ROMAN (Lane Brothers Book 5) (39 page)

“You cannot wear that on a date,” Chrissie gasps in horror as she takes in my knee length sweats and old NYU t-shirt with a sneer. What? He’d said casual and comfortable. This is what I wear on quiet nights at home.

“We’re having dinner at his place. He said I should be comfortable,” I defend, watching her rip into my closet with a shriek of impatience.

Her hair has a few new highlights I hadn’t noticed when she’d blown in, demanding a girls’ night. I love girls’ nights with her, but sex nights have her trumped, and I’ve told her so.

“You look like you’re ready to scrub toilets. Why is your closet so empty? God, is that a pair of cargo pants?” she accuses, and I cringe with embarrassment.

No woman under the age of fifty should own a pair, and I know it. I just like them so much.

“Don’t make tonight into such a big deal. I’ve exfoliated, shaved and buffed, and I even spritzed perfume in my hair. It’s fine.”

“You’re having sex tonight. I know, it’s your third date. I will not let you wear that on your first sex night with that man candy. You should be ashamed, Hannah,” she mutters, and I nod in agreement.

My choice of attire is not so much about comfort as it is my need to prove to myself that I don’t care what Gregory Lucas thinks. The fact that my crotch is currently a pantie-free zone tells me how much I am lying to myself.

“Fine then, find me something casual and sex-worthy. If you can,” I dare with a smirk.

Nothing in my closet will ever fit that description, and I know it. I hear her growling with every inspection, until finally she comes out with a white knee length skirt with tiny pink flowers embroidered at the hem and a soft pink t-shirt that’s just a shade lighter.

“Here, this will have to do.”

I change in the bathroom, glaringly conscious that I am naked beneath the skirt, and come out to see her wielding my curling iron.

“Sit.”

She doesn’t go full Monty on my hair, but adds a few soft curls at the end that give me a very girl-next-door kind of look and smears a swipe of gloss over my lips.

“There.”

“Oh, gosh.”

“Yeah. See what a little effort can do?” she asks as I follow her to the door, only to open it to Gregory…

“Well, hello there.”

I can’t blame her for the slightly breathless quality her voice has discovered; I’m breathless too as I take in the worn jeans that sit on his hips just so and a red t-shirt that…wow, his suits really do not do his physique justice.

Gregory Lucas obviously works out. A lot.

“Hi. Han, you ready to go?” he asks, grinning when Chrissie gives me the thumbs up, blatantly checks out his ass, and skips into her apartment with an airy ‘lucky bitch’.

“That’s Chrissie, my neighbor,” I say, grabbing my door and closing it behind me.

He takes my keys and locks up, something I’ve never seen outside of movies, and I feel something frighteningly close to actual like as he enfolds my hand and pulls me along.

It’s only when we’re in the car — this time driven by the man himself — that I feel steady enough to speak.

“Sooo, where are we going?”

“My place.”

“I know that. Where?”

“I have a house in Garden City. It’s been in the family for a while, and it needed some TLC. I revamped it, and it’s home now.”

Okay, wow. I could work an entire lifetime and not afford a house there. Anyone who lives there makes more, way more, than the average income. But it’s weird, I had pictured Gregory living in some glitzy Upper East or West penthouse, not an actual home.

“You don’t mind the commute?”

“Nah, I stay in the city when my schedule’s crammed, but I like to go home and stay for long periods. I’m planning to move there permanently once the ad campaign is squared away.”

It takes a little over thirty minutes to reach the well-heeled residential area, and when he hits a remote for a large, wrought iron gate and slowly creeps up the drive, I am left speechless.

It’s not a mansion like the kind you see on those Beverly Hills shows, but the place is breath-taking. A Spanish style home sits nestled among bright green lawns I’m dying to roll across, and I’d bet next month’s salary there’s a pool.

“Good God, it’s beautiful. You must have spent a fortune revamping.”

“Thanks. Come on.”

The interior is even better. It’s spacious and homey and everything you could ask for in a home.

“Stop gawking and come to the kitchen. We’re eating in there.”

I follow as he leads the way and take the chair he’s holding out for me.

“It’s nothing special. Just cold turkey and salad. I thought you’d like that instead of the mac and cheese Rose usually makes on a Friday when I’m home.”

“That’s great.”

