by S. Ann Cole
A rush of breath explodes from her at the end of her word vomit. “Phew. Feels good to finally get that out.”
Food forgotten, I just stare at her. “Trent had a crush on me?”
“Yup. Huge. Boy had it bad.”
“This whole time…” I murmur low, more to myself than her. “And I dated his brother. Right in his face. All that time. Jesus. How does he not resent me?”
“Considering you had no idea how he felt, I think it would be childish of him if he did,” she points out. “And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s nothing even remotely ‘childish’ about that man. He’s pure alpha. A man in every sense of the word.”
“Girls used to throw themselves and at him and True,” I remind her.
“And he didn’t give them the time of day. He knew what he wanted.” She forks pasta into her mouth and talks while she chews. “And from where I’m standing, he still does. Don’t think I didn’t notice how he was with you last Saturday. I mean, damn. Boy. Held. On.”
I roll my eyes at her. “What do I even do with this information, Maggie?”
“He said he told you to ask me but he knew you wouldn’t. So he called to check.” She cocks a brow at me. “Why didn’t you ask me?”
With a miserable sigh, I gaze down at my food. “Probably because I was afraid it would be something like this. Something that would push me toward him instead of away from him.”
“Why would you want to be pushed away?”
“Because he’s Trent,” I say with dramatic emphasis. “It’s weird enough that I can’t stop thinking about doing the nasty with him. But, I mean…it’s Trent, Maggie. Trent.”
“Yeah,” she drags with a hint of sarcasm. “And Trent is more than ‘just Trent’. He’s a human being with feelings and emotions. A lot of which appears to be channeled toward you and only you. Instead of sexually objectifying him or looking him over as ‘just Trent’, why don’t you try to get in there and see him. Stop blocking him out and grasping for bullshit reasons, because if he’s still the same person I knew back then and his feelings are still the same, then I guarantee you there’s no other man out there who will worship you like that man will. Trust me.”
I feel overwhelmed. Brimmed and confused. I’m both famished and repleted at the same time. I don’t know what to do, say, or feel, so I set my food aside and walk out of the house without a word.
I march right back to the guesthouse where it’s buzzing with noise and activity, and I throw myself into work.
No thinking. No feeling. Just working.
I’ve always been better at ignoring the inevitable anyway.
~
It’s not until the text message comes through that I realize I’ve been waiting for it all day.
Trent: Pick you up in two hours.
An involuntary smile tugs at my lips as I read it, and the fluttering sigh that flows from me is pathetic. He had told me last week that he would come for me this weekend, though I hadn’t known at the time just what that meant.
When Friday coasted in on the rising sun yesterday, I both anticipated and dreaded hearing from him. Then when I didn’t, I was both relieved and disappointed all at once.
“Is that Trent?” Maggie asks from the kitchen. She’s stirring powdered iced tea in a glass.
I bite my lip and nod. “How do you know?”
She points the spoon at me in a circular motion, droplets of liquid plopping on the counter. “That goofy ass smile you got when you picked up the phone. Deny it all you want, but you’re so into him.”
“Mind your own business, bitch,” I tell her and she laughs.
Me: Where are we going?
Trent: Out
Me: Tell me where, so I know how to dress.
Trent: Doesn’t matter. Never seen you look anything less than hot as fuck, so do you.
Me: Flattering. But still not helpful.
Trent: Burlap
Ugh. So damn frustrating.
“Going out?” Maggie asks when I jump up from the couch and dart for the stairs.
“Yup. But you can’t come this time, sorry.”
She guffaws at me. “Well, of course not.”
~
I want sex tonight, so I dress for it.
It’s been a while for me. A while. And, shocker of all shockers, Trenton Garza is the one I want to break that dry spell with.
In a short, flirty, mauve dress that shows far too much skin and accentuates my boobs with a deep cleavage cut, I’m damn near begging for it. Easy access.
