by Alexis James
I learned a lot about Vic that day. More than I wanted to that’s for sure. Amita is not exactly the type of gal to censor herself when she’s riled up. I’m not even sure she realized she was talking to me, a stranger. Obviously the girl needs more of a sounding board than Mia can offer. However, I’m not that much of a stud to believe I’m anything special to her except a willing ear and the occasional person to flirt with. After all, she might be taken, but she’s not dead.
I’ve been mistaken for many things during my thirty years: model (nope, that was Cruz, in his younger days), paid professional (definitely not. Why pay for something I can get for free?); I’ve been mistaken for an actor, for one of those guys on the covers of romance novels, and once some drunk gal said I was too pretty to be a man, so I must be a woman in disguise. But not once has someone looked at me and said, “Hey, you must be an accountant.”
Sadly, that’s exactly what I am—or rather the Chief Financial Officer for The Moran Group, which sounds a helluva lot better than an accountant. I have a detail-oriented, by-the-numbers job that I love but would bore most people. To me numbers are exciting, thrilling, and at times even a turn-on. Gross and scary, I know.
I discovered my love of numbers way back in elementary school, when I first aced the multiplication tables faster than everyone else in my class. After that I was driven to be better and faster in all areas concerning numbers—although, I will admit that I had a brain-fart when it came to geometry in high school. I’m one of those rare, weird individuals who gets a whole lot of joy out of seeing everything line up and match evenly, which is why, after I graduated college, Cruz brought me on to manage all things financial with his company.
Long ago the Moran Group used to be known as Moran Construction, back when Papa was the sole owner and profits were in the thousands—not the millions as they are today. He will occasionally consult on projects, but his days of building high-rises are long since gone. Now, with his three sons involved in some capacity (me, the numbers guy; Cruz, the owner and CEO; and Roman in charge of construction), he can sit back, relax, and let us do the hard work.
My sisters, on the other hand, want no part of the family business. Isabella has her nursing degree and loves anything and everything having to do with helping people and healing them. Baby sister, Sophia, attends college in Louisiana and plans on teaching. Whether or not that will be here in Florida has yet to be determined, much to the horror of my poor mother, who simply cannot understand why her offspring need to fly away.
“Daydreaming again?” Mia says, stepping into my office, a pile of papers in one hand, her trusty tablet in the other. You’d never know the gal is engaged to one of the richest men in the country. She insists on keeping her job as Cruz’s assistant, stating she not be given any special perks like a company car or a driver and even stubbornly refuses to take any increase in pay. Mia is as normal as they come: sweet and squeaky clean and one of the kindest people I’ve ever met, which is why I wonder—quite often actually—how she and Amita became so close. Not that Amita isn’t a sweet gal, because she is, but she’s the complete opposite of her somewhat shy and reserved best friend; Mia has blossomed into a fairly confidant young woman since falling in love with my brother, but Amita is outspoken, brassy, and not the least bit timid about anything. I’m fairly certain the only time she actually censors what she says is at work or around older people, like my parents.
“Marco? You okay?”
“What? Oh yeah, I’m good.” Rising, I stroll around the desk, toward her. “What can I do for you, my soon-to-be sister-in-law?”
She grins brightly. “I like the sound of that.” Glancing down at her tablet briefly, she once more lifts her large, almond-shaped eyes to mine. “I just wanted to confirm your meeting with Cruz for tomorrow at seven. He asked that I give you this…” she hands off the pile of papers to me “…to review before then.”
Nodding, I toss the papers on the desk. “Yep. Got it. Anything else?”
“You’re coming tonight, right?”
Not one to ever refuse an opportunity to make her blush, I reply with a smirk, “God I hope so, babe.”
Right on cue her cheeks blaze bright red. “Stop it. You know what I mean.”
Giving her hand a squeeze, I state, “Yes, I do. And yes, I am coming to your birthday dinner tonight.” Though I do wonder, yet again, why we couldn’t have just celebrated hers and Cruz’s together since they’re only a few weeks apart. “Seven-thirty?”
