Just Listen (9 page)

Clare James is the author of steamy contemporary romance and new adult novels: BEFORE YOU GO, MORE, DIRTY LITTLE LIES, TALK TO ME, and JUST LISTEN She’s also a former dancer, and still loves to get her groove on—mostly to work off her beloved cupcakes and red wine.

A fan of spunky women, gorgeous guys, and super-hot romance, Clare spends most of her time lost in books. She lives in Minneapolis with her two leading men—her husband and young son—and loves to hear from her fans.

Find her at:

www.clarejamesbooks.com

@clarejamesbooks

http://www.facebook.com/clarejamesauthor

CONTINUE READING for a special excerpt of Clare James stand-alone erotic romance, DIRTY LITTLE LIES, out now.

Dirty Little Lies
©

By

Clare James

Looking around the room makes me itchy. Excessive, though impressive, female skin adorn the space, while beautiful male forms scatter throughout the swanky condo like props on a movie set. Decorated in glass and steel, the place is cold and sterile. Much like the guests. The men are all some version of a Ken Doll—most likely hung like one too—donning various cuts of Armani. Normally, I’d say Armani is hot. But here it’s so common and unoriginal, the men look like they belong in a Dockers commercial.

Typical corporate soirée for Chicago’s young and successful.

Personally, I’ve always detested the Ken Doll. I was more of a James Bond action figure kind of gal. My grandmother found one at a garage sale when I was ten and I kid you not, he was my first love. Maybe because he reminded me of Bogie from all the classics Granny and I watched together.

How I’d love to be cuddled up watching those old movies right now, but I promised Max. Attending work functions is definitely one girlfriend duty I could do without. Plus, I don’t know why Max would even want me here. I’m so out of place. All the women are perfectly posed in their sculpted Pilates bodies—golden and dewy—draped in tiny, strappy little numbers. I, other the other hand, am secured in my modern-day girdle and vintage dress. With coiffed hair, matte face, and pale lips to match. I was going for Ingrid Bergman, but have a feeling it’s coming off more like the sad librarian who lives with her cats.

I was born in the wrong time. I’m sure of it.

“One hour,” Max says. “I promise.”

“I’m okay,” I tell Max, taking a crab cake from one of the servers, who gives me an ear-to-ear grin in return. I’m sure I’m his first female customer all night. The ladies in attendance aren’t really known for eating.

“Go ahead, babe,” I say. “Mingle. Talk business. I’ll follow along.”

“Come on,” he says, dragging me over to a group of Kens. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

I raise my brows and he stops, giving me a look that I haven’t seen for quite some time. A look that shoots right to my lady parts.

“I won’t let you down,” he whispers in my ear.

Could it be? The end to the dry spell?

On the off chance I’m right, I really do it up. I am the perfect G.F. all night. Laughing at the lame jokes, making small talk, smiling until my cheeks ache. I am rewarded. There is sizzle between Max and I the entire evening—genuine sizzle!

I am so getting laid tonight.

***

One hour and twenty minutes later—

Max has my legs in the air as he pushes into me, and I gasp for breath.

Well, this is new.

Oh my stars, he might actually get me there this time.

Please God, please deliver the O ... it’s been more than a freaking year.

“Max,” I say, without realizing it’s almost a yell.

He stares down at me, and the moonlight shines on his face with an expression I can’t quite understand. Pain maybe? Worry? Horniness? It’s been so long, I’m not sure what to make of it. Frankly, I can’t be bothered. My insides are tingling in anticipation of what he’s going to do next. Max stretches my arms over my head and locks my wrists in one of his large hands, taking his time as he rocks into me. I close my eyes at the surprisingly pleasant feeling of each movement.

It’s a goddamn revelation, and I say a silent prayer of gratitude.

Each thrust is foreign to me. Hell, Max is foreign to me. Where has this guy been for the last year? There’s a pulling in my core, one that says he just might get me there. Yes, something is definitely off with him—in a completely delicious way.

I stare at his beautiful face: tan, chiseled, adorned with full lips. He’s a Ken Doll, but edgier—like he’s trying to break free from the mold. A mass of sandy hair dips close to his big blue eyes. They’re close tightly now, full of concentration. My gaze travels down his strong, tight body. I keep pace with each movement, longing for a happy ending.

