Taming Marco (The Moran Family Book 2)

by Alexis James

  He shoots me a puzzled—and if I had to guess, a slightly pissed off—look. “So even though I’m with you all the time, we talk every day, spend the night together, and fuck on a constant basis … that means we’re not together?”

  “How the hell should I know?” Exasperated with this conversation, I tip back my still-full champagne glass and drain it in two big gulps. Empty glass back on the table, I glance up at him to find him glaring at me. “What?”

  Leaning close, he whisper-yells in my face. “I didn’t realize that I was required to confirm that what we’ve been doing is real.”

  “Don’t get all pissy with me, Moran. You’re the one who started this.”

  His eyes narrow in anger. “What the fuck does that mean?”

  I shrug. “It means that you’re the one who made a point of saying we’re taking this day to day. No promises. No plans. That’s not exactly a confirmation that I’m your girlfriend. Or that you even want a girlfriend.”

  “Are you seeing other people?” His growl is low and menacing and just loud enough that a few people turn to stare at us.

  Wrinkling my face, I retort hotly, “Of course not.”

  “Not even Vic?”

  My heart clenches painfully. “No, I’m not seeing Vic. I told you that already.” Giving him a shove, I reach across the table and help myself to his full glass, draining it just as I did my own. Slamming it down onto the table, I snap, “Why do you care anyway? You still see other people.” I hold my hands off to halt him. “Oh wait, that’s right, you don’t see people. You just fuck them.” Somehow this conversation has gone right down the shitter. Somehow I believe I’m the one who started it. Dammit.

  His hands grasp my face, and he leans close again and growls, “I’m not seeing or fucking anyone other than you.” Pulling his hands away so quickly it’s as if he’s repelled by the idea of touching me, he shakes his head. “Jesus, Amita, I can’t believe you actually thought that about me.”

  “You won’t touch me or kiss me when we’re with our friends or your family. What the hell am I supposed to think?”

  Tearing his hands through his hair, he slumps back against the chair and shoots me a sideways glance. “I suck at this relationship thing.”

  My heart warms at his innocently emotional statement. “No you don’t. We never really defined what we are, so how were you supposed to know what to do?”

  His fingers slowly reach for mine under the table. “So, to clarify, you are my girlfriend. Correct?” I nod and reward him with a broad grin. “And because you’re my girlfriend, I’m supposed to hold your hand and maybe kiss you when we’re around other people.”

  I hold up a finger in warning. “Yes, but no getting carried away. That’s not classy.”

  “And we both know what a fucking classy guy I am.”

  “Right?”

  Sobering, he leans close again and speaks against my lips. “Babe, it’s been a long time since I’ve done the relationship thing. You gotta give me some pointers along the way. Okay?”

  I nod. “I can do that.” My eyes turn to the happy couple, where they’re swaying slowly to the romantic music. “Do you ever think you might want that?” I point toward his brother and my bestie.

  He visibly bristles. “I’m not sure. You?”

  “I think so. I think it would be nice to have one person who knows me better that anyone else does.” I sigh contently. “I think it would be nice to be surrounded by family who only want me to be happy.”

  His eyes darken and slowly he pulls away. “I may never be that person for you.”

  I shrug, all too familiar with his inability to dream about something more. “I know.”

  Sadly, the truth is that I know it all too well. He might be basking in this newfound relationship we have, but his fears and doubts are very much a third party that tags along uninvited. I’m certain those fears and doubts will be the decision makers, and I’ll be left standing alone. Wanting something I can never have.

  Pain surrounds my heart and my stomach does an uneasy flip as I whisper, “I still want to not make plans or promises with you.”

  His eyes find mine and he sighs heavily. “Babe, I still want to not make plans or promises with you too.” Once more he cradles my face in his hands. “I wish I could. I wish I was the type of guy to make those plans, to promise you forever, to want that…” he points to where Cruz and Mia are locked together “…but I’m not.”

  “I’ll take what I can get,” I whisper and then his lips come down on mine and any further talk is silenced.