I am nervous and tense while we eat because I know that this time is the only concession he’s going to make. Once dinner is done he’ll be done waiting.

“Stop fidgeting, Hannah. I don’t bite,” he chides, and I look up from my plate to see him staring implacably.

“Sorry, I’m a little nervous, if you want the truth.”

“Why? You knew what would happen when you accepted my invitation.”

Yeah, but wanting something and actually doing it are worlds apart. I’m not shy or anything, just uncertain and…okay I’m feeling somewhat shy.

Gregory is so…built, and while I take care of myself, I’m not exactly a supermodel.

“Can I help with the dishes?” I ask, not wanting to admit my sudden uncertainty, and I see a dark smile bloom on his face.

“Come here, Hannah,” he says, pushing everything to the side to clear the area in front of him.

I blink, and he pats the table firmly.

“Come here, Hannah.”

My legs tremble when I stand and skirt the table, coming to a stop to his right. He grabs me by the hips and lifts me, sitting me down so that he is at eyelevel with my chest.

“Did you listen this time, darlin’?”

He hasn’t even touched me, and yet I feel myself clench, wanting him, needing him to do something. I nod wordlessly and hold my breath when his hands slide up my thighs, gathering my skirt and pushing up as his rough fingers glide over my flesh. By the time my skirt is bunched at my hips, I’m breathing hard and twitchy.

“Good girl, darlin’,” he coos approvingly. “Open for me.”

I do, and am rewarded when he sucks in a breath before lowering his head, his lips ghosting over my inner things and then settling at the top of my cleft.

“I’ve been thinking about this since that night. It wasn’t enough. I need to know if you taste as good as I remember.”

I cry out and arch, pushing closer when his hot mouth settles on my clit and starts sucking in a steady rhythm that has pleasure clenching deep inside my sex.

I’ve never been this turned on with nothing more than a look and the touch of a man’s mouth, and yet, as he flicks his tongue over me and rubs, I feel my orgasm hurtling at me with a speed that robs me of breath.

He groans, the reverberation intensifying my pleasure, and growls when I pull his head closer and throw my head back, so consumed by the sensations I can’t help the gasping, mewling sounds that echo around us.

“Take it, Hannah. Come,” he orders, and I obey him, exploding in a series of waves that leave me gasping for breath.

He laps until he’s wrung every shudder from me and then stands, swinging me up and into his arms. We’re moving, climbing, and then we’re in his room, a huge space dominated by a California king draped in white and blue sheets.

“Undress for me,” he whispers into my hair, releasing my legs to slide me to my feet.

It takes but seconds to release the zipper on my skirt and pull my shirt up and over my bra-less breasts. When I’m done, he’s as naked as I am, and I take a minute to stop and stare at his beauty. He’s muscled, but not overly so, and I especially like the way his hips are cut to form an enticing vee down to his cock.

“On the bed, darlin’,” he growls, cutting my perusal short.

“But—”

“Now, Hannah, darlin’. I’m hanging on by a thread.”

I lie back, forcing my arms to my sides as he stops at the foot of the bed and crawls up to me.

“You protected, darlin’?”

What? No. I shake my head and see his disappointment as he leans over and reaches into the nightstand. The tear of foil echoes around us, and I close my eyes, wishing I’d thought of this. I am never so irresponsible that protection doesn’t even cross my mind.

Gregory leans down and kisses me, his tongue invading my mouth in quick jabs that prove his desire. We kiss for minutes, long enough that a tight knot of tension forms low in my belly, and I know I will soon be desperate for him.

“Guide me in, darlin’,” he groans, pushing my hand down over our bellies until I wrap my fingers around his girth.

He’s hot and pulsing when I lodge him at my entrance, and I want to play a little more, explore him, but he drags my hand up and into the one pinning my other wrist above my head, and fills me in one hard thrust.

I moan from the pinch as my tight sheath accepts him and push back, wanting him harder. He obliges, setting a strong, steady rhythm that would have me sliding up the bed but for his hold on me.

“Oh, oh yes. Please.”

I have no idea what I’m begging for, but I let my pleasure out in a series of breathless moans as he fucks me to orgasm and sends me over. I explode as before, but this time the feeling is so much deeper, stronger.