Trent arrives exactly two hours later. He comes to collect me from the apartment this time, and even opens the car door for me. So chivalrous all of a sudden.
His face is shadowed with the ghost of a beard tonight, but I like it. He would wet panties if he ever grew a full beard. Although he always looks and smells amazing, tonight everything feels heightened, amplified. Probably because I’m noticing now, paying attention to what I didn’t before.
“What’s in the bag?” he asks of the small duffel I dump onto the back seat.
“Overnight stuff.” Isn’t it obvious? “I’m sleeping at your place tonight.”
“Says who?”
This asshole. I’m convinced he exists to drive me mad. I don’t answer. Makes no sense wasting time arguing over something that is going to happen.
As he drives out, I ask, “So, where are we going?”
“Dinner and comedy.”
“Comedy?” I ask on a choked laugh. “You? Trent Garza doesn’t ‘laugh’.”
“I laugh if I find something funny. Which is how laughter works, right?”
“So, basically you find no one funny, then.”
“You used to make me laugh,” he says.
“You used to laugh at me, not with me,” I remind him. “Like when I walked into the sliding door because Monica had just cleaned it and it looked like it was open. Or when I failed my driving test before I even left the parking lot. Or when you and True tricked me with a fake foam cake covered in real icing.”
“See? I find something hilarious, I laugh.” And then he laughs.
“You’re a jerk,” I mumble.
“And you’re fucking gorgeous.”
Dinner and comedy are at an underground speakeasy on someone’s mansion property.
We enter through a vaulted door, and it’s one of the classiest speakeasies I’ve ever been to. Red, velveted booth seats, mini chandeliers twinkling from the ceiling, crystal glassware, dim lighting, and an all-male staff serving in tuxedos.
Small, intimate, cozy.
It’s perfect.
As we’re shown to one of the plush booths with Trent’s hand at the small of my back, I glance around and notice that almost all of the patrons are coupled up. The only solo customers I see are two older men by the bar, one seated on a stool on one end, and the other standing slouched on the opposite end.
Once we’re settled in and given menus, I lean in and ask Trent, “So, I’m noticing it’s all lovers here. Is this where married men bring their mistresses?”
“Maybe,” he says, his eyes all over my face. “It’s owned by a friend. Open twice a week and is meant for couples only. Membership only.”
“Hmm. You have a membership to a couples speakeasy,” I muse. “I’m guessing this is where you bring all your women to seduce them? Wine and dine. You must be popular around here.”
His lip twitches. “This is the second time I’ve been here. The first time was for an important meeting with the owner, Tor, and myself. Business related. After a job well done, he gave us free memberships.”
“Oh,” I say quietly, though not ashamed of my assumptions.
Leaning in, he presses the pad of his thumb to my chin and drags it slightly so my lower lip separates from the upper. “That was almost two years ago, and I’ve never used my membership until now because I was waiting to bring you here.” He drops his hand. “In fact, I’ve never taken anyone on a date anywhere. I’ve been waiting on you, Le
xi.”
I don’t believe him. “What about that night in Vegas, at Bar 9. You—”
“Met her for a quick drink and a hook up. Except that once I saw you, it was over before it could start. Had a drink with her out of courtesy then sent her home. And I’ve thought of nothing but you since.”
It’s pathetic how hard my heart is pounding right now.
“We—” My words snag on a hitch. I clear my throat. “But we are not a couple.”
“We’re something.”
I hold his gaze as he holds mine, and tentatively, I agree, “We’re something.”
The server interrupts us with fresh garlic bread, butter, cubed cheese, and water, then asks what we would like to order. The menu is strictly fine dining, but the only thing I’m really hungry for right now is sex, so I close my menu and tell Trent, “Order for me.”
One eyebrow kicks up at this, as though the request took him by surprise. Nonetheless, he obliges. Soup Du Jour for appetizer, and for the main, Grilled Rack of Lamb for himself and Pan Seared Citrus Scallops for me.
