Moore To Love

by Faith Andrews

  Lane’s friend takes a little longer than expected, but I use it to my advantage by washing up and slipping into something super sexy.

  Leni Moore has never done lingerie, but after the swimsuit shock heard ’round the world—okay, heard ’round some of Miami—I found my inner sex goddess. And dayum do I like her. She’s a feisty thing I wish I had met a long time ago.

  Putting on the finishing touches of my get-up, I adjust the lace trimmed thigh highs and smooth my hands over the silky nylon. What I see in the mirror surprises me. Not because the image is a teensy bit slimmer than before, or because I’m wearing something straight out of a Hips and Curves magazine. No, what I see is a girl—a woman—who after years of body image issues has finally come to terms with her curves. Don’t get me wrong, Lane’s affections are responsible in part, but with all the pep-talking and ego-boosting, oh, and let’s not forget the Joel Osteen messages, I actually don’t hate what I see. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. I’m digging it. Junk in the trunk and all.

  “Hello?” Lane’s singsong entrance into the apartment startles me out of my mirror miracle.

  I dip my hands into my bra to plump the girls one more time—as if any part of me needs further plumping—and position myself on the bed. Again, I’ve never done this before. The sexy seductress act. But I have my eye on the prize and with the boost of confidence inspired by Lane’s promise, I look and feel every bit the part.

  “In here, babe.” I realize how cliché it sounds, so I giggle. All humor, however, is erased from the moment when Lane enters the bedroom.

  “Wow.” His words match his stupefied expression. Call it what you may, but putting that look on any man’s face is damn near spectacular. Hashtag: winning!

  Enjoying the angst filled silence, I curl my finger in invitation for Lane to join me.

  In one fell swoop, my dashing stallion kicks off his shoes, peels off his socks, and practically nosedives onto the bed. His body hovers over mine as he takes me in. All of me. I should feel vulnerable under his gaze—he’s perfect and I’m far from it—but I don’t. I feel worshiped. That glorious insight sends a rush of shivers over my exposed body.

  “Gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous.” His words are lyrics to an unsung song I’ve always wished to hear. I savor his appreciation of my body, committing this moment to memory.

  Lane’s kisses pepper my neck; his hot tongue licks my collarbone and teases my skin. I anchor my fingers in his hair, thrust my hips against his, and moan out his name, “Oh, Lane.”

  Instead of inciting him to push further, he stops. My skin misses his lips as soon as they’re gone. “What’s the matter?”

  Lane rolls off of me and rests his head on the pillow beside mine.

  The room is silent save for my panting, and I’m pretty sure the butterflies in my belly have become ravenous beasts, ready to gnaw away at my anxiousness.

  “Old boyfriend?” he asks, catching me off guard. I don’t register the meaning of his question right away.

  Then it hits me that he’s curious about Hudson. I shimmy closer to him, turning on my side. With one hand propped under my head, I rest the other on his chest. There is no reason under the sun that Hudson’s name should come up in the throes of passion with Lane, but honesty is the best policy, so I’ll let him have it so we can get back to the main event. “No, because I don’t have any old boyfriends. Unless you consider that one from college, who really was never my boyfriend.”

  Lane closes his eyes and keeps them shut for a long beat. When he opens them, he stares straight up at my popcorn ceiling. “Then, what was all that tension down there?”

  Chocolate fudge! Seriously? I felt zero tension. Maybe a tiny wave of awkwardness, but that’s all she wrote on that. “There’s nothing to worry about, Lane. I promise.”

  Lane says nothing, but disbelief is written all over his face. That alone sinks my battleship.

  I’m not sure why this is an issue. There’s really nothing to tell; no lies to weave. And let’s remember . . . these are seriously foreign waters for me. I’ve never been in a real relationship, let alone had to defend myself against a jealous boyfriend, a one-night stand, or any kind of man for that matter. I don’t know what’s going on of late, but I don’t think I’m in Kansas anymore and . . . Auntie Em, I wanna go home!