He is so fantastically deep and grows almost crazed with his movements. I let him take me and take control, enjoying the friction between our bodies. He’s really doing it this time. I’m climbing, climbing, legs trembling with the promise of release. Then he shifts the angle, and I start to lose it.

Noooooo!

My eyes pop open. It’s like an alarm, waking me into the present, one where I’m never allowed to come. I try to turn off my mind and focus on the task at hand. Shutting my eyes, I go through all the scenarios that usually do the trick when I’m alone: a dirty delivery from the scrumptious UPS guy, being ravaged by the new intern at the design shop, or a gorgeous commuter taking me in the back of the ‘L’ on the way to work.

Nada.

I know of about five other ways he could get me off, but after he freaked out when he first saw my toy box, I know better. No, I’m sure he wouldn’t take too kindly if I asked him to pass me my vibe right now. So I’m stuck to mental play only. Sadly, even my mother of all fantasies—yoga threesome—doesn’t get me there. Max has no trouble, however. He squeezes his eyes shut, grunts a few times, and rolls off me.

Shit. Fuck, fuck. Shit.

“Maxxxxxx!” His name echoes through the apartment, but it’s not my voice bouncing off the walls. No, I’m too frustrated to move. It’s Free Bird, our little cockatoo, making all the racket. Yeah, his name is completely ridiculous, but Max insisted. And though Max’s bedroom antics leave much to be desired, his romantic gestures are hard to resist—he brought Free Bird home on our six-month anniversary to keep me company when he traveled. It was the same month we moved in together.

Free Bird understands my pain. Born in captivity, the poor little guy has never had a proper lay. I haven’t had one since … well, I can’t even go there. It’s just too sad.

Yeah, my sex life with Max sucks balls. He knows it; I know it. It’s just the way it is, and we’ve come to accept it because everything else in our relationship is great. Seriously great. So we deny our pissed-off libidos and go through the motions.

The first time Max was unable to seal the deal, I told myself,
hey no big deal
. It’s all part of being in a relationship. The second time? I chalked it up to whiskey dick after too much Jesus juice at a holiday party. Once we got into the double digits, though? I started looking for an escape route.

But when I told Tia I was going to dump Max after three months, she thought I was being my typical flighty self. “You lasted longer than I thought you would.” She grinned with that knowing look covering her face.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Let’s just say you don’t have a long attention span when it comes to men. Or careers, apartments, hair color …”

“Okay, okay.” I waved my white flag. I didn’t want to hear any more. It was the same thing my parents had been telling me for years.

“It’s okay, Stevie.” Tia wrapped her arm around me. “It’s just how you are. And I love you for it.”

Of course, she was right. In the past five years I’ve had: five jobs, four apartments, six hair colors, and countless relationships that never seemed to go anywhere. It was embarrassing actually, and I didn’t want her to love me for it. I didn’t want to be that girl.

So I stuck it out with Max.

By the time I realized our sex life was hopeless, I had already fallen in love with the shmuck. The way he could make hanging in for dinner and a movie fun; the sweet look in his eyes when I came home from work; how he always made me feel safe and wanted. No, it wasn’t hot and heavy like I had with some guys, but it was comfort and love and security. Real grown-up stuff. And considering I turn thirty this year, I’d say it’s about time.

Max opens his eyes and that painful look is still there. It kills me. This is usually the part where we slip away from each other. Where we drum up the courage to pretend there’s nothing wrong. This time, I want to be close to him—like I was for that brief moment when my orgasm stood at third base, waving me home. I want to get that connection back.

I snuggle into the crook of his neck, my favorite spot in the entire world, and run my hand along the peaks and valleys of his chest. I feel his muscles tighten under my palm. Whether that’s a good sign or not, I haven’t a clue.

“That was yummy,” I whisper, because it really was. Even without the happy ending.

Max doesn’t acknowledge my comment with words. He simply kisses the top of my head and slides off me.

I go into the bathroom to clean up, frustrated beyond words. Not just because of orgasm denial … again. No, it’s Max’s reaction. The way he just falls inside himself and doesn’t even try to fight. I’m tired of it. This time I will not take it lying down. I march back into the bedroom to take what’s mine. Seize the O. Instead, I’m welcomed back to bed by a virtually comatose Max, snoring like an elephant in heat.

For fuck’s sake.