Twisted

by Emma Chase

  Men’s orgasms are ninety percent physical. It’s easy for them to get off, regardless of where their thoughts are. Women have it harder. Our orgasms usually hinge on our mental state. Which means if you guys want to get us there? We can’t be thinking about that load of laundry in the next room, or the pile of papers waiting on our desks.

  Which explains why it’s not Drew’s hand, or dick, that does me in.

  It’s his voice.

  With his forehead against my shoulder blade, he chants, “Oh God, oh God, oh God . . .”

  It’s so unlike him.

  He sounds open. Exposed.

  Vulnerable.

  This infuriating man, who always wants to be in charge, calling the shots. Who doesn’t make a move without examining it from every angle, turning it around in his amazing mind—the pros, the perks, the ramifications.

  He’s falling apart behind me.

  And as he whispers a litany of profanities and prayers—I fall over the edge.

  Into ecstasy.

  My head snaps back and my eyes close. And stars burst behind my eyelids as I tense and scream, and wave after dizzying wave of pleasure wracks my body.

  Drew’s movements become uneven and jerky, more forceful and uncontrolled.

  And a moment later he pulls my hips back against him, holding me there, as one long, last guttural moan spills from his lips.

  Afterward, we catch our breaths. Still connected and quaking with aftershocks. His hands smooth up my arms as he slips out of me.

  He turns me around to face him. His hands caress my cheeks, and then he’s kissing me.

  And it’s so sweet. Kind and loving. Such a stark contrast to our desperate movements moments before.

  I don’t know why, but my eyes fill with tears.

  Instantly, Drew’s gaze turns worried. “Are you okay? Did I . . . did I hurt you?”

  I smile through the tears, because they’re happy ones. Because in some weird, unexplainable way, I’ve never felt closer to him than I do right now.

  “No. I’m wonderful. Feel free to be not nice to me anytime.”

  Then he smiles too. Relieved and satisfied.

  “Noted.”

  Drew picks me up and carries me to the shower. We stand under the warm spray and wash each other worshipfully. Then Drew wraps us in thick, heated towels and bears me to bed.

  He pulls the blanket up over both of us and holds me tight against him.

  And it makes me feel precious.

  He makes me feel that way. Always.

  Cherished.

  Adored.

  Was I sore the next day? A little. But it wasn’t so bad.

  Too much information?

  Sorry. Just trying to be helpful.

  In any case, the aches and pains of the following morning were more than worth it, as far as I was concerned.

  But what’s the point of all this, you ask? Why am I sharing it with you?

  Because good sex? Really, really good sex?

  Doesn’t need alcohol. And it’s not about compatibility, or practice, or even being in love.

  It’s about trust.

  Letting your guard down. Putting yourself in another person’s hands and letting him lead you to places you’ve never been before.

  And I trusted Drew. With my mind, my heart, my body. I trusted Drew with everything.

  At least I did then.

  Chapter 1

  In high school, biology was my favorite subject. What fascinated me most were species that transform into a whole new being. Like pollywogs. Or butterflies. They start out as one thing, but end up something else entirely.

  Unrecognizable.

  Everyone always looks at butterflies and thinks, “How lovely.” But no one ever thinks about what they had to go through to become what they are. When the caterpillar builds its cocoon, it doesn’t know what’s happening. It doesn’t understand that it’s changing.

  It thinks it’s dying. That its world is ending.

  The metamorphosis is painful. Terrifying and unknown. It’s only afterward that the caterpillar realizes it was all worth it.

  Because now it gets to fly.

  And that’s what I feel like right now. I’m more than I was before. Stronger.

  Did you think I was tough before?

  Fooled you. Some of it was just bravado. A façade.

  Dealing with Drew Evans is like swimming into one of those rogue waves at the beach. He’s overwhelming. And either you kick hard to keep up, or he rolls over you and leaves you behind with a face full of sand.

  So I had to pretend to be a hard-ass.

  I don’t need to pretend anymore, because now I’m granite. Impenetrable, all the way through.

  Ask anyone who’s survived an earthquake at midnight, or a house fire that wipes out everything that matters. Unexpected devastation changes you.

  And I mourn the old me. And my old life. The one that I had planned to share with Drew forever.

  You seem confused. Sorry—let’s start again.

  See that woman over there? On the swing, in this empty playground?

  That’s me—Kate Brooks.

  But not really. Not the Kate you remember, anyway. Like I said, I’m different now.

  You’re probably wondering why I’m here, back in Greenville, Ohio, all alone.

  Technically speaking, I’m not alone.

  But we’ll get to that later.

  The reason I’m in Greenville is simple. I couldn’t bear to stay in New York. Not for another day. Not after everything.

  Drew?

  He’s still in New York. Probably nursing a vicious hangover. Or maybe he’s still drunk. Who knows? Let’s not concern ourselves with him too much. He has an attractive stripper to take care of him.