She nods. “Yes.”
We chat for another few minutes, and then she strolls out with a wave, leaving me alone to ponder the pile of work in front of me and the stalemate that has become my sex life. I wasn’t lying when I told her I hoped to be coming tonight. It’s been weeks, and I’m getting sick and tired of my own hand. It gets the job done, but it sure as hell is no substitute for a warm, tight …
The ringing of my phone pulls me out of my erotic musing and with a muffled curse, I grasp the receiver and bark a greeting. Work is most definitely what I need right now.
By the time I stroll into the fancy restaurant later that evening, I’m grouchy from missing lunch, exhausted from the endless phone calls and meetings, and half blind from staring at my computer. My plan for the evening is to get in and out: make nice, fill my stomach, then meet up with one of my regulars later on. Lacey is one chick who I can depend on to be there when I call, though never the type to hound me or push for anything more. She’s wise to the ways of the world—and to the ways of me—and is more than happy to share a few hours rolling around naked whenever I call.
Arrogant dick that I am, I will admit that I like having her (and a few others as well) at my beck and call. It does save the hassle of wining and dining and guarantees the both of us will leave satisfied. Not a bad deal, if I do say so myself, though I’m certain any moral fortitude I might have had exited years ago. Just goes to show I’m not as perfect as my mama thinks I am.
My parents, the birthday girl and her fiancé, Roman and his girl of the week, and the woman who has been the center of my fantasies since I last saw her a few weeks ago are seated around the table in the private dining room. I greet my parents with hugs and while Mama reprimands me in a flurry of Spanish for being late to the game, I greet the others and take the one empty chair … which just happens to be next to Amita.
God hates me. I’m sure of it.
“How are you?” she asks, glancing over at me then back down at the menu. Dark, wavy hair falls around her face, and she shoves it behind her ear with a mutter of exasperation.
I rattle off my drink order to the waiter then reply, “Hanging in. You?”
She shrugs. “Same.”
“Where’s your other half?” Not that I want to ask about good ol’ Vic, but I do have to wonder why he’s not glued to her side. I would be, if she were mine … and if I wanted a girlfriend, which I don’t.
“Working.” She doesn’t speak again until we’ve placed our dinner orders and I’m nursing a 32-ounce beer. “Did you hear that Mia and Cruz set a date?”
“Yeah.” Really, I’m not trying to be a dick, but I’m chomping to get the hell out of here and on with my evening. I also might be chomping to bury my cock into Lacey’s pussy. I might even be imagining that said pussy belongs to a certain other someone.
Christ. No wonder God hates me. Inappropriate thoughts like that will get me sent straight to Hell. I’m sure of it.
Amita frowns, her curious large brown eyes narrowing. “What’s going on with you? You’re acting weird.”
I chug down half the beer. “Nothing. Long day.” How the hell would she know if I’m acting weird? It’s not like we’re besties or anything.
One perfect, dark brow lifts in doubt. “Try again.”
My eyes meet hers, and I refuse to acknowledge I could get lost in them. “I’ve got plans later on. Just anxious to get this over with.”
Her knowing expression should be a warning, but the words still catch me off guard.
“Good for you. Maybe if you get laid you won’t be so cranky.”
I glance warily at my parents, who are thankfully embroiled in all things wedding related with Cruz and Mia and oblivious to the dirty talk at our end of the table. Roman, dick that he is, just shoots me a knowing look and turns his attention back to what’s-her-name. “Keep your voice down, will ya?”
Amita shrugs, unmoved. “You’re a grown man, Marco. Even if you do act like a toddler sometimes.”
“Meaning?”
Swiping her index finger around the rim of her glass, she tongues the salt from her skin. “You acted like a jerk toward Victor at the party a few weeks ago.”
It’s my turn to shrug. I also to attempt to ignore the phallic way she’s going at her salty finger. “He’s the jerk. He deserved to be treated like one.”
“You don’t even know him,” she whisper-yells.