“That’s it, darlin’, come for me,” he hisses, thrusting twice more before hitting deep and stilling, his body shuddering so fiercely I feel it inside. He lets me go and drops to the bed, his face buried in the pillows as we pant for air.

I feel blissed out and achy in a good way, so ready to snuggle down into the pillows and take a nap. He rolls over and sighs before rising and grabbing his pants.

“I’ll go get you some water while you dress.”

My mind blanks for a second before mortification hits me. That is a dismissal if ever I’ve heard one — which, by the way I haven’t — and I realize that now that he’s had his fill, he expects to take me back home and…

I feel cheaper than the day my ex walked out of court crowing about alimony. Thank God he’d ‘fallen in love’ last year and remarried, or I would have had a mental breakdown from the payments.

But all that aside, I am being dismissed, cruelly and with no regard to my pride. Like a goddamned hooker. I’m speechless and don’t quite know how to respond as I lie there and take it in.

I hear a sound somewhere in the house and jump to my feet, throwing my clothes on and ducking into the bathroom. By the time Gregory returns with the water I am back to rights and sitting on the bed — which I’ve remade — as composed as I can be right now.

If I feel like crying and running away in shame and mortification, I hide it and force myself not to react the way another woman probably would.

Screw Gregory Lucas. Oh right, I’ve already done that.

Bastard.

“Here you go, darlin’,” he says, handing me a glass of icy water.

“Thank you.”

I am proud that my voice doesn’t so much as waver, and I drink the water quickly before handing the glass back and rising.

“I just need to find my purse and shoes,” I say over my shoulder as I make my way to the stairs and down to the kitchen.

I find my purse on the counter where I left it and crawl beneath the table to retrieve my shoes, slipping them on and rising gracelessly to my feet.

When I turn he’s standing in the doorway, a strange expression on his handsome face.

“What?”

“You’re taking this really well,” he says slowly, and I resist the urge to slap his smug face.

Well? He thinks I’m taking this well? I have never been this insulted in my entire life, and that’s saying something, considering my divorce fiasco. But what the hell else does he expect? I will not give him a show and start sobbing, or even revile him for this.

No, I don’t expect a goddamned relationship, but being treated like a hooker…I want to laugh when I realize I’m worse off. All I got for his pleasure was dinner and a five second stay at his house.

“Look, Greg.” I stress his name with relish and cock my head. “If you don’t mind, I can still make it home on time to go on a girls' night with Chrissie.”

His face hardens, and I smile cheerily, ignoring the deep wound of shame that’s tearing at my insides.

Well, let this be a lesson, Hannah Newman. When your mind tells you to run, fucking run.

“You’re kidding!” Chrissie yells, slamming a fist into the sofa cushion as I try to inhale a gallon of vanilla ice cream.

“Nope. We ate, we fucked, he threw me out. End of story,” I say, throwing my head back to squeeze chocolate syrup into my mouth.

I am not proud of being this hurt by his treatment. I’m even ashamed that my go-to at times like these is so much junk food my up till now sugar-free body will probably go into shock.

I need it, okay? I feel worse than bubble gum under a fat person’s shoe. And Chrissie isn’t helping.

“That piece of shit!” she yells, springing to her feet to pace.

“Yup.”

“That piece of sewer-processed rat shit!”

“Yup.”

“And you didn’t kick him in the balls?” she asks for the millionth time.

I can understand her frustration, but seriously, he hasn’t just sex dumped
her
.

“I told you what I said and did, Chris. There’s nothing more, nothing less,” I say around another spoon of chocolate-covered ice cream.

“Well, this is just pathetic! Get up and go put on the dress I gave you. Now!”

Whoa.

“Why? I just want to sit here and stew a little bit before going into a sugar coma,” I say glumly.

“I said, get your ass up and get dressed. There are a lot of other guys you could be doing right now who wouldn’t treat you like a venereal disease. We’re going out,” she says decisively.

Oh crap.

***

“Is this great or what!”

I turn away from Joe…Something, I can’t quite remember, and smile brightly at where Chrissie is rubbing up against a conquest down the bar.

Yup, this is pretty great, I think, downing my seventh tequila shooter as Joe eggs me on. I can’t believe I wanted to stay home and mope. I also can’t believe I’ve spent the last three years trying to turn myself into a robot when there’s so much more to life than asshole husbands. And recent sex partners who treat you like crap.