  I admit, I look like a certain kind of fool, going along with this relationship and letting him call the shots. Settling is something I did for four long years with Vic. In the end, I came out of the whole thing not really liking the woman I’d become. Why then am I willing to settle once again? Am I that lonely that I’ll take a man who refuses to entertain the idea of tomorrow, just to settle on a warm body today?

  I continue to watch the newlyweds bask in the glow of their love, and I’m resolved to wait this out for a bit longer. I’m in no hurry to shackle myself to someone forever. I can still dream of the day when I get to wear the pretty white gown and ride off into the sunset with my prince charming like Mia is, but I’m content to live my life in the present—with a great apartment to go home to each night and a dashingly handsome man by my side to call my own. For now.

  I have a girlfriend.

  Me, Marco Moran, confirmed bachelor and self-admitted player, has a girlfriend.

  What the hell has happened to me?

  Rolling my head to the side, I take in the sleeping face of said girlfriend. She’s curled up against me, one hand splayed across my chest, wavy hair spread out over the pillowcase. Damn she’s beautiful. I could see her every single day and always be knocked over by the sight of her gorgeous face.

  She’s my girlfriend.

  The thought is unsettling, though my head tells me it shouldn’t be. All we did was put a name to what we have been for weeks. Official titles changes nothing. I was faithful to her before and will remain so until this thing peters out … which it will, because nothing in life is permanent. I get that it works for some people, like my parents and Mia and Cruz. I’ve just never believed I’ve been cut from the same cloth, destined to live my life with the same person day in and day out. It’s not that I’m against relationships exactly, just that I’m against them for me. At least I was … until Amita started to question our direction last night at the wedding. Until I realized that the idea of letting her go scared me almost as much as the idea of her becoming my girlfriend did.

  I guess there has to be a happy medium in here somewhere. I like being with her. She’s fun to be around and is witty as hell, and she rocks my world in the bedroom. I like that she doesn’t need me to call her constantly or feel like she needs to check up on my whereabouts. Freedom is something she savors just as much as I do. So far our arrangement has worked well for us both.

  But I saw the hope in her eyes last night as she watched Mia and Cruz become man and wife. I heard the longing in her voice, longing for a home and a family of her own. Hell, I can’t blame her for wanting that, not one bit. She’s basically had no family for a good part of her life so wanting one now is understandable. I’d be worried if she didn’t want one. The issue here is whether or not I’m the person to give her that. As I lie here next to her, on the verge of a full-blown panic attack, it’s clear that the answer is no.

  Gently sliding out of bed, being careful not to wake her, I slip on boxers and pad into the kitchen. A glance at the clock confirms that it’s early, way too early to be up considering how late we partied last night. Sober Amita is sassy and fun. Tipsy Amita is handsy and uncensored. By the time we arrived home, well after midnight, she’d already had her hands all over me, my pants unzipped, and immediately dropped to her knees and proceeded to suck me off before I’d even gotten the front door closed.

  I sure as fuck am not complaining, not one bit,
but I have a hunch she was attempting to mask her feelings with alcohol. I recognized it all too well, since I’m highly familiar with that coping mechanism. Glass after glass of champagne went down, then she turned to wine, and at the end of the night we shared a few shots of tequila with the bride and groom. I’m sure she’ll be nursing one helluva hangover when she wakes up.

  Once the coffee is going, I take a quick peek to make sure she’s still snoozing, then quietly shut the bedroom door and wander out to the balcony. Like most Miami mornings, the sun is bright in the sky and the weather is balmy and warm. It’s hurricane season, so chances are we’ll be dealing with rain later today, but for now I settle in a comfy patio chair and let my eyes drift to the ocean. I need to take advantage of this downtime, because the next few weeks with Cruz being out of the office on his honeymoon are going to be hectic.

