by Alexis James
I gently scrub cleanser in circles over my cheeks, and I contemplate that it wasn’t always like this between him and me. There was a time that I actually looked forward to seeing him, when the idea of doing so gave me a twinge between my legs and caused my heart to pitter-patter relentlessly. Sadly, those days are limited to the first few months of our relationship, and ever since then we’ve done a whole lot of breaking up and making up, which used to be fun (the make-up sex, at least). Now it’s simply exhausting and too much work, so I’ve given up confrontations with him unless he pushes me to the extreme. Which he does—all too often.
Splashing warm water over my face, I pat it dry and reach for the tub of nighttime moisturizer. As I slather, I do my nightly inspection for wrinkles, crow’s feet, and the like. I’m not particularly vain, per se, but I do feel it’s important to take stock of where you are age-wise. It’s part of why I’m so particular about my skin care routine and the majority of why I work out like a fiend. No saggy, droopy skin on this chick. Nope, this twenty-six-year-old broad is going to age in style. Rocking a tight ass, if I’m lucky.
I’m making a quick assessment of said ass when I hear footsteps—large, heavy ones, signaling the return of One Who Wears Ratty Drawers. Snickering at my inner comedian, I finish slathering and reach for the jar of eye cream.
“You almost done?” Victor says, poking his head in the doorway. Mind you, the door was closed. Had I thought to lock it, I might have been granted a reprieve. Since he’s never been one to respect privacy, let alone a locked door, I continue on with my nighttime routine, ignoring him as I usually do. We have another bathroom, so his presence can only mean he wants sex, and he wants it now.
“Mita? You almost done?”
So here’s my major pet peeve. I despise—on every single level—abbreviation of any kind. Hear me, people? OF. ANY. KIND. I especially despise when he abbreviates my name, dropping off the A at the beginning, like it’s too much effort for him to say “A-Mita”. Okay, so I’m not one of those twenty-first century dodo-heads that uses ‘lol’ and ‘ur’ as an excuse not to spell properly. I believe, as my mother once did, in the power of the spoken word.
I throw him a nasty look and very succinctly snap, “Get. Out.” I do speak bitch well, thank you very much.
He frowns and, of course, steps further into the room. “What the hell is your problem?”
I offer up an eye roll. “Get out and let me finish. You’ll get your damn blow job when I’m done.”
This time his look is clearly a mix between baffled and pissed off. I’m leaning toward the latter since that’s his usual go-to. “Who the fuck was at this dinner tonight?” He asks the question as if that can be the only reason for my irritation.
Twisting on the top of the jar, I stow it with the others in the medicine cabinet and reach for my toothbrush. “Mia and Cruz and Cruz’s family. Why do you care?”
“Was that Marco guy there?”
My stomach dips low and does a fancy back flip as I’m reminded of the handsome Spaniard with the blue-green eyes. “Yeah. So was Roman. They are his brothers, remember?”
“I don’t like that guy.”
Ignoring his dig on the man I traded barbs with earlier in the evening, I make quick work of brushing my teeth. While he glares at me, I move past him out into the bedroom, shoving aside the covers and settling down on the cool sheets. I’d give anything to just close my eyes, but I’m well aware that Victor has a point to prove—to me and to the man he “doesn’t like.” So when he lies down and reaches for me, I go willingly. I know it will be over quickly, and then I can get some rest.
It hasn’t always been like this, I admit, as he peels away my clothes and tongues my nipples. Sometimes I actually enjoy it, though not to the extent I should be. I suppose I could try harder, because there was a time when I actually liked his touch and welcomed it. I just wish I craved it, wanted it like a starving man wants food or a dying man wants just one more day—with a desperation I feel deep within my blood, until there’s nothing else I can think about except feeding that craving.
Maybe that’s all just a fantasy. Maybe I want something that simply does not exist. But when he slides between my legs and rams in deep, without much foreplay or prelude, I have to believe there’s more to life than settling for what you feel you deserve.