I’m a seafood junkie and he knows it.
“Anything to drink?” the tuxedoed server asks.
“Gin and tonic for her, an IPA for me.”
After the server leaves, I look him over for several lingering beats, as if seeing him for the first time, then, softly, I say, “I’m sorry.”
He’d been taking a sip of water but pauses to slide me a glance. “For?”
“Torin,” I clarify. “I didn’t know…”
His gaze flicks away, and he resumes taking a sip of water, and then another before setting the glass down and bringing his attention back to me. “And if you’d known?”
“I…” My shoulders lift then fall jerkily. “I don’t know.”
“That’s why it’s not worth talking about.” His tone is dismissive, with a mild hint of irritation. “The truth about Maggie and me was meant to assuage whatever ‘girl code’ guilt you might’ve been feeling. Nothing else.”
“But I—”
“Lexi, you and Tor dated, it happened, I don’t give a fuck,” he cuts me off. “I knew it wasn’t gonna last. Knew you’d be mine no matter how long it took. So no, none of that other shit matters.”
He knew it wasn’t going to last? That I would be his? How presumptuous. How utterly arrogant. “But I’m not yours, though,” I point out.
His gaze singes with steely determination as he repeats, “No matter how long it takes.”
I don’t have a comeback, because the conviction in that promise is palpable. If I believe nothing else he’s ever said, I believe this.
Our drinks arrive.
Then our appetizers.
Later, our main course.
There are live solo performances from soft, soothing piano melodies to chill saxophone solos.
After our dishes from the main course are cleared, the comedian takes the stage. Since I’ve never heard of him before, I settle in with low expectations.
But I shouldn’t have underestimated him. He has me in stitches within the first five minutes, and we aren’t even aloud to laugh above low snickers. He, unbelievably quietly, leads the audience through forty-five minutes of stifled hilarity.
Trent’s lips twitched once or twice, but that’s about it. By the end of the show, I’ve somehow ended up pressed tightly to his side in the booth, his arm around me in a manner of claim and possession. And the reality of it all almost leaves me pulseless. I’m on a date with Trenton Garza.
A date.
It all feels so insane. Unreal.
As the audience softly applauds the comedian, I ask, “Who thought it was a good idea to have stand-up at a speakeasy with rules?”
He smiles down at me. “Yet you’ve clearly enjoyed it.”
“Yeah, but I couldn’t laugh as hard as I wanted to,” I say. “Laughter should never, ever be stifled.”
“Hmm.” He sweeps his thumb across the tip of my nose. “You want dessert?”
With a shake of my head, I press my hand to my stomach. “I’ve already eaten too much.” And sex on a full stomach is never fun.
He signals for the check.
“Thank you for bringing me here tonight.” I rest a hand on his thigh and begin drifting it upward. “It’s…different.”
He grabs my hand just before it reaches his crotch. “Unless you wanna get fucked in a bathroom stall, stop,” he growls low. “I don’t have the kinda control you think I do.”
“Liar,” I hiss back. “You wanted to fuck me last week. I felt it. You held back.”
“I—”
“Here you go, sir.” The waiter interrupts us with the check and Trent slides in his credit card and picks up the complimentary mints, handing me one.
With a narrowed glare, I take it from him, unwrap it and pop it in my mouth. I swear to God if he doesn’t give me what I want tonight I’m going to remind him why he nicknamed me Hellcat.
“Stop pouting,” he chides. So smug. So amused. “It only makes me want you more.”
In that case, I pout harder, and he breaks into a chuckle.
And oh, what a magnificent sight it is when he laughs.
We stay for one last performance before we leave. It’s the nicest, most elegant date I’ve ever been on—not that I’ve been on many—and I can’t believe how much I enjoy being with Trent in this way. Usually when I was around him, I’d watch with one eye to see what kind of asshole shit he was going to do to me.