  I can’t blame Amita for thinking I was still out partying and carrying on. She does have a point. I do keep my distance from her when we’re around other people, or at least I did until last night. No one seemed particularly shocked to see us strolling around hand in hand or exchanging kisses on the dance floor. In fact, when I pulled Mia aside to inform her of our status, she gave me a big eye roll and said, “About time.” I’m beginning to think I was the only person who didn’t believe we were a couple.

  A couple? Huh. That sounds weird. What does it all really mean? Am I supposed to ask her to move in? Do we start going everywhere together and start calling one another all the time to check in? Christ, I hope not.

  What the hell am I doing? I don’t know the first thing about being a boyfriend. I’m bound to fuck this up right out of the gate, so why the hell did I even push the issue last night? Seems like my mouth was way ahead of my brain, that’s for sure.

  The thing is I really like Amita. I like her more than I’ve liked anyone in years. I care about what happens to her and whether or not she’s happy. Seeing her sad destroys me. I sure as hell don’t ever want her sad because of something I’ve done or said. Lord knows I’ve already done enough of that leading up to this so-called relationship.

  Fear rolls around in my stomach at the realization that I’m now responsible for her happiness. If I screw this up—no, when I screw this up—I could potentially leave her with unhealed scars for a good long time. As much as I want to be with her, I’ll walk away before I intentionally hurt her that deeply. She’s suffered enough in her life, and I don’t need to add to the pain she carries around and tries to hide so well.

  She finally emerges from the bedroom a few hours later, hair in tangles around her face, eyes bloodshot. I’ve managed to down half the pot of coffee and think myself to the point of terror, but she seems unaware of my inner turmoil as she takes the seat next to me and props her bare feet up on the railing.

  “How much did I drink?” She takes a tentative sip of coffee and winces.

  “A lot.” I chuckle.

  “My memory is fuzzy. What happened after we left the reception?”

  I grin at her and waggle my brows. “You were … how can I say this tactfully …? Horny as fuck.” She looks at me with a confused expression. “You were very handsy in the car, tried to jack me off in the elevator, then you blew me the minute we stepped inside the condo.”

  She doesn’t seem particularly thrown one way or the other. “I do remember some things, bits and pieces.” A beautiful smile lights her face. “I think I remember that.”

  “Are you sure? Because I’d be happy to give you another go-round to refresh your memory?”

  Laughing, she takes another sip then sets the mug down next to my empty one. “I just bet you would.” She glances at her phone. “Wow, I slept in later than I thought I would. Are we going to your parents’ house for dinner?”

  The question is innocent enough and on any other day I’d answer her and move on, but after last night with all the hope in her eyes, the questions, our new status … I’m instantly dissecting every little thing she says. None of it sits well with me if the unsettled stomach and racing heart are any indication.

  “I’m not sure.”

  She frowns. “Oh, okay. Well, what do you feel like doing today?”

  My stomach jumps and I swear I can hear warning sirens going off in my head. “I’ve got some shit to get caught up on. I might go into the office.”

  Her eyes scan my face with a mixture of confusion and hurt. “Oh, sure, of course. I’ll just finish my coffee and then take off.”

  Jesus, Moran, can you be any more of a dick?

  The real answer to that question is yes. Anyone who knows me would agree. I can’t seem to shake the feeling that I’m being smothered somehow and my hours of contemplation have done nothing to ease the unsettled feeling that’s blanketed me since last night.

  Maybe we need some space from one another, a few days to get our bearings and adjust to all this. Maybe then I can look at her without seeing all the silent expectations in her eyes.

  A few minutes later she heads into the house with her cup in hand, drops it into the kitchen sink, and retreats to the bedroom. I know I should say something, apologize, make up more dumb-ass excuses, but I’m literally unable to formulate words. My hands are sweaty, my damn heart is pounding painfully in my chest, and my stomach has moved north and is lodged somewhere in my esophagus. Is this what an anxiety attack feels like?

  I’m still sitting on the balcony talking myself down from the ledge when she reappears in her dress from last night, purse and shoes dangling from her fingers. She moves toward me, bending over to drop a brief kiss on my lips. “See ya, hot stuff.”

