Tamed (12 page)

By Monday night, I’m well enough to return to my own apartment. You’d think after almost two full days away, I’d miss it—be glad to be home. But it feels . . . quiet. Boring, even.

I develop the pictures I took with Dee at the park. And while I wait in the darkroom, I think about the last time I was here. With her. Her wet mouth, the stroke of her soft tongue, the way her cheeks hollowed out when she sucked me dry.

As my memory runs wild, I just barely contain the pussy-whipped urge to call Delores and implore her to come over. I succeed, but only because we already made plans for her to hang out here Wednesday night.

As far as I’m concerned, Wednesday can’t come soon enough.

On Wednesday afternoon, I meet Alexandra downtown for lunch.

The weather is mild, so we sit at a sidewalk table outside. I take a bite of my burger while Alexandra crunches a salad with grilled shrimp. Then I tell her, “So . . . I’ve met someone.”

Growing up with Drew, I always regarded Lexi as my older sister, but the fact that we didn’t share the same genes, or actually have to live together, made our relationship much less contentious than the one she has with her brother. She looks out for me, but she doesn’t “mother” me the way she does with Drew. She gets annoyed by my screwups, but she doesn’t feel responsible for them. For me, it’s the best of both worlds—all the benefits of a big sister without the pain in the ass headaches.

“From what I hear, you and my brother ‘meet’ lots of women.”

I grin. “This one I like.”

She nods. “Once again, you and Drew ‘like’ a whole bunch of poor, unsuspecting ladies. Why is this one worth mentioning?”

“I
like
her, like her.”

Alexandra’s blue eyes widen. “Wow. A
Wonder Years
reference. This must be serious. Do tell.”

My eyes abashedly drop to my burger. “Her name is Delores.”

“That’s kind of random.”

“She’s . . . different.”

Lexi tries to pull more details out of me. “Like . . . she has three breasts kind of different?”

I laugh. “No. But, for the record, it wouldn’t be a strike against her if she did. She’s . . . cool. I have a good time talking with her, you know? She says she’s not into relationships, but I think I’m hoping I can change her mind. I haven’t felt like this since . . .”

Alexandra puts up her palm. “Don’t. Do not even say the foul beast’s name. I’m trying to eat here.”

“Anyway, I’m not sure if it’s going anywhere, but I . . .”

I don’t get the opportunity to finish my sentence. Because a wave of icy, red liquid splashes in my face.

Tastes like cherry.

“Lying motherfucker!”

I swipe my face, clearing the fluid off my eyelashes. When my vision clears, I see Delores standing on the sidewalk—with a now-empty Slurpee cup clenched in her hand.

Which she proceeds to throw at my fucking head.

“All that talk about not hooking up with other people! Exclusive fuck buddies, you said! I would’ve liked you if you had just been straight with me! I
knew
it—I knew you were just another false-faced bastard who doesn’t like to share his sex toys but has no problem playing with a different one!”

By this time, Alexandra and I are both on our feet. And I have no idea what’s going on.

I try, “Delores . . .”

But she cuts me off. “Four days! You tell me four days ago that you’re
not interested in screwing anyone else, and here I find you with . . . with . . .”

Lexi holds out her hand for a shake. “Alexandra Reinhart.”

Dee’s incendiary glare turns to Lexi. But her tirade stops as she wonders. “Reinhart. How do I know that name?”

She lets me answer. Finally. “She’s Mackenzie’s mother.”

If you look closely, you can almost see our previous conversation replaying in Delores’s eyes. “Mackenzie . . . the pseudo niece?” Her head turns more fully to me. “That means she’s . . .”

“The girl I grew up with—yes. Drew’s sister.”

Alexandra takes over for me. “Drew’s sister, Steven’s wife, daughter of John and Anne. I have many designations. One, in particular, is about to be put to good use.”

It’s times like this I suspect Alexandra knows about her nickname. And it scares me.

A lot.

Alexandra’s eyes stay on Dee, but she says to me, “I see what you meant about different.” Then to Delores, “You must be Delores. Matthew was just telling me about you. I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but I’ve reached my bullshit quota for the week.”

Alexandra circles her slowly—like a shark checking out a wounded seal. “You know, Delores, my mother used to tell me that even though a man wasn’t supposed to ever strike a woman, I should never take advantage of that. That I should never act without expecting an equal and deserving reaction.”

Dee folds her arms across her chest and stands stubbornly tall under the weight of Lexi’s disapproving gaze.

“Matthew’s explained our relationship to you. He’s like a second brother to me. And of the two of them? He’s the nicer one. You should keep that in mind before you think about tossing Icees at his head again.”

Dee gives just a little. She looks down at the sidewalk and mutters defensively, “It was a Slurpee.”

Alexandra snaps her fingers at me. “Give me your shirt and jacket.”

After taking off my tie, I hand the items to her and stand on the sidewalk in a plain white undershirt and gray slacks. Dee reaches for the stained clothes in Lexi’s hands. “I’ll pay to have them dry-cleaned.”

Alexandra rolls her eyes. “The dry cleaners won’t be able to get this out. Luckily, I have a homemade paste that should save the day.” She says to me, “You can pick it up Saturday.”

She puts her hands on my shoulders and kisses my cheek while wiping some remaining red slush off my ear with a napkin. “I have to get going. Good luck—you’re going to need it.”

Before Alexandra leaves, Dee offers, “I hope the next time we meet, it’ll be under better circumstances.”

And Alexandra responds, “I seriously doubt we’ll be meeting again. Matthew’s sweet, not stupid.” Then she grabs her purse and walks down the street.