But this…being with him not as “the boy I grew up with,” but as a man who I’m wholly attracted to in every sense of the word…it’s so different. So new. More preferable.
“So, back to Pasadena…” he drawls as we’re driving off the property.
I flip the visor down and check my make-up in the mirror. “Do you like your balls, Trent?”
“Very much, Hellcat,” he replies, amusement in his voice.
“Then quit fucking with me.”
“Now I’m confused. I thought that’s what you wanted me to do.”
“I swear to God…” I mutter under my breath, and again, he laughs at me.
Asshole.
Like he did the last time, he controls the stereo from the steering wheel, skipping through songs until he finds the one he wants, then ups the volume until Let Me by Zayn whispers all over my skin in seductive waves.
I melt into a puddle.
Chapter NINETEEN
“I’m already starting to question my sanity.”
Lexi
By the time we get to the house, I’m thoroughly seduced by his music selections. Like it’s some kind of foreplay. But if he thinks he’s going to get me all riled up then deny me, he’s got another thing coming.
Inside the house, I stop to take my shoes off and he walks by me, not offering to help this time. Hm.
He pauses by the kitchen and looks over at me. “Can I get you—”
“No.”
“How do you—”
“No,” I repeat with added emphasis as I struggle to undo the stupid straps on my stilettos. “I’m not thirsty, or hungry, or sleepy. I don’t want anything. You don’t need to get me anything.”
“No? Nothing?” he asks with an arched brow. “Oh, okay then.”
Son of a bitch.
He disappears upstairs, leaving me to fight with these damn shoes on my own. Why did I think stilettos with six straps to unbuckle was a good idea for tonight? I want to punch them in the face for cock-blocking me.
Once I’ve at last rid myself of them, I make my way upstairs. All the lights are off, but the soft glow of blue running lights along the floors of the hall lights it up like an airport runaway. Whoa. Hadn’t seen that the first time I was here. Pretty cool.
I brake and try to remember which of the rooms was the master, but then a faint yellow glow spills from under the only door on the right, as if a lamp has been switched on. Can he sense me hunting him?
I rush to it and barge in, like a hunter about to attack its pre
y, but as soon as I cross the threshold I’m pulled to the side and caged against the wall. Caught in his trap. He’d been waiting for me, the bastard.
He’s shirtless and barefooted and his eyes are on fire.
I glare up at him, nipples tight and aching. “Why do you—”
His lips seal to mine, and I’m so ready for it this time that I throw everything I am into kissing him back, with every pulse in my veins. My blood is like lava under my skin, blazing hot and roiling with desperate, urgent need for him, to feel him all over me, on me.
I scrape my nails down his chest, meeting every lave of his tongue with the same energy.
When he lifts me up, my legs involuntarily lock around him and my hips undulate, needing friction.
“Ohhh…” I whisper in a scratchy rasp when he drags his mouth from mine and down my neck, licking and biting and kissing.
He pins me in place with his hips so his hands are free to slide down the shoulders of my dress until my breasts are on display for him. He’s dexterous, gentle and rough at the same time, sending thrills of desire through me with each ministration.
“I want…” I gasp in shameless desperation, “I want you so bad.”
Taking me from the wall, he carries me over to the bed, setting me down.
He gazes down at me with searing intensity, his palms gliding down my thighs. “My Hellcat,” he hisses in a tone that borders on reverence and frustration. It feels almost like he’s angry with me and himself at the same time. There’s a war raging within him, and I can’t let the part of him that doesn’t want this to win.
I thrust my hips up, pelvis tilted, and he slides his hand under my dress, right to my center, dragging two fingers along the material soaked with my arousal.
A zap of pleasure sprints through me and I close my eyes with an audible sigh.
“Can I taste you, Alexa?” he asks scratchily, using my given name, and I want to scream profanities at him because, what the fuck. Of course I want him to fucking taste me. Why else would I be here offering myself up in a restless ball of gasps and moans?