  The sound of the door slamming should be a wake-up call, but all I can do is sit there like a fucking zombie and try not to scream. Am I overreacting? Probably. Most definitely. Am I right to be concerned about where she and I go from here? Hell if I know.

  Sitting here contemplating my life any longer is bound to send me right to the nuthouse. I shoot off a text to Roman, see if he wants to hang out, then take a quick shower and get dressed. Once I hear back from him we decide to meet at a local hangout and get our grub on. Fifteen minutes later I’m settling into a chair across from my little brother, wondering what the hell this says about me that I practically shoved her out the door then proceeded to make plans for the day, which were nothing like I’d led her to believe. Christ, I’m the world’s worst boyfriend.

  The waitress drops by, rattles off the specials, and sets large cups of coffee in front of each of us. Roman can’t resist flirting with her for a moment or two, but my head simply isn’t in it. He shoots me a befuddled look when I refuse to be his wingman, tosses the waitress a warm smile, and asks her to give us a few minutes before we order. He watches her ass sway nicely as she walks away then sighs heavily and turns his attention to me.

  Leaning back in his chair, he threads his fingers across his stomach, gives me a curious look, and states, “You look spun out.” He glances at my leg, which bounces furiously.

  “What the fuck does that mean?” I snarl, ripping open the packet of sugar and dumping it into my coffee.

  He shrugs. “You’re wide eyed and jittery. Either you’re nursing one helluva hangover or Amita has got you turned inside out.”

  “Whatever, man,” I mumble.

  Roman laughs loudly, then turns his smiling brown eyes on me. “Dude, I’ve never seen you act like this before. You’re practically jumping out of your skin.” Leaning on the table, he palms his mug and watches me intently while I dump more sugar packets in and stir. “Calm down and talk to me.” Grabbing my cup, he moves it out of reach. “What you don’t need is sugar.” Sliding his cup toward me, he orders, “Drink this. And talk. Now.”

  Cruz is usually whom I go to when life has me stirred up, but mostly he just doles out advice once in a while and listens more than he contributes to the conversation. Roman, truly the easiest going of us three, can always seem to break down my walls and get me talking, even if I’m trying my damndest not to.

  “I’
ve got a girlfriend now,” I growl, setting aside the menu.

  He shrugs. “Yeah, that’s cool. So what’s the problem?”

  My eyes dart to his. “Do I look like boyfriend material to you, man? I suck at this. I’m good at partying and sleeping around. I’m not good at having my life taken over by some woman.”

  “We are talking about Amita here, correct?” At my grunt, he once more sits back. “Dude, Amita isn’t some woman. She’s cool. She sure as hell doesn’t come off like some territorial leech if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “Don’t call her that. And she’s not. I think maybe I’m overreacting.”

  He laughs. “Really? That’s shocking.”

  “Fuck off.”

  The waitress strolls up again and gives me stink-eye for my less than appropriate language in the family-friendly joint. She takes our orders, bats her eyelashes at Roman, and saunters away once more.

  “What’s the real issue here, man? Are you scared about what it means to have a girlfriend, or do you really not want one after all?”

  Tearing my fingers through my hair, I reply, “Hell if I know.”

  “It’s okay to be nervous. Having a few doubts goes with the territory.”

  Since Roman is the only one of us three brothers who has willingly had numerous girlfriends, I consider him somewhat of an expert in this area. “I have more than a few doubts.”

  “Okay, so let’s talk it out. Tell me what’s bothering you.”

  I begin to attempt to explain where my head is at in all of this. He keeps a neutral expression, listening attentively and asking a few questions. Our food arrives and I keep right on talking, thankful to be putting a voice to all the shit that’s rummaging around in my head.

  “Sounds to me like Amita is exactly what you need,” Roman comments, shoving his empty plate aside while I begin to finally work on mine. “She’s good for you. She’s smart and sassy and won’t take any of your shit. And excuse me for saying this, but she doesn’t come across as some chick who needs you to check in all the time. She’s an independent broad. That’s a good thing.”