“Don’t want to either.” Leaning close, I snap, “Look, babe, you’re the one who went on and on about how bad things were between you two. You didn’t exactly give me the warm and fuzzies about the guy.”
She dismisses me with a wave of her hand, eyes averted. “You can just disregard what I said at Christmas. Things are fine now.”
Doubtful, I think to myself. “Whatever you say.”
I have a hunch she’s been defending her rocky relationship with him from the beginning. I will never believe they are a match made in Heaven, but I do believe that there are people out there who thrive on constant chaos in their life. I never pegged Amita as being one of those people, but hey, I’ve been wrong before. Clearly there’s something about Vic that gets her motor going. I shudder to think about what that might be.
It’s obvious what he sees in her, I think as I risk a sidelong glance her way. She’s shockingly gorgeous, with those insightful, dark eyes and mass of wavy, long, dark hair. If I had to guess I’d say she’s of Middle Eastern decent, although it’s really hard to say for sure. She and Mia could be sisters at first glance, but if you look closely you can clearly see the subtle differences. There’s just something about Amita that rises up and begs you to look twice. Maybe it’s her no-nonsense attitude. Maybe it’s her hot as hell body that begs for a man’s hands. Something about her intrigues me like no other woman ever has, which is why I have to try like hell to distance myself from her. I don’t waste time on women who are taken. Even if she wasn’t, I’m not sure it would be a good idea to get involved with Mia’s closest friend. I’m sure both girls would frown upon my wham-bam attitude toward women in general.
The arrival of dinner saves me from any further confrontation, though the icy vibe Amita throws at me says she’s not yet finished with our disagreement. As far as I’m concerned the subject is closed. Whatever and whomever she chooses to do is none of my damn business.
I shovel down a few bites, finish off my beer, and risk another glance at my watch, all under the knowing glare of my older brother. He gives me a barely there shake of his head and a quick eye dart to his beloved as a reminder why I’m here. With a heavy sigh, I settle in to wait. Thank God Lacey isn’t one for punctuality. Her legs will be open regardless of what time I show up.
One hour and thirty-three minutes later I’m finally able to leave. I mutter something unintelligible to Amita, hug my parents and Mia, and exchange back slaps with Cruz and Roman. I’m almost to my car when I hear my name being called. Amita is moving swiftly toward me, firm tits bouncing with each step she takes in her four-inch stilettos. Not that I notice or anything.
“Marco, can you wait a minute?”
Gritting my teeth, I click the button to unlock the car door and pull it wide, just as she steps up close. “What now?”
Long, dark lashes blink repeatedly. “Quit being such an ass. I came out here to apologize.”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I lean back against the car and ask, “For what?”
“For snapping at you. You were right. I did give you every reason to dislike Victor. I shouldn’t be mad because you reacted the way you did.” She folds her arms under that fine bounty, pushing them higher and causing my dick to twitch. “I shouldn’t have unloaded all my crap on you like I did Christmas Day. I’m sorry for that.”
Shrugging, I reply, “You obviously needed someone to talk to.”
“Maybe. But that person shouldn’t have been you.”
Ouch. That hurts. “Why not?”
It’s her turn to shrug, which sends her silky blouse sliding low on her shoulder. Yep, another dick twitch. “We barely know one another. It wasn’t right. And I’m sorry.’
I force my go-to charming smirk and force things below the waist to stay neutral. Not an easy feat, mind you. “Hey, babe, I get that I’m easy to talk to. All the chicks tell me so.”
Amita rolls her eyes. “You’re such a dick, you know that?”
Do I. “Get your sweet cheeks back inside so Mia doesn’t wonder where you are. I’ll see you around.”
She grins, showing me a hint of dimples on either side of her very delectable and way too kissable plump lips. “See ya, hot stuff.”
