Twisted (4 page)

know he loves it.

As for my boyfriend—I can’t take my eyes off him. Tan slacks

and a crisp white shirt, the top few buttons open, the sleeves rolled up halfway.

Gorgeous.

We arrive at the restaurant.

I’ve always thought the Latino culture was interesting. The

music. The people. They’re vibrant. Volatile.

Passionate.

All words that describe where we’re dining tonight. It’s dim—

the only illumination comes from the candles on the tables and the twinkling lights on the ceiling. A pulsing rhythm emanates from a

small band of musicians in the corner.

Drew requests in Spanish a table for two.

Yes—he speaks Spanish. And French. he’s working on Japa-

nese. Did you think his voice was sexy? Trust me—until you’ve

heard him whisper blush-worthy phrases in a foreign language, you

don’t know the meaning of the word sexy.

We follow the robust, dark-haired hostess to a table in the cor-

ner.

Now, take a moment to look around. See all the female atten-

tion Drew gets, just by walking through the room? The apprecia-

tive glances, the inviting eyes?

I notice—I always do.

But here’s the thing: Drew doesn’t. Because he’s not looking.

At any of them.

For you guys out there who think looking doesn’t hurt? You’re

wrong. Because we women don’t think you’re just enjoying the

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view. We think you’re comparing, finding us lacking. And that

stings. Like a paper cut on your eyeball.

I’m fully aware that Drew could have any woman he wants—

the model in Beverly hills, the heiress on Park Avenue. But he

picked me. he fought for me. So when we go out, it’s a major boost to my confidence.

Because I’m the only woman he’s looking at.

We sit at the table and scan the menus. “So explain to me again

how you made it through college and business school without ever

drinking straight tequila?”

I laugh at the question, remembering. “Well, back in high

school, we’d have these bonfires—campouts.”

You ever sleep with an empty two-liter soda bottle for a pillow?

It’s not fun.

“So one night, Billy and the guys were drinking tequila—and

Billy swallowed the worm. And then he started to hallucinate. We

were working on amphibian anatomy in bio at the time, and as

messed up as he was, Billy was convinced he was a frog—and that

Delores was trying to dissect him. he hopped off into the woods

by himself, and it took us three hours to find him—with his tongue in the dirt. “I’ve been hesitant to try tequila ever since.”

Drew shakes his head. “Confirming, once again, what I’ve

known all along. Billy Warren is, and always has been, a complete

fucking idiot.”

I’m used to Drew’s digs against Billy. And in this case? he’s not

exactly wrong.

So I tell him, “As long as you don’t to make me swallow the

worm, I’ll give it a go.”

his eyes light up, like a kid in a bike shop. “You know what

this means?”

“What?”

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he wiggles his brows. “I get to teach you how to do body

shots.”

Although I don’t believe you need to be drunk to have great sex,

having a good buzz certainly doesn’t hurt.

Drew and I are in the elevator heading back to our room, both

of us more than tipsy from the tequila. I can taste it on Drew’s

tongue—bitter with a touch of citrus. he has me pinned against

the wall, my skirt bunched up around my hips, and we’re pushing

and grinding against each other.

I’m glad there’s no one else in the elevator—although at this

point? I’m really too far gone to give a damn.

We stumble into the room.

Still groping and kissing.

Drew slams the door and spins me around. In one quick move-

ment he pulls the dress down my body, leaving me bare. Except for

my heels.

I lean over the desk, resting on my elbows. I hear the hiss of a

zipper—and then I feel him. Sliding his cock between my lips—

testing the waters—making sure I’m ready.

I’m always ready for him.

“Don’t tease,” I whimper.

Between the tequila and the elevator, I’m really turned on.

Needy. he pushes in slowly but to the hilt. And I sigh.

Now, we all know the old phrase that bigger is better. And

Drew is big—not that I have a lot to compare him to, but he’s

twice the size of Billy.

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I’m not making you boys out there uncomfortable, am I? News

flash—this is how woman talk. At least when you’re not around to

listen.

Anyway, it’s not really size that makes the man. It’s rhythm—

the pace—knowing how to hit all those delicious spots with just

the right amount of pressure. So the next time you see an infomer-

cial for Cockgrow or Miracle-Dick?

Save your money. Buy the Kama Sutra instead.

Drew grabs my hair, pulling my head back, and moves

quicker. hard and fast. I grip the edge of the desk, holding on

for balance.

he kisses my shoulder and whispers in my ear, “You like that,

baby?”

I moan. “Yes . . . yes . . . so much.”

he thrusts into me with more force, shaking the desk.

And just like that, I’m coming like an out-of-control locomo-

tive.

I’m floating. Weightless.

And it’s sublime.

Drew slows the movement of his hips as I come down, drawing

it out—making it last. he pulls me back against his chest and his

fingers skate up across my stomach and up to my breasts, cupping

and kneading them with both hands.

I raise my arms around his neck, turning my head, bringing

his mouth to mine.

I love his mouth, his lips, his tongue. Kissing is an art form,

and Drew Evans is Michelangelo.

he pulls out of me and I turn around to face him. Backing him

up to the bed. Drew sits on the edge and I climb on, wrapping my

legs around his waist.

God, yes.

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This is how I like it best—chest to chest, mouth to mouth, not

an inch of space between us. I take him in my hand and slide down

onto him. My insides stretch with the fullness and Drew moans.

I rise slowly and slam down hard. Testing the strength of the bed

springs.

Squeak.

Squeak.

I move faster. Deeper. Our bodies are slick from the Mexican

heat.

