Tamed

by Emma Chase

  “We dated for two years in college. I wanted to marry her—and I thought she wanted the same thing. But she didn’t. She was cheating on me the whole time with an older, richer guy, and I was too fucking blind to see it. She dumped me when he got her pregnant. She broke my fucking heart . . . and . . . and now, I’m so glad she did. Because if not . . . I never would have met you.”

  Delores looks surprised. Then sympathetic—but lingering doubt is there too.

  “She’s so beautiful.”

  I gaze at Dee’s wet, matted hair, her mascara-smeared face, her blue tinged-from-the-cold lips. Then I shake my head.

  “Not to me.”

  She takes in my words, and after a moment gives me a small smile. I hold out my hand. “Can we please go back inside now?”

  She takes it. “Okay.”

  We walk quickly back to my building. As we get close, I see Rosaline step out of the lobby door—wearing dark sunglasses despite the weather, an impeccably belted trench coat, with her hair pulled back into a low, neat knot. Her driver holds an umbrella over her head as she walks to the open door of the limo. I don’t bother to watch her drive away—I’m just relieved that she does.

  Back in my apartment, Dee wraps her arms around herself, but that doesn’t stop her teeth from chattering. We strip out of our wet, cold clothes, and I fill the double-wide Jacuzzi with water, just short of scalding. Although few things are better than a splashing, slippery screw in a bathtub, that’s not what this is about. I’m not going to get all corny and say I just want to “hold” her—I want much more than that.

  Just . . . not right now.

  I relax against the back of the tub, my arms on the edges, with Dee’s head resting on my chest, her body laid out beside me, turned toward mine. I close my eyes, enjoying the feel of the hot water as it loosens my muscles and warms our skin. The mirror-fogged room is quiet, peaceful—both of us content just to be.

  Until Dee whispers, “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

  I open my eyes, tilt my head so I can see her face. “You ask the weirdest questions.”

  I see her smile. She explains, “Good deeds are easy to talk about. But bad things tell you more.”

  I inhale a gulp of steam and do a mental rundown of all my transgressions. Then I confess. “I . . . cheated . . . on every girlfriend I ever had, in high school and college . . . before Rosaline. And the few times I got caught, I made them feel like it was their fault.”

  There’s no judgment in Delores’s expression. No horror or revulsion. Just curiosity. “Why did you do that?”

  Why do guys cheat? It’s an age-old question with varied answers. The simplest is—because they’re guys. But that doesn’t tell the whole story.

  Some guys get bored. Tapping the same ass—even if it looks like Kate Upton’s—can get old. For others, it’s a game. The thrill of getting away with something they shouldn’t, the excitement of possibly getting caught. A final few are just cowards. They don’t have the balls to admit to a girl who loves them that they don’t feel the same way. They think they’re shielding her from hurt by letting her believe their commitment means more than it actually does.

  “Because I was young and stupid. Selfish. Because I wanted them enough to bang them, but not enough to stop banging other women. Because I didn’t know how fucking awful and humiliating it felt to be lied to like that.

  “Karma’s a righteous bitch, though. After Rosaline . . . then I knew. And I swore I’d never make someone else feel like that again.”

  In a messed-up way, Rosaline did me a favor—taught me a much-needed lesson. Made me a better man. For the women who came after her.

  For Delores.

  I touch my finger to Dee’s chin and bring her eyes to mine. “I would never do that to you. You know that, right?”

  Please, God . . . please let her believe.

  She searches my eyes, trying to read me—then she gives me a crooked smile. “Yes, I know that.” She lays her head back down against me. “But, I’ll still need a reminder once in awhile.”

  “What about you?” I wonder. “What skeletons are in your closet?”

  She doesn’t answer right away. When she does speak, her voice is hushed. “I had an abortion when I was sixteen years old. He was my first—good-looking, cocky, came from the better end of town. He said he loved me and . . . I believed him.”

  She watches her hand move under the water, creating a ripple effect. “And, I know I’m supposed to have this . . . regret . . . about it. Guilt. But I don’t. It was the right decision at the time.”

  “Still,” she continues, “every now and then, I’ll think to myself—I could have a kid right now. He or she would be about nine years old. And I’m not . . . sad . . . exactly, but I wonder what my life would be like, if things had been different.”

  She looks up into my eyes. “Do you think I’m awful?”