Chuckling, I watch her stroll confidently across the parking lot, that delectable ass tempting me more than it should. Slightly taller than Mia, who stands barely over five feet on a good day, Amita carries herself like she’s six feet tall. She’s full of piss and vinegar, as Mama would say, and there’s not a shy bone one in her thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six body. She is the type of woman who knows exactly what kind of male response she’ll get from a simple tilt of her head to a full-on forward lean that teases what she doesn’t at all attempt to hide beneath barely-there clothing. If I had to guess I’d say she’s a tiger in bed: loud and aggressive and quick to demand what she needs most. Fuck if I don’t wish I was the one giving in to her demands.
I pull out of the parking lot and tear off down the street, reminding myself yet again that I’m not, nor will I ever be, the one to give her anything except the occasional piece of advice should she ask for it. Amita and I are acquaintances at best, friends hopefully. Years from now I bet we’ll look back on this crazy beginning and laugh about what idiots we were. Of course, years from now she’ll probably be married to Vic and I’ll still be here alone in my car, driving off to screw some chick who barely knows my name.
Isn’t that what you want? I ask myself as I move through traffic toward my destination. Isn’t that what I’ve wanted all along? Easy access to pussy whenever and wherever I want it, no strings attached? Isn’t that, after all, what most men would die for?
Shaking off the heavy thoughts, I push the button on the dash, bringing the stereo to life; vintage Marvin Gaye blares from the speakers. What I need tonight is to lose myself in all that Lacey is willing to give me. If I recall, she’s willing to give a lot—more than a few times if I play my cards right. Too bad my dick doesn’t twitch thinking about that.
My car sputters twice as I pull into the parking lot. It’s early still, not quite ten, and if I had to guess I’d say that Victor is sprawled out on the couch watching C-Span or something equally mind numbing. His shoes are off, kicked haphazardly where I’ll be certain to trip over them, like I always do. Shirt will be off, as will his pants, and if I’m really lucky he’ll be wearing the new boxers I bought for him, not the ratty ones that leave nothing—nothing!—to the imagination. You’d think by now I’d be used to this, but in a way I’m sort of glad that I’m not. The day I become used to all of this is the day I need to kiss my future goodbye.
With a deep breath, I sling my bag over my shoulder and move swiftly toward the building. Our apartment is not anything to write home about, not that I have a home to write to even if I could. It’s your standard two-bedroom apartment, one I shared with Mia a lifetime ago, long before she met the perfect man of her dreams. Now Victor and I share it full time. I do question that decision on a daily basis, as I sometimes do the relationship in general, though it does seem to work for the most part. There’s enough space for all our crap, a few decent pie
ces of furniture that we’ve acquired together, and overall it’s a nice space to come home to each night.
Except for the shoes in the middle of the walkway.
Except for the large man taking over the entire couch, watching mind-numbing TV for hours on end, in ratty boxers that just scream dirty old man.
Except for the fact that there are nights like tonight when I wish I could simply walk in the door and hear nothing but the sound of my own breath and the beating of my heart.
Pushing open the door, things are predictably perfect in that very imperfect and annoying way that instantly pisses me off each and every time. I mutter a greeting and he responds in kind. As I recover from almost falling flat on my face and move down the hall, I hate to think what the two of us will be like in another four years.
The thought alone makes me grimace.
Hitting the switch on the wall, I move into the messy bedroom, around articles of clothing (some his, some mine), stepping over shoes and books and the occasional half-empty water bottle toward the walk-in closet. Sliding off my favorite black sandals, I store them on the shelf and quickly peel the clothes from my body, dumping them in the overflowing hamper. After pulling on a snug pair of shorts and an old shirt of Vic’s, I move into the bathroom to begin my nightly routine.
I’m what you’d call fastidious about skin care. I use only the best products—pricey ones at that—and I’m religious about cleaning my face before bed. I can count on one hand the amount of times I’ve gone to sleep with makeup on, and each one of those involved a sleepover with someone of the opposite sex. BV, of course (before Victor). Unfortunately, there’s a bounty of things I now have on my BV list. Such as the ability to go an entire day without arguing, orgasms that happen without the assistance of either my hand or my vibrator, and being able to walk into my own house without feeling like I’m preparing for battle.