  Yep—I said a stripper. At least I hope she was a stripper. She could’ve been a prostitute.

  Did you think Drew and I were going to ride off into the sunset? Live happily ever after? Join the club. Apparently happily ever after only lasts two years.

  Don’t check the title. You’re in the right place. This is still the Drew and Kate show. It’s just twisted around. Messed up. Welcome to Oz, Toto. It’s a fucked-up place to be.

  What’s that? You think I sound like Drew? That’s what Delores says—that he’s infected me with his profanity. She calls it Drew-speak. I guess after two years, it kind of rubs off.

  So I can see that you’re wondering what happened. You were so in love. You were so perfect for each other. Tell me about it.

  Or better yet, tell the stripper.

  Anyway—believe it or not—the real problem wasn’t another woman. Not at first. Drew wasn’t lying when he said he’d always want me. He did. He still does.

  He just doesn’t want us.

  Still don’t understand? That’s because I’m not telling it right. I should start at the beginning. See, last week I found out . . .

  No, wait. That’s not going to work either. If you’re going to understand, I need to go back further.

  Our end began about a month ago. I’ll start there.

  Five weeks earlier

  “Well, hot damn, looks like we got ourselves a deal!”

  The guy in the cowboy hat? Signing that stack of papers, across from me at the conference table? That’s Jackson Howard Sr. The younger version in the black hat, sitting next to him? That’s his son, Jack Jr.

  They’re cattle ranchers. Owners of the largest cattle ranch in North America, and they’ve just acquired the most innovative developer of GPS tracking software in the country. Now, you may ask yourself, why would two already wealthy businessmen travel across the country to expand their empire?

  Because they want the best. And I’m the best.

  Or should I say we are.

  Drew takes the final document from him. “Sure do, Jack. I’d start looking into yachts for business travel, if I were you. When the profit reports roll in, your tax adviser’s going to want something big to write off.”

  Kate and
Drew.

  The dream team of Evans, Reinhart and Fisher.

  John Evans, Drew’s father, definitely knew what he was doing when he put us together. A fact he proudly loves to remind us of.

  To hear him tell it, he knew all along that Drew and I would be an unbeatable team—unless we killed each other. Apparently that was a chance John was willing to take. Of course, he didn’t know we’d end up together like we are now, but . . . he takes credit for that part too. Starting to see where Drew gets it from, aren’t you?

  Erin walks in now with our clients’ coats. She makes eye contact with Drew and taps her watch. He nods discreetly.

  “I say we go out and celebrate—paint this town red! See if you city folk can keep up with the likes of me,” Jackson Howard says.

  Even though he’s pushing seventy, he’s got the energy of a twenty-year-old. And I suspect he’s got more than a few bull-riding stories up his sleeve.

  I open my mouth to accept the invite, but Drew cuts me off.

  “We’d love to, Jack, but unfortunately Kate and I have a previously scheduled appointment. There’s a car waiting for you downstairs to take you to the finest establishments in the city. Enjoy yourselves. And of course the tab’s on us.”

  They stand and Jack tips his hat to Drew. “That’s damn fine of you, son.”

  “It’s our pleasure.”

  As we walk to the door, Jack Jr. turns to me and holds out his card. “It was a real pleasure working with you, Miss Brooks. The next time you’re in my neck of the woods, I’d be honored to show around. I have a feelin’ Texas would agree with you. Maybe you’ll even decide to stay and put down some roots.”

  Yep, he’s coming on to me. Maybe you think that’s sleazy. I would have, two years ago. But like Drew told me then, it happens all the time. Businessmen are slick, cocky. They kind of have to be.

  It’s one of the reasons this field has the third-highest rate of infidelity—right after truck drivers and police officers. The long hours, the frequent traveling, hooking up almost becomes inevitable. A foregone conclusion.

  It’s how Drew and I started, remember?

  But Jack Jr.’s not like the other jerks who’ve propositioned me. He seems sincere. Sweet. So I smile and reach out to take his card, just to be polite.

  But Drew’s hand is faster than mine. “We’d love to. We don’t get a lot of work down South, but the next time we do, we’ll cash in that rain check.”

  He’s trying to be professional, unemotional. But his jaw is clenched. Sure, he’s smiling, but have you ever seen Lord of the Rings? Gollum smiled too.

  Just before he bit that guy’s hand off who was holding his “precious.”

  Drew is territorial and possessive. That’s just who he is.

  Matthew once told me a story: For Drew’s first day of kindergarten, his mother bought him a lunch box. A Yoda one. On the playground, Drew wouldn’t put it down because it was his and he was afraid someone would break it. Or steal it. It took Matthew a week to convince him that nobody would—or that together, they could beat the everlasting hell out of anyone who did.

  At times like this, I know just how that lunch box felt.

  I smile kindly at Jack Jr. and he tips his hat. And then they’re out the door.