  I pull him closer and try to make eye contact. “He’s no one, Lane. We hooked up once a while back and that’s all you need to know.” I blurt it out, ripping off the Band-Aid. Maybe I sound a tad frustrated, but that’s only because this whole Hudson thing is a non-issue. And I am most certainly frustrated. One minute we’re rounding home plate and the next I’m being called out at third.

  “How long ago?”

  I contain my eye roll and answer him honestly. “A few weeks ago. Before you.” There. More truth. But it doesn’t have the effect I was hoping for.

  Wilted and motionless, Lane looks like a deflated balloon. He’s one second away from petering out in a whirl of air-leaking shrills around the room. He doesn’t, of course, but I almost wish he would do something because his quietness worries me.

  “I’m laying it all out here, Lane. I have nothing to hide. Can you please say something?”

  He shoots up into a sitting position and says the last thing I want him to say. I’ve been rejected more times than I can count. I should be used to it. But for some reason the five words that spill from Lane’s mouth rip open every old wound and pour salt all over them.

  “I think I should go.”

  “THE HELL YOU SHOULD!” I blurt it out like a woman scorned . . . and left high and dry.

  Lane is quick to ignore my outburst and he hasn’t fled yet, so that’s one point for the home team.

  I join him at the head of the bed, scooting closer but not too close. Apparently the more I throw myself at him the more he retreats. I’m beginning to think I have cooties or a bad case of BO. “Wanna tell me what’s going on?” I whisper, careful not to let my true emotions—rage, rejection, remorse—come shining through.

  “Nothing. Forget it. I’m just . . . tired.”

  Sullen much? He sounds like a middle-aged housewife making excuses not to get down and dirty. I want to reach over and shake him by his muscular shoulders because if that’s not the brush off of the century, I’m not sure what is. If anything can come of this could-be relationship with Lane, he’ll have to start peeling away those thick layers so I can get to know him for more than the cute, sweet guy who saved me from the big, bad tree.

  “Lane, you can talk to me about anything.” I look down through hooded lids, arranging the duvet so it covers my exposed nooks and crannies. Before I can tell my inner sex goddess to pour herself a nice warm glass of shut the hell up, Lane’s eyes find mine. They’re a less lively shade of green than I’m used to. “Is it me? Do I not do it for you?” I can’t figure out what has Lane so averse to slipping into the sheets with me. The only logical solution is that he doesn’t find me physically attractive. Sure, it’s easy to promise things over texts or phone calls, but it might very well be that once he actually sees me—every last curvy ounce of me—the blood doesn’t pump to the right places the way it should. At the harrowing realization, I bring my hands up to my eyes as if that can shield me from the truth.

  “Oh, no,” Lane interrupts my self-loathing before I have the chance to vocalize my thoughts. “This has nothing to do with you, Leni. I know what you’re thinking, but you didn’t do anything wrong. This is all me.”

  “How am I supposed to believe that? Every time we get close to being together, you freeze up. It’s okay if you’re not sexually attracted to me. I’ll understand.” I won’t understand. I mean, I’ll have to, but I really won’t be okay with a letdown like this. Rocky Road, I’m coming for you!

  Strong hands grasp my wrists, pulling my splayed hands from my eyes. “Look at me,” Lane orders.

  But I don’t open my eyes. I’m not ready to face this. A few minutes ago I was certain this man and I had some
thing special blooming, now all hope is lost. I know intimacy isn’t everything in a relationship but I’ve waited forever to feel wanted the way I thought Lane wanted me; the way Hudson had no issue wanting me.

  Wait!

  Hudson!

  My eyes pop open. “Does this have anything to do with him?”

  “Who?” It’s a faint whisper, as if he can toss it under the bed and leave it unnoticed.

  “Oh no, you don’t! Don’t play shy. I’m sitting next to you, practically down to my birthday suit, willing, able, panting, and almost begging. If I can do this, you can find the balls to tell me if Hudson has anything to do with why you stopped.”

  Lane blanches at my frankness, but I don’t care. I want answers, not assumptions. We all know that old saying about those pesky things . . . and I already feel very much like a big ol’ ass.