Dee and I watch her go.

Almost to herself Dee says, “Is she always that much of a bitch?”

I smile. “It’s what she does.” Then I run a hand through my sticky, stiff hair. “What the fuck, Dee?”

The arm folding is back, and she babbles, “I’m not apologizing. It was a natural mistake. I told you I’m not good at this. Apparently, I even screw up fuck buddies. I was walking around on my lunch break, and I couldn’t believe it when I saw you. What else was I supposed to think? If you want to blow me off, that’s your decision to make, but I’m not sorry.”

I grasp her shoulders, dip my head, and shut her the hell up
with a deep kiss. Then I tell her, “I’m not blowing you off. And you don’t have to apologize.”

I know, I know—
are you out of your fucking mind, Matthew?
No, I’m not nuts—I just don’t mind a chick with passion, spark. And a little possessiveness is no big deal. Plus, as Barney Stinson has already explained, Delores is hot enough to be as bat-shit crazy as she wants to be, and I still won’t kick her out of bed.

Of course, that doesn’t mean I’m going to let her get by without payback. Which is why I pull her tight against me and rub my head against her face and hair. Spreading the love—and as much of the Slurpee as I can.

“Ah!” she yells and laughs and smacks me on the back.

Eventually, I lean away and say, “There. Now we’re even.” I kiss her lips quickly. “I’m going to head home for a shower.” Then I get an awesome idea. “You want to join me?”

She’s smiling as she rubs the stickiness off her cheek. “I have to get back to work.”

I nod. “But I’ll see you tonight?”

“Sure.”

It’s only as she’s walking away that I notice the white lab coat she’s wearing over her black leather dress, purple tights, and high leather boots. I call out, “Hey, Dee?”

She turns.

“Bring the lab coat home with you tonight. And a pair of safety goggles if you’ve got them.” You may think it’s too early in our relationship for role play. But I’ll tell you a secret:
It’s never too early for role play.

F
or the next few nights, Delores and I hang out. We go dancing at clubs and stay in; we start movies but miss the endings; we have long hours of sweaty sex—the kind you feel dirty about afterward and can’t wait to do all over again.

We also talk—surprisingly. In bed or across the dinner table.

On top
of the dinner table.

Dee’s chatty. A sharer, an explainer. She also has . . . theories . . . on just about every topic imaginable. Though all of her theories are entertaining, some are pretty out there. Take this, for example:

“John Hughes was a raging sexist pig.”

“How do you figure?”

“Look at
The Breakfast Club.
The guys get five main stereotypes—the jock, the criminal, the brain, the asshole teacher, the cool laid-back janitor. What do girls get? Two. The beauty queen and the whack job—subliminally telling generations of teenage girls they can
be beautiful or they can be crazy, but not both. Because at the end, when the crazy girl gets beautiful, she’s no longer crazy. It’s fucked up. I’m going to start a petition about it.”

Or this:

“Microwaves are evil—I’ll never own one.”

“O-kay.”

“The sharp rise in childhood illnesses, allergies, and developmental disabilities can all be traced back to the moment microwaves became common fixtures in the home. It’s malevolent consumer abuse. But you have to keep it to yourself. Corporations have ears and eyes everywhere, and there’s no lengths they won’t go to, to cover it up.”

“My lips are sealed.”

Then, there’s this little gem:

“You actually think the Egyptians built the pyramids?”

“Sure—it’s well documented.”

“Oh, you poor, gullible man. How were they able to move stones as big as a house? How were they able to make underground, structurally sound tunnels and rooms without any engineering equipment? Or, for that matter, how were they able to shape and cut the blocks at precise and identical angles?”

“Well . . . if the Egyptians didn’t build them, who did?”

“Aliens.”

“Aliens?”

“Of course. There’s tons of proof that aliens have been visiting Earth for centuries—you don’t even know.”

Nope, and I don’t want to. That last one is too freaky—and plausible—for me.

I wake up Saturday morning to the sounds of running water from the shower. And the screechy echo of Delores’s singing from inside it. “I Knew You Were Trouble” by Taylor Swift is probably the most annoying song ever written—but hearing Dee’s awful rendition just makes me chuckle.

Never one to waste good wood—particularly the morning kind—I grab a condom out of the nightstand drawer, slip out of bed, and step into the bathroom.

“. . . trouble . . . ah . . . ah . . .” Her eyes are closed and her head is tilted back to rinse her long hair under the spray. “. . . ah . . .”

I get into the shower and waste no time, going immediately for Dee’s succulent nipple that’s already pointy and proud. She’s not startled. She doesn’t yell. Her pitchy “ah” changes to a muted moan, and her hands slide across my shoulder blades, pulling me closer.

I like that she knows it’s me, without opening her eyes.

I realize the likelihood of anyone else worshipping her beautiful tits at this place and time
except
me is slim to none. But what I mean is . . . she knows my touch. My sounds, my movements. We’ve become used to—
attuned to
—each other in the greatest of ways. I know she likes her hair pulled just before she’s about to
come. And she knows it drives me crazy to watch her finger her nipple ring or when she traces my abs with her tongue.

Once she’s rubbing—squirming—against me, I release her breast and devour her lips, sliding my mouth against hers and my tongue inside her warm heat. Without breaking the kiss, I roll on the condom with deft fingers. Then I wrap an arm around her waist and lift her against me with little effort.

Her legs take their natural place around my hips. Cock in hand, I drag the head across her pussy and even with the warmth of the water raining down around us, I feel how hot and eager she is.