I call Wynn during my break.
“Why would he spoon you?” Wynn’s voice sounds dubious over the phone.
“I don’t know.”
“Go over there and bang him.”
The urge to do just that burns so fiercely inside me that I can’t think straight. No rationalizations can quell the fierce little fire burning in me now.
*
That evening when my shift is over, I put on a trench coat with nothing but a pink thong underneath. I head to his place. I’ve been here a couple of times, and the thing about Tahoe Roth is, his doormen know he’s a total player. They seem to allow all his girls free access. The uniformed man in the elevator only nods formally when you tell him you’re going to the penthouse, which requires him to slide in a special access card.
He wears a gold name tag that says Ernest.
He’s still stoic when we reach Tahoe’s floor and I thank him under my breath.
I wander inside his apartment and spot his blue and yellow Van Gogh on the fireplace mantel in his study. There’s music in the background. “Walk” by Kwabs. A total make-out song; a total everything song. I wander into the living room…and then see the two women surrounding that blond head of his. He’s standing in nothing but ripped muscles and naturally gold skin, and they’re also naked.
I catch my breath. He moves out of my vision as he urges one to lie down on the couch.
I peer over the back of the couch and he’s bent over one. His ass flexing, his body moving powerfully. “Ladies first,” he’s telling the woman as she starts to come.
I hurry back down the hall as fast as my noisy heels allow without drawing attention, and suddenly I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t even have words to describe what I saw to Wynn.
Ladies first…
Oh my god.
He’s such a…
I’ve been closed off for years, but lately feeling like I should give men another chance. Why I’m obsessed with this one is beyond my comprehension. He’s worse than Paul.
Beast. Stud. He’s hot. Irreverent. Insatiable. Incorrigible. Pure I, I, I—cause he’s selfish too, and he’ll never care for anyone more than he cares about Tahoe.
I hurry back to the elevator and press the down arrow repeatedly until it tings.
Too bad the elevator tings just when the Kwabs song ends and the room falls silent. Which means that, very likely, he heard.
I board quickly and hit the lobby button, riding with another elevator man. Richard.
I stare anxiously at the numbers as we descend, step briskly out into the massive lobby and am heading straight for the revolving doors when I hear another elevator ting—
Then, in a familiar light Texan drawl, “Regina.”
I stop in my tracks, knot my sash tighter.
“Thanks, Ernest,” I hear Tahoe say, his drawl still a little noticeable.
I turn to face him and nearly buckle when my eyes meet his puzzled blue ones.
“Hey,” I say.
His brows rise questioningly.
“I came to visit my client and totally messed up my floors,” I hastily explain as he walks over in an open white shirt, his lips raw, his eyes raw, his hair mussed, so beautiful. It hurts that he’s so out of my reach.
I turn to leave but he takes a step. “Why are you leaving then?”
“Oh, because I realized I have a message. A message she’s canceling, and I didn’t know. So.”
Realizing I’m madly waving my phone in the air like a nitwit, I tuck it into my pocket and turn away quickly.
Then he reaches out and puts his hand on the back of my trench coat, turning me a little toward him. I’m careening on my axis, my senses out of control at the unexpected touch. I don’t understand it.
He runs the back of one finger down my cheek, and the touch sparks fire.
“Did you hear me?” he asks.
His eyes glimmer dangerously with something.
“No. What did you say?”
Once again, I’m starstruck by those eyes, deep as oceans. “I asked if you want me to take you home.”
As he speaks, the words ripple through my body in delicious little waves.
His gaze lifts all of a sudden and stares intently past my forehead. “What’s with the hair?”
“I combed it.”
Two blunt fingers take my chin, hiking it up an inch as he studies me with an interested expression. “So you did. You look very nice. You should comb it more often.”
I feel that familiar stomach pain I felt when we talked at my place and he was in my bed. When he looks down at me again, I feel like he’s peeling me open. Like he’s seeing what I came here for, what I want, something I’m afraid for him to see. “I’m fine taking a cab,” I say, suddenly too eager to be in that cab right now. “I have somewhere I need to go.”
I’m desperate to leave so why am I still standing here, facing him?
I like spending time with him more than I’ve enjoyed spending time with any other guy. I wake up and crave his company.
“Thank you for offering, by the way,” I add. “You’re a great friend. Loyal.”
“So are you.”