What’s really sad about this whole thing is that Victor is a decent guy. He has a good job, he’s a hard worker, and he makes decent money. He also has really, really nice hands, which is a deal breaker for me. My weird OCD way of classifying the male species has been there since I was old enough to discern between boys and men. Clean hands with properly groomed nails usually indicates a properly groomed man—in all areas, if you know what I mean. Give me some dude with dirty, gross hands or long nails and I’ll show you a guy who doesn’t really give a crap about himself. This is a known fact. You can take that to the bank.
Victor’s hands, like the rest of him, are large, well-groomed, and telling of certain body parts. For those not interpreting my innuendo, I’ll say simply that the guy is hung. Big time. Like porn star hung, which to most girls would be a reason to high-five your friends and sing praises to the angels. To me, there was a certain amount of happy dancing going on when I first got a look at him, but I’m now more of the mindset that it’s not the size of the car, it’s how well you drive. Pretty sure that needs no explanation.
He’s built and rocks a six pack like nobody’s business. Our bodies look amazing together: his fair, muscled body writhing against my much smaller, toned, olive one. Together we make a pretty decent looking couple. It’s when you look deeper into the guts of what we are that you see how broken everything is. We exist together because that’s what we’ve done for years now. We yell and fight and snap at one another on a daily basis. Then we have sex and for another few hours all is well. We don’t have long, in-depth conversations. We don’t call one another cutesy nicknames like boopsy or honey pie. We don’t do date night or shop for antiques or spend hours laughing together. We exist because it’s all we know and because it’s what we’re both comfortable with: I have nothing else, it’s convenient and he thinks I’m a good lay. Or at least I used to be, until I got bored by it all. Kinda like I am now … throwing out the occasional moan for good measure but fully aware that I’ll be rubbed raw when we’re done because he can’t spend more than a minute working me up.
Victor thrusts harder and faster, a clear sign he’s nearing the end. Thank God. I throw out another fake moan, toss my head back, and shout, “Yes!” Right on cue he comes.
Welcome to my world.
Saturday mornings usually consist of sleeping late, getting in a run or a workout at the gym, and possibly venturing out in the afternoon to stop by the office for a few hours or run a few errands. All of it is in preparation for the night ahead, where I’ll undoubtedly party the night away with yet another easy … uh … charming woman. This day is no exception. After sleeping well-past eleven, I manage to stumble out to the kitchen to get the coffee brewing before reassessing the choices I made the night before.
I’m hung the fuck over in a way I haven’t been since college. The slightly scary part is I can only remember a bit of the evening, though I do recall I chose to use a taxi for my evening jaunt instead of stupidly attempting to drive. This is how things have been for the past few weeks: spending every weekend drunk off my ass, screwing every available woman I can get my hands on. In Miami there are plenty of available women.
Vaguely, I recall a brunette and a blonde from last night, though I have no real memories of either one except varied images of a bathroom threesome that scatter in and out of my very sore head. Tossing back a few pain relievers, I fill the largest mug I have and teeter on shaky legs out to the balcony.
I’m lucky as hell to live where I do, a condo on the twenty-seventh floor in a building that’s right on the beach. It cost me a damn fortune, but the view alone is worth what I paid for it. The ocean is off to the le
ft and there’s a gigantic pool down below. It’s high-class living at its best, though even after two years I still feel out of place here. It’s almost too contemporary for me, with all the whitewashed floors and cold, sleek lines. Since I’m not the type of guy to really give a crap about stuff like that, I’m content to enjoy the space for what it is: a nice place to come home to each night with an absolutely killer view.
Settling into one of the two patio chairs, I prop my bare feet up on the balcony rails and take a healthy sip of the hot brew. It burns going down, waking me fully and reminding me just how out of it I am. I’m wasting a perfectly good day sitting here, nursing my hangover, when I could be out at the beach or …
It’s the or that gets me every time. I have friends, people I party with, but my closest friends are my brothers: the two people I trust more than I do myself sometimes, which is a scary thought. Cruz is my voice of reason. Roman is my inner child. Combined, the three of us make a helluva decent guy. Just so happens that guy doesn’t have one damn thing to do today or anyone to do it with.
