“Look, I’ve probably got a shit-ton of girls still back at my place. I really don’t feel like playing the player tonight.”
“I don’t care what you feel like. I don’t feel like having you—”
He lies on my bed.
“—lie on my bed and—”
He takes off his shoes, wearing no socks; his feet are sexy.
“—and putting your feet on my—”
He puts his feet up and jerks off his sweater, and he’s suddenly bare-chested and I struggle to talk.
“—on my, on my… No! Don’t get under the covers!”
He gets under the covers, barefoot, bare-chested, in his jeans. And then he smirks and shoves one muscled arm under the sheets, and then I see him toss his jeans into the corner.
I grab a pillow and sigh, dropping onto the other side of the bed.
“Get under,” he says, no-nonsense.
“Wait, what?”
“Get under the sheets. You’ll have a warm bed tonight, Regina.”
I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out.
Cuddling and a warm bed…friends do that, too, right?
I swallow, head to my bathroom, close the door, brush my teeth, and look at my face in the mirror. I still have my makeup on, but not as perfectly as I’d like. I find myself retouching, my hands trembling and I don’t know why. I certainly don’t plan to sleep with him. Ever.
He had his chance.
We had our chance.
We’re friends now.
I head out and jerk off my dress, slip into a T-shirt, feeling him watch me as I remove my bra from under my shirt. I toss it aside and climb onto the bed. It squeaks as I lift the covers and slide in.
He opens his arm, smiling a harmless smile, but the look in his eyes… God, that’s as harmless as the look of a demon. Even when I see all sorts of things lurking there—darkly in his gaze—I am tempted to trust him. Trust that despite his male reactions to me, he’s more determined to be friends.
But I don’t want to be haunted by what it feels like to lie in those arms with veined muscles popping out, so I shake my head. “Don’t get touchy-touchy on me, alright? I like my space.”
“Your space?” He chuckles and smirks. “I happen to be in your space, Regina. I thought you liked cuddling and warm beds?”
“Beds warmed by lovers, not by guy friends. By the way, I’m really glad we’re friends,” I admit as I get settled under the blanket but make sure our bodies don’t touch. I get a glimpse of black tight boxers and long male legs and instantly jerk my gaze away when I feel a pinch between my legs.
He laughs quietly, almost incredulously.
I lift my head, frowning, all the warm, fuzzy feelings I was feeling toward him gone. “What? We’re not?” I accuse.
“I’m zipping it.” He zips his mouth with a fingertip.
“No. Really. You don’t want to be friends with me? So that I don’t call and interrupt your fun times?”
“Regina. I’m glad we’re friends.”
I feel myself frown, but relax a little because his smile is all over his face, even in his eyes, and it has this effect on me. “I owe you one.”
He grabs the remote from my nightstand. “Don’t worry, I’ll collect.”
“You’ve only been in my apartment for an hour and you’re already taking over both my TVs.” I scowl.
I plump my pillow and make certain there are enough inches separating us, head to toe.
“Just stay on that side of the bed.”
TRENCH COAT
He spooned me.
I’m at work the next day, organizing the makeup drawers, remembering the pitch black of my bedroom when we lay there falling asleep.
Him shifting in bed. His eyes finding mine in the dark. His hand splaying over my stomach. Pulling me closer. My back flattening against the front of his body.
Neither of us said a word about it the next morning as we had coffee and pancakes. He didn’t even kiss my cheek when he left for work; he was late to some meeting and in a rush to go. He just lifted two fingers in a peace sign and shut the door behind him.
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.