Tamed (6 page)

After we get our breaths back, Delores gets up and disappears into the bathroom then exits a few minutes later wearing a multicolored, paisley, silk robe. I grab my pants off the floor, fish out the pack of cigarettes from my pocket, and ask her, “Do you mind?”

She opens a window, then retrieves a half-smoked joint from the wooden jewelry box on her dresser. She holds it up. “Smoke ’em if you got ’em.”

I lay my head back on one bent arm and light up. Dee slides into the bed beside me, putting an ashtray on my chest as she tokes up. Her robe falls open, exposing her magnificently pierced breast. I blow out a line of smoke and run my finger around the ring.

“What’s the story behind this?”

She inhales deeply, smoke escaping her lips as she tells me, “Remember how I told you Billy, Kate, and I grew up together?”

I nod.

“Billy’s the youngest, only by a few months. When he turned twenty-one, we all got trashed celebrating. Kate and Billy had tattoos done. I got pierced.”

I tug gently on the ring, touching and testing it out like a kid with a new toy on Christmas morning. “It’s sexy as hell. But I’m curious, why didn’t you get a tattoo?”

She snuffs out the dead bud in the ashtray. “Tattoos are too much of a commitment. I don’t like having anything on—or in—my body that I can’t get rid of.”

I put out my smoke and move the ashtray to the bedside table. Then I turn on my side to face Dee.

Her hand trails down my stomach and wraps around my cock, brushing her thumb across the foreskin. “What’s the story behind this? I thought all Catholics had to be cut?”

“I think that’s Judaism.” Then I explain, “I was a sickly newborn—nothing major, but enough for my mother to be wary of anything that might’ve caused an unnecessary complication.”

For some insane reason, my parents assumed I’d have a circumcision performed when I was a strong, healthy adult. Like I would ever—
ever
—let a scalpel anywhere near my dick unless my life depended on it.

And maybe not even then.

Yes, in case you’re wondering, there were a few girls in high
school who were slightly . . . unsure about how to proceed with a non–cookie cutter cock. But once they took it for a test ride and realized it works the same as all the other models, it was in high demand.

She continues to stroke me until I’m hard and hot in her hand. Then she looks down and says, “I like it. It’s pretty.”

I grip Delores’s hips, roll onto my back, and lift her over me so she’s straddling my waist. “Okay, you officially suck with adjectives. Pussies are pretty, not dicks.”

Her robe falls fully open and I lick my thumb then press it to her clit to show her just how pretty I think her pussy is.
Fucking gorgeous
.

Dee starts with a giggle but ends with a breathy moan. “Enlighten me. What adjective is suitably masculine for a mighty dick?”

Her hips mimic my thumb’s movements, rotating in tight circles.

“Mighty is a good start. Scary works. Powerful, impressive are always winners.”

I rub with more pressure. Her hips move faster and in ever-widening circles. She pants. “I’ll keep those in mind for next time.” Then she bites her lip and looks me in the eyes. “I love to fuck when I’m high.”

She rises higher on her knees, lining us up.

“I have a feeling I’m going to love it too.”

“Shit, that was awesome,” Dee exclaims into the pillow, where she’s just planted her face.

On my knees behind her, I remove condom number two with a tissue and collapse next to her. “It really fucking was.”

Doggy style never disappoints.

She lifts her head and looks at the bedside clock. “Damn. I have to get up for work in four hours.”

Just to clarify—this is my cue to leave. It’s the nice way of saying,
Thanks for the sex. Good-bye.
Most of my one-night stands aren’t sleepovers. Unless I’m completely wiped out, I prefer to sleep in my own bed.

I stand up and start to get dressed. I zip my pants, but still shirtless, I tell Dee, “I had a great time tonight.”

She rolls over to her back, making no attempt to hide her naked glory. “Me too.”

My eyes trail over her lustrous, after-sex-sheen-covered skin, settling on the nipple piercing that begs for more playtime. “I want to see you again.”

Dee smirks. “You mean you want to screw me again.”

I slip my arms into the sleeves of my shirt and admit, “Baby, that goes without saying.” I pick my pack of cigarettes off the floor and put them in my pocket. “I’ll call you.”

She responds with a short bark of laughter and an eye roll. She grabs the silk robe and stands beside me.

“What?” I ask, slightly confused.

She shakes her head condescendingly. “You don’t have to do that. I’m not the kind of woman you have to make promises to, that you have no intention of keeping. It was fun, let’s just leave it at that. If I never hear from you again, that’s okay too.”

This isn’t the reaction I expect from a chick I spent the last hours giving multiple orgasms to. Most of the time, they’re asking to check my phone to make sure their digits are in my contact list. Demanding specifics—dates and times when their phone will be ringing.

Dee’s attitude is refreshing. And intriguing. And definitely challenging.

As we walk down her hallway, I insist, “That’d be terrific . . . except, you
will
be hearing from me again.”

She pats my shoulder. “Sure I will. But, if it’s all the same to you, I won’t hold my breath.”

I take her hand from my shoulder and kiss her knuckles. She watches. And the smirk falls from her face and is replaced with . . . surprise. Yearning.

“Don’t hold your breath”—I wink—“just make sure you’re waiting by the phone.”

Then she’s smiling again. She holds the door open, but before I step through it, I lean in close and kiss her cheek. “Good night Dee.”

Her hand covers the spot my lips just touched. And her honey-colored eyes meet mine. With a trace of sadness in her voice she says, “Good-bye Matthew.”

When she closes the door behind me, I stick around until I hear all the locks click into place. Then I head home for some well-deserved shut-eye.