  “Of course it does, Leni.” He jumps out of the bed and starts to pace around my bedroom. “If Hudson Blackman is the kind of guy you’re used to, how am I supposed to—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back the hell up.” Without so much as a thought to how he knows Hudson’s last name when I never caught it or to how little I’m wearing, I toss the blanket off and follow Lane in his march around the perimeter of my bed. “The kind of guy I’m used to? I’m not used to any kind of guy. I told you that!”

  “You said the two of you hooked up. That means you’ve slept with him, no?”

  “Yes! Once. And if you’re looking for my entire sexual history, before my extremely inconsequential one-night-stand with Hudson, there was a guy named Tony that I was seeing for all of two seconds until he decided his fat ass was too good for my fat ass. And before Tony there was Alex from college, and that’s a story for another day of humiliation. But why does any of that matter? And how do you know Hudson’s last name? I thought you liked me. You know I like you. So, before I jump to any more ridiculous conclusions can you please tell me what the hell your major malfunction is, dude, because I simply do not comprende!” I’m out of breath and completely void of reasons why Lane is so hell bent on the Hudson thing. I haven’t been with enough guys to know how they tick, but Lane’s acting more like an insecure girl than the adorable, athletic, appealing man I met at the park.

  “You mean to tell me you didn’t know that the Hudson Blackman is trying to woo my girl?”

  The? As in, important? “What are you talking about, Lane? He’s just some random guy I met at a bar. Am I missing something?”

  He plops back onto the bed and let’s out a huffy laugh laced with contempt. “Hudson Blackman is the sole heir to his land developing tycoon grandfather, Ronald Blackman’s fortune. You really didn’t know this?”

  “Are you calling me a gold digger?” I mean, of course I didn’t know. If I had, I might have actually returned Hudson’s calls. Tycoon? Fortune? Damn! I should’ve cashed in before I sent him away with his silver spoon between his legs. But I digress, and that totally negates my rejection of Lane’s claim. “Never mind that. The better question is how do you know this?”

  “Uh, I read the newspaper.”

  “Great. So now I’m a gold digger and a dumbass. Nice, Lane. This is going oh, so well.”

  Lane shakes his head and raises his hands before him. “Would you just let me finish?” His tone is clipped.

  “First fight before the first fuck. We’re batting a thousand.” Yeah, I’m flippant, but I was promised one thing and wound up with something totally different—including a handful of bogus insults.

  “Leni.” Lane rises and begins pacing again. “I only brought it up because I really like you and the idea of dating you while one of the city’s wealthiest and most eligible bachelors is also in the running . . . I’m not into competition, and I don’t have a private jet to take you to and from our dates.”

  Okay. Now I kinda get it. Lane feels inferior to Hudson. There’s a word I’ve gotten to know on a first name basis. Any insecurity is a curse, so I can totally relate to Lane’s issue with Hudson, but he has to know I would never compare them. Even though the esteemed heir’s eligibility, his good looks, and his heaping pile of dough might sound like something to compete against—they’re not. This newfound info about the Hudson Blackman doesn’t change how I feel about Lane. I need to make him see his.

  Lane rests at the window, looking out to the busy street below. I come up behind him—keeping my distance as not to scare off the timid lamb I once thought was a rugged lion. Funny, because that alone should turn me off. But it doesn’t. It intrigues me. There are so many sides to Lane Sheffield I’ve yet to discover because I was too busy trying to get in his pants. Note to self: get more of a background on the men you sleep with before you actually set to screwing them.

  Placing my hands on the shoulders of the man who charmed my mind, body, and soul in the short amount of time I’ve known him, I urge him to face me. I should be pissed, hurt, utterly baffled, but I’m not. I’m apologetic for trying to move things faster than necessary. That whole idiom about putting the cart before the horse makes so much sense now. “I’m sorry, Lane.”

  He looks at me with wide eyes, his mouth dangling open like a guppy. “Are you seriously apologizing to me? Leni, you should be kicking me out for acting like such a pussy.”