  “Not even a little.” I pull her closer against me and kiss the top of her head.

  Her tone is less weighted when she comments a moment later, “I mean, wouldn’t that be crazy? Me—raising a little boy or girl?”

  “Do you want kids?” I ask. “Ever?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know—I’m not sure I’d be any good at it. My mom wasn’t exactly the finest example. I don’t think she was ready to be a mother. I was an accident; Billy was a charity case. She loved us and tried really hard, but nothing was ever . . . stable . . . when I was growing up, you know what I mean? She was always changing jobs, trying to reinvent herself, looking for love in all the wrong places. She’s more of a friend than a parent. I’m afraid her inconsistency could be hereditary.”

  Even though this conversation has gotten way more serious than I ever would have predicted, I can’t stop myself from picturing Dee as a mom. Cruising the city streets in her heels and halter tops, with an infant strapped to her chest in one of those baby-backpack contraptions.

  And in my imaginings, the infant is the perfect blend of us: Dee’s strawberry blond locks, my hazel eyes.

  “I think you’d be a great mom.”

  Warm appreciation melts in her eyes and radiates from her smile. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Delores reminds me a lot of Alexandra, actually. Fierce—fervent in her affection. A giver of tight hugs and plentiful kisses. That’s the makings of the best kind of mom.

  There’s no more talk after that. We stay in the tub until the water turns cold, enjoying the comfortable silence—together.

  Some women won’t appreciate hearing this, but I’m going to say it anyway: You don’t need love to have great sex. The most fantastic sexual experiences of my life didn’t involve emotions at all. They involved women I was pretty indifferent to, actually. I didn’t know them well enough to like them or dislike them. For some, I didn’t even know their names.

  But I knew they were hot—I wanted them, was attracted to them, on a purely physical level.

  Lust is easy. Clear. Exhilarating.

  Love is messy. Confusing. Sometimes scary.

  Lust is powerful. Primal. Driving.

  Love is dubious. Transitory. It can fuck with your head.

  I realize this opinion isn’t absolutely exclusive to men—but statistically speaking, guys are much more likely to get satisfaction from a random, emotionless sexual experience than women are.

  Google it, if you don’t believe me.

  Most women crave feelings with intercourse—they might not even be able to get off without it.

  But Delores Warren isn’t most women. She screwed my brains out the first time we went out. Without knowing me well enough to feel anything, except lust. And it was awesome. For both of us. In fact, she seemed to have preferred it that way.

  Like I said . . . lust is easy.

  But the night after Rosaline invaded my apartment, something changes. Shifts.

  Transforms.

  I don’t just want Dee to come hard, I want to please her. I want her to feel h
appy, cherished—in or outside the bedroom. And I want to be the reason she feels that way.

  She sighs in her sleep, and the sound awakens me. She’s on her stomach, the blanket only covering to her waist, exposing the flawless expanse of her back. I watch her face and wonder what she’s dreaming. Her features are relaxed, smooth—making her appear vulnerable and young.

  Innocent.

  And an ardent protectiveness fills my chest, clenching at my heart. My hand touches her first, softly trailing up her spine. Followed by my lips. My tongue. I taste the sweet saltiness of her skin, from her backbone to her neck.

  “Matthew.” She sighs. And I know she’s awake too.

  She rolls over onto her back, her alert eyes finding mine in the darkness. I push the blanket away, and her thighs open for me. Welcoming me.

  I move onto her, chests pressing, thighs aligning, her hips cradling. And when I kiss her lips, it’s so much more than just a kiss. Different than the others we’ve shared.

  I want her to know what I feel. I want to show her—with every caress, every stroke—what she’s come to mean to me. And more than anything . . . I want to know I mean the same to her. I want to feel it from her.

  I slide into her fully. Her gloriously tight wetness stretches, yields, then clutches at me as I pull back for another thrust. My mouth hovers above hers, our breaths blend, our pants mingle.

  It’s fucking splendid.

  She touches my face, and I kiss her chin, her cheek, her hair, her ear, showering her with my newfound feeling. Our movements are tender . . . not gentle or calm per se, but . . . meaningful.

  Profound.

  Her hips rise up to meet mine, fusing us deeper. I swallow the sob that falls from her lips as she comes before me. I plunge into her, unrelenting, through her orgasm, until I follow with an earth-shattering one of my own.