No, there are genuinely nice guys like Joe, who want nothing more than a few good dates and some sex. I mean, I can do that. So what if Joe doesn’t have golden blonde locks that curl ever so sexily, or eyes the colour of smoky whisky.

I like Joe. He makes me feel desirable and wanted, not cheap and degraded.

“I mean, can you believe that, Joe?” I ask again, taking a slug of lukewarm beer.

“No, baby, the guy’s an idiot. You stick with Joe and you’ll get the five star treatment,” he assures me, sliding a fresh beer my way.

My stomach chooses that moment to heave precariously, and I swallow and wave as I dodge and weave my way to the bathroom. I am not used to drinking this much, and it’s showing as I fall into a stall and puke till my liver tickles my throat.

“Oh, Gooooood.”

“You okay, Han?”

My moan of suffering makes her giggle, and I raise my head enough to shoot a mascara-smeared glare at her.

“I think…need go…” I swallow convulsively and puke again. “Home.”

“Well, come on then, lightweight, let’s get you home.” She laughs, and I allow her to sling my arm over her shoulder and walk me out into the fresh summer air.

“You like Joe?”

“Eh. He’s okay I guess,” I slur, falling into the cab.

By the time we reach our building and pay the cabbie, I’m almost unconscious.

“You okay, Han?” Chrissie asks when we hit the elevator, and I turn green from the swift upward motion.

“M’great! I just need a few minu’s till my stomach settles. Screw him!” I yell suddenly, feeling the need to vent.

We’re giggling while singing the chorus to
Scrubs
as we stumble off and wobble our way to my door. Chrissie stop abruptly, and I teeter on my heels so violently we fall against the wall.

It’s only when she doesn’t help me up that I realize something’s wrong, and I look up to see Gregory leaning against my door.

“Aagh! You!”

“What the hell is wrong with her?” he growls at a mutinous Chrissie, grabbing at my arms to keep me steady as I rise.

“We went out to celebrate her first sex since her divorce three years ago,” she snarls through thin lips and narrowed eyes. “We thought she should at least earn her hooker badge, since she got treated like one.”

I giggle, unaccountably amused by the way she’s phrasing everything, until I realize she’s telling him exactly what I strove so hard to deny at his house.

“Sshh,” I hiss into her ear.

“No! If he’s got the balls to do it he can most certainly cop to it. So what are you doing here, Mr Big Shot? Decided one round of whorehouse wasn’t enough for the night?”

Gregory narrows his eyes at her and snarls.

“She’s falling down drunk!”

“Better than her crying while she eats a gallon of ice cream!”

I watch as they glare at each other, their stances so aggressive it’s like watching two lions circling a carcass. I’m the carcass, apparently, and while I am drunk, I am most certainly not too drunk to put them straight.

“Chrissie, thanks for a great night. Go home,” I say softly, shaking my head when she tries to argue. When her door slams shut I turn to Gregory and give him a scornful onceover from head to toe and back again. “You can go home too, thank you.”

At least I’m stone cold sober now. Being confronted by him like this is like cold water to the face. Not invigorating, just painfully sobering.

“Go home,'” I hiss, adding a ‘go screw yourself’ under my breath.

With that I march to my door, determined to have the last word if it kills me. Look, I may not be from the Upper sides, and I may not wear designer labels — except for that one time with Margery’s dress, but I’ve prayed on it and asked forgiveness — but I am most certainly not deserving of his treatment.

Anyway, we’ve had sex, I know what that’s like — wonderful — and I’ve promised myself I won’t go looking for anything more. He’s done me a favor by being such an ass, really he has, because if he weren’t I may have started liking him more than is wise.

“Hannah. I need to—”

“Get your ass off my doorstep,” I finish, swinging my door open and turning back.

He stays where he is, staring at me with a look I cannot define, and that makes me angrier than I already am.

“Please just listen. I need to explain,” he says softly.

“Nope. You had your chance to act like a human being, and you blew it. I wasn’t looking for anything more than what you were offering anyway, so we can call it done and move on. I don’t want to see you again.”

I close the door and collapse back, waiting for his footsteps to recede. A moment later I hear him stalk away, and then the elevator doors closing with a ding.

Good riddance. If I never see that man’s too-handsome face again, it’ll be way too soon.