  The irony of the situation isn’t lost on me, but rather than make this more awkward than it already is, I choose humor—it always prevails. “Yes, I’m apologizing for being hasty and not getting to know more about you before I tried to get to know him.” I point to his groin and his eyes follow my line of sight. He gives his junk a quick pat and then returns his gaze to me with a boyish grin.

  “You’re something else, you know that? I shouldn’t have reacted that way about Blackman. Who you’ve spent your time with in the past is none of my business.”

  Lane rests against the window sill and I nestle between his legs, wrapping my arms around his neck. We stare into each other’s eyes in silence. Recognizing his lack of self confidence with this whole situation, I tilt my head and pout. “How about we make a new promise to each other?”

  Lane clips my chin between two deft fingers and smiles. “What’s that, gorgeous?”

  “Well, two, okay?”

  Lane nods and waits for me to speak.

  “Number one, no more Hudson talk. Rich, poor, handsome, or homely, I don’t want him. I want you.”

  “Deal.” I’m glad he doesn’t elaborate. There’s no need to question it. I’m sure, so he should be, too.

  “Good.”

  “What’s number two?” he asks, his nerves seemingly less frayed than before.

  I’m not gonna lie; it totally pains me to say this because I want more than anything to take this relationship to the next level. But seeing firsthand that Lane has obvious insecurities, it’s time to steer things in a direction other than south of the waistline.

  “How about we forget about sex for a while and just get to know each other better?”

  Lane’s eyes light up—the dull green from earlier revived with a livelier shade of sparkling emerald. “You mean—you’re not pissed? I haven’t totally screwed this up?”

  “Oh, you didn’t screw anything. Let’s get that straight.”

  “Ha, ha, ha. You’re such a smartass.” That earns me a playful tap on my already heated cheek.

  “And proud of it. You think you can handle that?”

  “I know I can. The question is, how much longer are we talking, here?” He leans in, grazing his lips against my jawline and then nibbles at my earlobe. His tender touch causes all rational thought to fly out the window.

  “Hey!” I back away, leaving Lane with a sinful gleam in his darkened eyes. “You’re the one with the giant red stop sign in his hands,” I remind him to make sure he knows where I stand. “Wait. Don’t wait. I’m cool with whatever, but I’m definitely not okay with mixed signals. So, decide.”

  Lane growls, obviously frustrated. “I guess seeing Blackman here messed with my mojo. I think we need a do over
.”

  “Then a do over it is. There’s more to a relationship than sex, even if I’m pretty sure I could’ve rocked your world tonight.”

  Lane circles his arms around my waist and returns his warm lips to my ear. His embrace is a perfect combo of friendly and passionate, and it feels just right.

  Except for the chilly draft wafting itself around my thonged ass.

  “Um, Lane.” I mumble into his neck, where I can feel his quickening pulse.

  “Yeah, babe?”

  “I think I’m gonna change into a pair of comfy sweats.”

  He takes a step back and examines me once again. His dimples appear when he smiles and licks his lips. “I’m such as ass. I can’t believe I’m about to pass this up.”

  I make my way to my dresser to grab a pair of pants. Closing the drawer with my hip, I assure him, “You’re not passing it up, just putting it aside for a better day.” It’s the only way I can look at it without wanting to slap that sexy grin off his even sexier face.

  “Thank you for understanding.”

  “Of course.” I wink and head for the bathroom. “I’ll be right out.”

  “Hey? You think I can I raid your fridge while I wait? I’m suddenly starved.”

  Yeah, so am I, but not for food. Rather than dwell on my hunger, I give in, “Have at it, but there’s not much there. I was gone a week, remember?”

  Lane laughs, ignoring my obvious jibe. “How about I order some take-out? Pizza? Chinese? Burgers?”

  “Um . . . again, I was away all week. I think I should stick to something diet friendly if I ever plan on wearing this sexy contraption again. You know, for when the time is right.”

  His eyes wander, taking in what he’s decided to leave untouched for the time being. I can sense a glint of regret, and that’s more than enough to show me it won’t be this way forever. “Leni, tonight calls for comfort food. We can go back to working out tomorrow. I promise—and this one I’ll keep.” He crosses his heart with his index finger, holding his other hand up in honor of his vow.