O
n Thursday night, there’s a Columbia University fundraising dinner at the Waldorf Astoria hotel. Normally, I’d send a check and skip the dinner. But Alexandra is one of the organizers, so attendance is mandatory. Although raising Mackenzie is a full-time job, Alexandra’s always been an overachiever and a multitasker. Like many of the women in her station—stay-at-home Manhattanite moms with money to spare—she wants to give back to the community. Plus, I think philanthropic activities help her feel connected to the outside world when her everyday life has fallen into a black hole of Barney episodes, macaroni necklaces, and playdates that could easily turn her brilliant brain to mush. Steven says she’s a lot more agreeable when she’s planning an event—but, when D-Day actually arrives, she has a tendency to get stressed out. Bitchy . . . if you will.

You’ve been warned.

I’m standing with Drew and Lexi, overlooking the elegantly
decorated room filled with tuxedo- and cocktail-dress wearing Columbia alums. Seems like a success to me—hors d’oeuvres are being passed, drinks are flowing, chatter and laughter abound. Though her expression is serene, Alexandra’s eyes dart around the room with the exactitude of a long-range sniper, scanning for potential targets.

“Can I leave yet?” Drew asks his sister.

“No,” Alexandra spits out in a way that tells me this isn’t the first time Drew’s submitted this request. “It’s a party—eat, drink, mingle.”

Drew scowls. “You’ve obviously been away from the party scene for far too long. This isn’t a party. This is an excuse for old biddies to whip out their beaded dresses and compare the carats in their diamond rings.” He takes a sip of wine. “Although, the wine is excellent. Good choice.”

Lexi takes a drink from her own glass. “Wine loosens lips . . . and wallets.”

“And tequila makes the clothes fall off,” I offer with an eyebrow wiggle.

Just then an extra-large woman with dark, beehive-styled hair and heavy makeup, wearing a pool-table-green gown, approaches us.

Under his breath, Drew quips, “Let’s hope the tequila is locked up nice and tight.”

“Alexandra, my dear,” she cackles. “You’ve outdone yourself! This soiree will be the talk of the town for days to come.”

Lexi’s hand presses humbly against the chest of her white gown. “You’re too kind, Mrs. Sinclair.”

Sinclair. I know that name. She’s old money—her grandfather made a fortune in steel during the turn of the century construction boon. And her nephew, the heir apparent, is a piss-poor
CEO with a legendary coke habit. Here’s a lesson for you: Money can’t buy class, but it
can
buy a boatload of calamity.

Alexandra turns Mrs. Sinclair’s attention to me. “You’re acquainted with our dear friend Matthew Fisher?”

New York society is a lot like the mob—if you’re not a friend of
ours
or part of
our thing,
they want nothing to do with you.

“Ah, yes,” she says, “you’re Estelle’s boy.”

I nod my head respectfully. “Lovely to see you, Mrs. Sinclair.”

Alexandra continues with, “And have you met my brother, Andrew?”

Drew, ever the gentleman, greets her with a smile. “It’s a pleasure.”

Mrs. Sinclair’s eyes sparkle as she regards him. And she fans herself with one pudgy hand. “No, we haven’t met . . . but I’ve heard such stories about you.”

“Vicious rumors.” Drew winks. “That just happen to be true.”

Judging by her quick breaths and the flush of her cheeks, I’d say there’s a high probability Mrs. Sinclair may actually pass out. It’d certainly add some excitement to the evening. But—she doesn’t. An old friend that hasn’t seen her in years hobbles by and drags Mrs. Sinclair away.

Alone once more, Drew tries again. “
Now,
can I leave?”

“Stop asking me that. We haven’t even sat down to dinner yet,” Alexandra hisses.

Drew doesn’t whine . . . but he’s close. And he speaks for both of us as he says, “But I don’t want to
be
here. I came, I smiled, I wrote you a check. Unlike some people, I actually have better things to do with my time.”

Before the squabble gets too heated, someone across the room catches Alexandra’s attention. Her eyes widen, but her face
falls . . . with disappointment. She ignores her brother and gawks. Drew and I follow her line of vision.

And that’s when I see her.

Almost every guy has a woman like her in his past. For some sad sons of bitches, there’s more than one. The girl who fucked him over, broke his heart, shattered his self respect. They say the first cut is the deepest . . . and she cut me straight to the bone.

Shakespeare wrote, “O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face . . .” And if I didn’t know better, I’d swear he composed it with Rosaline Nicolette Du Bois Carrington in mind.

We met during our second year at Columbia, and we dated seriously for two years. Rosaline is intelligent, charming, an expert equestrian. She wasn’t interested in frat parties or the bar scene, preferring instead to spend her time engaging in highbrow discussions about art and travel. I thought she was perfect: the woman I’d marry, have children with—the girl I’d love when she was wrinkled and gray, and who would love me in return.

Sally Jansen may have been the first girl I ever loved, but Rosaline . . . she was the last.

I haven’t seen her since graduation. Six years. But she looks exactly the same—a heart-shaped face; classic but full cheekbones that make her appear both sophisticated and innocent; crystal blue eyes with an exotic slant; plump, smiling lips; thick, dark-brown tresses; and a long, lean body that would bring any man straight to his knees. I watch her move across the room, her cotton-candy-pink dress swaying with every step.

“Why the fuck would you invite her?” Drew asks.

“I didn’t invite her—Julian’s on the board. I didn’t think they’d show up.”

Julian is Rosaline’s husband. He’s ten years older and about ten times wealthier than any of us.