I contemplate taking a drive out to Key, drop by Cruz’s house to see what’s up. Chances are he and Mia are knee-deep in wedding shit, but at least that would give me something to occupy my time. How sad is it that at thirty I’m still rambling around like a teenager trying to figure out how to spend my day?
After I kill an hour drinking coffee and contemplating my life, I head out for a long run. The pounding of my feet on the pavement does nothing good for the ache in my head or the sickness in my stomach, but sweating out the alcohol does leave me feeling somewhat born again. Once I’ve showered and eaten, I’m like a new man, ready and willing to take life on once more. One willing woman at a time, I think with a snicker as I head down the elevator to the parking garage below.
While the engine warms, I thumb through my CDs looking for just the right music to accompany me on my drive. I know, I’m old school, slumming it with CDs when I could just use my phone or satellite radio. My gorgeous new BMW M-3 is certainly equipped to handle any musical demands, but I prefer doing it this way—one “album” at a time to really sink my teeth into the music.
Tossing in Al Green, I turn the volume up and let the sweet sounds of “How Can You Mend a Broken Heart” keep me company out of the city and across the water. It’s a beautiful day, as most days are in this part of the world: mid-seventies and full of sunshine. It’s one of those days when I wish I owned a convertible like Mia. One of those perfect days when I wish I wasn’t sitting alone in my car listening to Al. Those days are few and far between, and lord knows I’d never tell a single soul what I was wishing for. Once in a great while I wish for the simple things in life: a good woman by my side, a great love in my life.
Then I reflect on the night before—myself and two incredibly gorgeous women doing unspeakable things to each other—and I wonder what the hell am I thinking? Why would I ever want to give up something like that just to have a woman—the same woman, mind you—by my side each and every day? Sometimes my own mind baffles me.
Mia’s car sits in the driveway when I pull up to Cruz’s shoreline mansion a short while later. I kill the engine, silencing Al in the process. Stepping out, I quickly make my way up the steps to the front door, rapping a few times with my knuckles and pressing the bell for added reinforcement. His house is so damn big chances are I’ll need to repeat the whole process a time or two before anyone answers the door.
“Hey, man,” he says when he finally greets me. “This is a surprise.”
“You in the middle of something?”
Stepping back, he gestures for me to enter. “No, not at all. Just working. I could use a break.”
Since my brother works nonstop most days, I’m thankful I can offer a reprieve. “Where’s Mia?”
He points across the enormous living room, to the outside deck. “She and Amita are having their post-workout chat.”
I vaguely recall Mia telling me about her standing Saturday date with her best friend: a two-hour workout followed by gossip and cocktails. I suppose that even though Mia is no longer living in the city, there’s no reason the two girls can’t still have their date.
“Looks dangerous,” I surmise, moving further into the room and taking in the animated way the two women talk to one another. Amita is speaking furiously, waving her hands around and occasionally pointing. Mia, the quieter of the two beauties, nods and comments and occasionally throws in a few wide-eyed looks. I’d give anything to know what they’re discussing.
Cruz snickers. “Don’t I know it. Thank you for saving me. Beer?”
My stomach rolls once but settles down as we move into the kitchen. “Sure.”
Once he shoves a bottle in my hand, we move into the living room and sit on the couch, both with a clear view to the women outside. Cruz takes a drink then smirks at me. “Doesn’t seem like you’re exactly brokenhearted to find her here.”
I return his smirk with one of my own. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“Sure you don’t.”
We shoot the shit over work for a bit and although I’m careful not to let my eyes linger, I do semi-stalk Amita once again. She’s seated with her back to us, as is Mia, near the dock where she and I once shared an in-depth conversation. Too bad the entire thing was centered on her ass-wipe of a boyfriend. Too bad she has an ass-wipe boyfriend at all.
In the weeks since I last saw her, I’ve thought about her more than I have any right to. There’s something very appealing about a woman like her, so confident and head strong. It makes me wonder what her family is like and if, like mine, she has strong ties to them. I doubt it, considering she was with all of us this past holiday—not even with the man she’s spent the past four years with. I’ll admit, it’s puzzling. She’s puzzling.