  Her legs wrap around me, keeping me magnificently imprisoned in her embracing heat. We kiss as we come down, nibbling and biting at each other’s lips. I turn my face into her neck, resting my head against her clavicle, breathing in her scent. Her hands skim my arms and settle on my shoulder blades.

  A few minutes later, I reluctantly pull out. Dee’s arms tighten around me, so I don’t move off of her. We fall asleep in that same position—with my body serving as her heavy blanket, and hers my supple pillow.

  Chapter 14

  Over the days and nights that follow, Delores and I literally spend every night together. She finally opens up and tells me all about her ex-boyfriends. There weren’t as many as you’re probably thinking, but the ones she had were some real winners.

  There was the first prick, of course—the kid who knocked her up, then kicked her to the curb.

  Douche bag number two turned out to be older than he’d first said. Like . . . ten years older. And married. With a kid.

  The asshole after that—this would be during Delores’s college years—stole her bank account information, cleaned the frigging thing out, and took off for Vegas. The dickhead left her a note explaining he had a rampant gambling addiction that he’d been able to keep hidden from Dee for the months they were together.

  And finally—there’s the last gash. The motherfucker who hit her.

  Delores said it only happened once, but once is way too many times for me. She wouldn’t give me his name, but I swear on everything that is holy if I ever learn it? I’ll track the fucker down, go to his place, and break every bone in the hand that touched her.

  Then I’ll break the other one, just to be sure he won’t forget.

  Oh—and then there’s the story of her parents. Delores said her mother and father hooked up hot and heavy, swearing it was instant but lasting love. Until her mom got pregnant. Then her father turned into a ghost and disappeared . . . never to be heard from again.

  Now that I know the details about Dee’s losing streak, everything makes so much more sense. Why she was so nervous in the beginning, even though she liked me—because she liked me.

  It’s a wonder she even trusts me now. After her history, I wouldn’t have been shocked if she threw in the towel and went full-out lesbian.

  But—as cool as that would be—I’m really glad she didn’t.

  The night before Thanksgiving is officially the biggest bar night on the calendar. Every year after the Day-Before-Thanksgiving Office Party, Drew, Jack, and I hit the clubs and party until the sun comes up. It’s a great time. As traditional as turkey, stuffing, and cranberry sauce.

  Although, can I just say, I never got the cranberry sauce thing. Even homemade, it’s fucking nasty.

  Anyway, this year I invite Dee along for the ride—the office party and the after-festivities. I haven’t hung out with the guys in more than two weeks. It happens that way sometimes. When a kid gets a new shiny toy for Christmas, the last thing he wants to do is let his friends play with it. He hordes it, hibernates with it, keeps it to himself, maybe even sleeps with it under his pillow. Then, after a week or two—he’ll let someone else have a turn.

  Not that Jack or Drew are going to have a frigging “turn” with Dee the way they’d probably like—but it’s time to bring her around. Let her get to know the boys so they can see she’s a cool kind of girlfriend. The kind that plays darts and shoots pool and doesn’t put a damper on the good times.

  I call Dee’s cell from outside her apartment building so I don’t have to search for a parking spot for my bike. Then I smoke a cigarette while I wait for her to come down. When she exits the building, I smile appreciatively at her outfit. Black satin pants hug her legs so tightly, they look like they’re painted on. Hot-pink stilettos match her halter top, and she carries a short black jacket in her hand. Her hair is pinned up and curled, drawing attention to the diamond necklace that falls just above her cleavage.

  “Nice necklace,” I tell her as I hand her a helmet.

  She shrugs. “Junk jewelry from QVC.”

  I make a mental note to get her a real one. And the image of Delores dripping in diamonds—and nothing else—brings a leer to my face and a boner to my pants.

  She puts on the helmet but doesn’t climb on the Ducati right away. She stands on the sidewalk, hands on her hips, looking thoughtfully at it.

  “What would you say if I said I wanted to drive your motorcycle to the party?”

  “I’d say you’re shit out of luck. I don’t ride bitch.”

  She knocks me upside the head—but my helmet softens the blow.

  “Then let me take it for a ride myself. Just around the block.”

  “I . . . don’t think so.”

  She pouts.

  I sigh. “Have you ever driven a motorcycle before?”

  “No, but I’ve always wanted to.”