  As soon as it’s closed behind them, Drew tears John Jr.’s card in half. “Dickhead.”

  I push his shoulder. “Stop it. He was nice.”

  Drew’s eyes snap to mine. “You thought Luke and Daisy Duke’s inbred love child was nice? Really?” He takes a step forward.

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  His voice morphs into an over-the-top southern drawl. “Maybe I should buy myself some chaps. And a cowboy hat.” Then he drops the accent. “Oohh—or better yet, we’ll get you one. I can be your wild stallion and you can be the brazen cowgirl who rides me.”

  And the funniest thing of all? He’s really not kidding.

  I shake my head with a smile. “So what’s this mysterious meeting we have? There’s nothing on my schedule.”

  He smiles widely. “We have an appointment at the airport.” He slides two airline tickets out of his suit pocket.

  First class—to Cabo San Lucas.

  I inhale quickly. “Cabo?”

  His eyes sparkle. “Surprise.”

  I’ve traveled more in the last two years than I had in my entire life before—the cherry blossoms blooming in Japan, the crystal waters of Portugal. . . . All things Drew had already seen, places he’d already been to.

  Places he wanted to share—with me.

  I look closer at the tickets and frown. “Drew, this flight leaves in three hours. I’ll never have time to pack.”

  He takes two bags out of the closet. “So it’s a good thing that I already have.”

  I wrap my arms around his neck and squeeze. “You are the best boyfriend ever.”

  He smirks in that way that makes me want to kiss him and slap him at the same time.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  The hotel is stunning. With views I’ve only seen on a postcard. We’re on the top floor—penthouse. Like Richard Gere in Pretty Woman, Drew is a big believer in “only the best.”

  It’s late when we get in, but after a nap on the plane, we’re both wired. Energized.

  And hungry.

  All the airlines are cutting back these days, even in first class. The sandwiches may be complimentary, but that doesn’t mean they’re edible.

  While Drew is in the shower, I start to unpack. Why aren’t we showering together? I really don’t need to answer that, do I?

  I put the bags on the bed and open them. Most men look at an empty suitcase like it’s some kind of physics equation—they can stare at it for hours, but still have no frigging clue what they’re supposed to do with it.

  But not Drew.

  He’s Mr. I-Think-of-Everything.

  He packed all the incidentals that most men wouldn’t think of. Everything I’ll need to make my vacation comfortable and fun.

  Except for underwear. There isn’t a single pair of underwear in this entire suitcase.

  And it’s not an oversight.

  My boyfriend happens to hold a serious grudge against undergarments. If he had his way, we’d both be walking around like Adam and Eve—minus the fig leaves, of course.

  But he did bring the rest of the essentials. Deodorant, shaving cream, a razor, makeup, birth control pills, moisturizer, the rest of my antibiotic for the ear infection I had last week, eye cream—and so on.

  And we should pause here, for a brief public service announcement.

  I have a few clients who are in the pharmaceutical field. And those companies have whole departments whose sole job is writing.

  Writing what, you ask? You know those little inserts that come with your prescription? The ones that list every possible side effect and what you should do, should any of them occur? May cause drowsiness, don’t operate large machinery, contact doctor immediately, blah blah blah.

  Most of us just open the little paper bag, take out our pills, and throw the insert away. Most of us do . . . but we shouldn’t. I’m not going to bore you with a lecture. All I’ll say at the moment is: Read the insert. You’ll be glad you did.

  And now—back to Mexico.

  Drew walks out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, and I forget all about the suitcase. You know how some men are boob guys, or ass guys? It works the same for women. I’m a forearm girl, myself. There’s something about a man’s forearms that’s just . . . hot. Masculine—in a manly man kind of way.

  Drew has the finest set I’ve ever seen. Tight and toned—not too bulky, not too thin—with just the right amount of hair.

  He removes the towel from his hips and rubs it over his shoulders. And I’m pretty sure I start to drool.

  Maybe I’m an ass woman after all.

  “You know it’s impolite to stare.”

  I drag my eyes up to his. He’s smiling. And I take a step toward him—like a cougar
closing in on her prey.

  “Is it, now?”

  Drew licks his lips. “Definitely.” A drop of water slides down the middle of his chest.

  Anyone else thirsty?

  “Well, I don’t want to be rude.”

  “God forbid.”

  Just as I’m about to lean down and lick the droplet off him, my stomach growls. Loudly.

  Grrrrrrrr.

  Drew laughs. “Maybe I should feed you first. For what I have planned, you’re going to need some energy.”

  I bite my lip in anticipation. “You have something planned?”

  “For you? Always.”

  He spins me around and slaps me on the rear. “Now get that delectable ass in the shower so we can go. The sooner we eat, the quicker we can come back here and fuck till the sun comes up.”

  He really doesn’t mean to be as crude as he sounds.