When Cruz heads off to get us more beer, I watch the girls rise from their seats and gather up their glasses, ready for a refill just as we are. They are still talking nonstop as they move toward the slider, both outfitted in tight, body-revealing workout wear, though Mia’s covers considerably more of her body than Amita’s.
Holy Christ. Whoever invented spandex did so with her in mind. The snug, black and purple halter top is molded to her more-than-a-mouthful tits, hugging her flat stomach and leaving her sculpted arms bare. The Capri-style leggings she’s wearing adhere to her rounded hips and trim thighs. Right on cue, my dick twitches.
Mia’s eyes immediately settle on me, and she moves across the room to give me a hug. “This is a nice surprise.”
I snicker at how alike she and Cruz have become. “Well, that’s good. I’d hate for it to be a crappy surprise.”
She smacks my arm. “Stop it. Do you want something to drink?”
“I’ve got it, belleza,” Cruz drawls, earning an eye roll from me and a swoon from Mia. Amita is barely reactive, giving me a nondescript head nod of greeting and turning toward the kitchen.
As I watch her disappear, I see the distinct outline of writing across her left shoulder, though the words are hard to make out from this distance. I can’t say I’m surprised. If any woman would have a tattoo, it would be Amita. How like her to put words on her body and not some dopey heart or butterfly. She’s sure as hell more than able to bring you up or cut you down with that smart mouth of hers. Currently, most everything in my body is on the way up, courtesy of her fine ass winking at me as she strolls away. Damn, that is one fine ass.
“You’re staring again,” Mia whispers.
“Can’t help it,” I whisper back. My honesty must throw her because she blinks furiously, then settles on the couch next to Cruz.
By the time Amita re-enters the room with fresh drinks for the two of them, Mia is giving me an update about her Grandpa Tito, who returned home to Hawaii last week after a brief stay with her parents in St. Petersburg. Amita settles at the opposite end of the couch, shooting me a brief sideways glance before taking a healthy sip of her margarita.
“I should make guacamole,” Mia announc
es, getting to her feet. She refuses Amita’s offer to help, though she willingly lets Cruz tag along. Chances are they’ll spend a whole lot of time playing grab-ass and very little time working on our snack, though I hardly care. Gives me more time alone with this woman who I can’t seem to quit thinking about.
“So, how’ve you been?”
Turning slightly to face me, she pulls one knee onto the sofa and replies, “Okay. And you?”
I shrug. “Can’t complain.” Our eyes meet briefly, and she quickly looks away, which would make me laugh if it were anyone else. For some reason, I now make her uncomfortable. I have a hunch that’s not something she’s familiar with. “Where’s Vic?”
She shrugs. “No idea. Home I suppose.”
Ack! The way she says home makes me think of chicken pot pies and snuggling under warm blankets, night after night of sweaty, nasty sex. Not the image I want in my head when I think about her with him. It’s a decidedly different image when I think about her and me.
I quickly set that thought aside and after a silent inner reprimand ask, “You ladies have a good workout?”
She shrugs again, which I’m quickly noticing is her go-to response. “I guess. I could have stayed longer, but Mia wanted to get home. It’s a love thing.”
It’s my turn to shrug at her. “If you say so.” A fleeting hint of sadness threads through her cocoa brown eyes, but it’s gone so quickly I believe I must have imagined it. All thoughts of her supposed sadness are quickly forgotten when she reaches for her glass and takes a long drink, distracting me with her ink once more. “What’s your tattoo say?”
Surprise lights her eyes. “Um, just a quote I like.”
Lifting my brows, I inquire again. “What quote?”
This time she remains silent, not a word as she shifts her body just enough to allow me room to read what’s written. The font is simple, clean, and accurate for the words depicted there. Words that cause my breath to catch and a thousand questions to pile up inside my head. “Hate is easy. Love takes courage,” is scrawled in black ink over her silky olive skin; the words hint at a past I can only wonder about, a future I can’t even imagine.