  “Well, I’ve always wanted to fly, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna strap on a squirrel suit and skydive from the goddamn Empire State Building.”

  She steps closer and rubs her placating hands up my chest. “Come on, please? I’ll be really careful and grateful. Really grateful. Like . . . deviantly, let you handcuff me to the bed kind of grateful.”

  Forget the national broadcast system—this is the test.

  Am I going to stick to my man-guns, keep my pride, and protect my cherished vehicle from almost certain carnage? Or, am I going to be ruled by my dick and swayed by the promise of kinky, have-Dee-at-my-mercy-all-night-long sex?

  No contest.

  “Riding bitch it is.”

  I slide back in the seat so she has room to climb on in front of me. Then I show her the clutch, the gas, and—most importantly—the brake.

  You know that saying about your life flashing in front of your eyes before you die?

  By the time we make it to the office building, I can say—without a shred of doubt—it’s totally fucking real.

  I saw my whole life laid out before me. Three times.

  Once for the bus Dee veered in front of. Once for the garbage cans she took out like bowling pins, and once for the cab that almost knocked us sideways.


  Although, that last one wasn’t totally Delores’s fault. New York cabbies are fucking crazy—they’ll take you out without blinking an eye and won’t even check the rearview mirror to make sure you’re dead.

  Leaving my bike safely in the parking deck, Dee and I walk hand in hand into the large, festively decorated conference room. Classic, upbeat music emanates from the DJ’s speakers stationed in one corner, mouthwatering aromas waft from the buffet table along one wall, and the sounds of chatter and laughter fill the room.

  John Evans is good at many things—but throwing a great party is at the top of that list.

  I make the rounds with Dee, introducing her to my coworkers, my executive assistant. We get some drinks from the bar and hang out with Jack O’Shay, who gives us the toned-down version of his latest weekend exploits. I spot my parents across the room—as we head in their direction, Jack catches my eye, points to Dee, and gives me a thumbs-up.

  My mother’s petite—more than a foot shorter than my father who, even now in his later years, stands at six foot two. She’s getting on in years, her poofy light brown hair is a bit grayer since the last time I saw her. But her eyes—the same hazel color as my own—still sparkle with the lively sweetness they’ve always had.

  She was a true debutante, raised to be elegant, poised . . . and silent.

  Legend has it, she met my father when he crashed her coming-out party, and there was an instant infatuation. He was rowdy in those days—a partier—but he was captivated by her calm serenity. She was helplessly attracted to his passion. And despite my grandfather’s threat to disown her, they eloped four weeks to the day after they met.

  My mother doesn’t have a mean bone in her body. She’s soft, virtuous. Her voice is naturally quiet—almost lyrical, like Jackie Kennedy in those historical White House interviews. My father has always been brutally protective of her, and there is nothing—nothing—I remember her ever asking for that he didn’t immediately provide.

  My father greets me with a handshake. “Son.”

  “Hey, Dad.”

  Dee stands beside me as I get a hug from my mom. “Darling.”

  Introducing a girl to your parents can be stressful, particularly if your mother is one of those overly critical, judgmental, no-one-is-good-enough-for-my-boy types. My college roommate’s mother was like that. She cut his girlfriend to pieces for wearing white frigging shorts after Labor Day. Needless to say, she wasn’t his girlfriend for long after that.

  But my parents are easy. My dad, in particular, knows I’m not a saint. He thinks that if I can find a woman willing to put up with me, that’s good enough for him. My mom just wants me to be happy. Her definition of happy is married with 2.5 children and a family pet. Any chick who can make that happen will be welcomed into the family with open arms.

  If she’s able to persuade me to sell my motorcycle—she’ll be extra adored.

  “Mom, Dad, this is Delores Warren.”

  Delores smiles brightly. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Fisher.”

  My father nods. “Likewise.”

  My mother comments, “Those are adorable shoes, Delores.”

  “Thank you. They’re my latest favorite pair—and a lot more comfortable than they look. I can even dance in them and they don’t pinch a bit.”

  “Are you a dancer, dear?” my mother asks.

  “Not professionally.”

  “When I was your age, I loved to dance. I would make Frank take me every chance we had.”

  Since Dee’s glass is almost empty, I take the opportunity to get us both refills from the bar. I see Kate Brooks walk in and recognize the guy standing next to her as Delores’s cousin, from the pictures in her apartment.