And then Drew is holding my face in his hands, his thumbs

moving back and forth across my skin. Suddenly tender. Worshipful.

Our foreheads press together and in the dim light I can see his

eyes looking down, watching where he moves in and out of me.

And I look down too.

It’s erotic. Sensual.

I push his hair back from his forehead.

And my voice is begging, “Tell me you love me.”

he doesn’t say it often. he prefers to show me. But I never get

tired of hearing it. Because every time he actually says the words, I’m filled with same wonderment as the first time.

“I love you, Kate.”

his hands still hold my face. Both of us panting—moving

faster—getting closer. It feels spiritual.

A holy communion.

Drew’s voice is hushed. Breathless. “Tell me you’ll never leave

me.”

his eyes are soft now, liquid silver. Pleading for reassurance.

For all his audacity and over-confidence, I think there’s a part

of him that’s still haunted by the week he thought I’d chosen Billy over him. I think that’s why he works so hard to prove how much

he wants me.

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To show me that I chose wisely.

I smile softly and look right into his eyes.

“Never. I’ll never leave you, Drew.”

The words feel like vows.

his hands grip my hips, raising me up, helping me move.

“God, Kate . . .” his eyes close.

And our mouths open, giving and taking each other’s breaths.

he expands inside me, throbbing, as I clamp down hard around

him.

And we come together. In perfect unison.

Perfect splendor.

Afterward, Drew’s arms tighten around me. I touch his face

and kiss him gently. he falls backward on the bed, taking me with

him, keeping me on top. We lie like that for a while until our heart rates come back down and our breathing slows.

And then Drew rolls me under him.

And we do it again.

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The New York City club scene.

Pounding music that only allows for conversation if you’re

a lip-reader. Sweaty guidos in their I’m-too-sexy silk shirts, who think breathing is a sign that you’re interested. Impossibly long

lines at the bar and insanely priced watered-down drinks.

Not really my favorite place to be.

I’m more of a bar girl. Bottled beer, jukeboxes, pool tables—I

can be quite the pool shark when I need to be.

Not that I haven’t enjoyed a good rave or two in my time.

What? You thought pot was the only illegal substance to grace

my bloodstream? Afraid not. Ecstasy, acid, ’shrooms—I’ve tried

them all.

You look a little shocked. You shouldn’t be.

The whole drug culture was started by intellectuals in institu-

tions of higher learning. Don’t even try and tell me Bill Gates came up with Windows—a maze of interconnected, multicolored path-ways—without some serious psychedelic assistance.

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Anyway, despite my preferences, four weeks after Cabo, Drew

and I end up at the hottest club of the moment. With our best

friends, Matthew and Delores. To celebrate their first anniversary.

You didn’t know they got married? It was great. Vegas. Need I

say more?

Delores is into dance clubs. She enjoys any kind of sensory

stimulation. When we were ten, her mother, Amelia, bought her a

strobe light for her bedroom. Delores would sit and stare at it for hours, like it was a crystal ball or a Jackson Pollock painting.

Now that I think about that, it explains a lot.

Anyway, see us there? Delores and Matthew are just walking

off the dance floor, to where I’m sitting in a circle of trendy over-stuffed red chairs. Drew went to get another round.

I’m just too damn tired to dance tonight. Delores falls into the

chair next to me, laughing.

I yawn.

“You look like shit, Petunia.”

A good friend should be able to tell you anything. Maybe your

boyfriend’s screwing around, or a dress makes your love handles

hang over like a shar-pei’s skin? In either case, if they’re not brave enough to tell it like it is? They’re not your best friend.

“Thanks, Dee Dee. Love you too.”

She flips her long blond hair back, crimped and shining with

glitter for this evening’s festivities. “I’m just saying, you look like you could use a spa day.”

She’s not wrong. I’ve been exhausted all week—that full-body

type of weariness that feels like you’re carrying weights on your

ankles and your ribs. Yesterday, I actually fell asleep at my desk.

Maybe I’m coming down with the flu that’s going around.

Delores fans herself with her hand. “Where the hell is Drew

with those drinks? I’m dying here.”

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he’s been gone a few minutes, which isn’t unusual in a place

like this.

Still, my eyes scan the room.

And then they find him. By the bar, drinks in hand, talking to

a woman.

A beautiful blond woman with legs as long as my whole body.

She’s wearing silver stilettos and a sequined minidress. She

looks . . . fun. You know the type—one of those cool girls who

guys love to hang out with because they burp and watch sports.

She’s smiling.

More important, Drew is smiling back.

And do you see the way she’s leaning toward him? The tilt of

her head? The subtle rubbing of her thighs?

They’ve had sex. No doubt about it.

Son of a bitch.

This isn’t the first time I’ve been faced with one of Drew’s

past random hookups. In fact, it’s pretty much an everyday occur-

rence—the waitress at Nobu, the bartender at McCarthy’s Bar

and Grill, several random patrons at Starbucks. Drew is polite but brisk, paying them no more attention than an old classmate from

high school whose name you can’t quite remember.

So it doesn’t normally bother me.

But like I said, this isn’t a normal week. Fatigue has made me

short-tempered. Overly sensitive. Pissed off.

And he’s still fucking talking to her.

She puts her hand on his arm, and my inner cavewoman

pounds her chest like King Kong in drag. There’s an empty glass

in front of me. Remember Marcia Brady and the football? Think I

could reach them from here?

have you ever noticed that serial killers and mass murderers

are almost always male? That’s because men like to spread agony

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