I can get better acquainted with my new friend, and my touch makes Z groan deep in the back of his throat. Knowing that I can elicit such a strong reaction from him is an incredible thrill. I rub him the right way a few more times for fun (mine, as well as his), but stop when he starts lowering me back onto the rug.

He lays me down gently, being sure to shove my empty beer bottle and iPhone out of the way first. I cling to his tensed up biceps, loving how big and bulge-y they feel as he supports the majority of his body weight on his arms so that he doesn’t crush me beneath him. At a time when most men would be so consumed with the need to get their rocks off that they wouldn’t think twice about their partner’s comfort, Z once again shows what a standup guy he is. He really is the best, and I suspect that that accolade will apply to his skills as a lover, too. When his warm, perspiration-slicked chest presses against mine, I revel in the sensation of the flesh-on-flesh contact. Our bodies seem to be the perfect combination of similarity (long legs tangling seamlessly together) and delicious disparity (my shapely hips and voluptuous breasts providing an excellent cushion for his sinewy torso). When he lifts his head and stares down at me, I murmur a protest because I’ve already become addicted to his taste and all the wonderful things he can do with his tongue.

With an affectionate smile, he runs his thumb over my kiss-swollen lower lip, then drops his dark head so that he can scatter a series of teasing, feather-light kisses down my throat. He keeps right on going until he reaches my breasts where he takes the tip of the right one in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the hardened nipple while kneading the left with just the right amount of pressure. (If he ever gets tired of being a photographer, he could easily get a job at Solana’s bakery with this technique.)

Moaning my appreciation of all the attention he’s giving the twins, I lightly scrape my fingernails down his back until I reach the waistband of his shorts. Why is he still wearing these? They need to come off now. I do my best to shove them and his underwear down, but my arms aren’t long enough to complete the task. I do manage to partially expose some firm, nicely rounded butt cheeks, though, so I grab two handfuls and start squeezing. Mmmmm . . . I’ve always loved a man with a good ass and I bet I could bounce a quarter off this one. I wonder if Zane does squats. I’ll have to ask him la—

I squeal and buck my hips, losing my train of thought when his hand finds its way inside my thong and, well, use your imagination as to what he’s doing with his fingers because that’s all you’re getting from me, pervs. Sometimes a girl needs her privacy . . .