The Tenant (11 page)

Derek laughed and scrunched the pillow between his hands. “Or he knows he’s a terrible lay and doesn’t want you finding out about it until after the wedding. He seems the type to be thrusting with his stomach instead of his hips.” He thrust his hips upward a few times, as if to emphasize his point.

Amanda had to try hard to refrain from staring. His jeans were stretching over what she remembered to be a big cock. “Shut up.” She wasn’t looking. She didn’t care. She was only interested in
Mason’s
cock.

Maybe Derek would let her see his cock again, if she asked for it nicely.

And where had
that
come from?

“Or he’s gay and you’re his beard.” Derek tapped his chin with his fingers.

That wasn’t funny, especially because the thought had crossed her mind too. “Shut up, Derek.”

“Or you just don’t turn him on enough.”

That was it. She was riddled enough with self-doubt; she didn’t need someone else making her wonder if she was inadequate. She stood on unsteady legs. “Goodnight.”

He rose and blocked her way. “Oh come on, beautiful. I was screwing with you. This can’t be your fault.”

Couldn’t it? Because maybe it was. Mason had admitted to sleeping with girls as soon as he’d met them before, but he hadn’t even kissed her on their first date. It was possible he’d still been thinking of her vomiting when they’d first met, but she doubted it. And he’d never
finished
with her, either. They’d touch each other, and he’d let her bring him to the edge, but he never came in front of her.

She ducked her head and tried to push by Derek. “Nice talking to you. Did wonders for my issues.”

He grabbed her arms. “No. I mean it. This isn’t your fault. You’re a spitfire. Beautiful and strong. The jury’s still out about whether you have a brain or taste in men, but it’s a given you’re hot. The guy may be intimidated by your sexuality or may honestly not wanna
sully
the future mother of his children, but neither is on you.”

She lifted her face and looked into his eyes. They were wide and looked defenseless and so very blue.

And she was so very tipsy.

His two-toned curls formed a halo around his head. She shook off his hold and ran her fingers through his hair. It was much softer than she’d expected.

She really shouldn’t have drunk so much.

There’s no way she would have kissed him if she’d been sober.

She was kissing him.

Amanda was kissing him, and he was kissing her back.

Her fingers were tangled in his hair, and her mouth was pressed to his, and her body felt soft and ripe when he slid his hands down her sides to cup her ass.

She let out a little moan, and the tip of her tongue found its way between his lips. Her breath tasted of spearmint and alcohol.

Alcohol.

They’d both imbibed enough for their judgment to be impaired; there was no way she’d be kissing him and he’d be helping her climb up his body, if they hadn’t.

“No.” Had he actually said that? He must have, because now he was holding her by the elbows, putting some distance between them and letting her find her footing.

She reached for him again, eyes hooded and lips bee-stung. “Don’t stop. Need…”

“Amanda, no! This isn’t what you want.” His entire being screamed it definitely was what
he
wanted, but that only served to support his case. Drinking and decision-making were a bad combo.

“How do you know?” She slurred her words, as she had since the last shot she drank. It was adorable how her eyes seemed to throw sparks at him. She was five-two, if that, but undoubtedly fierce.

She poked him on the chest.

“Ouch.”

“I’m the only one who knows what I want, and I’m sick and tired of everybody telling me otherwise. Now kiss—again.”

Derek knew the feeling. He’d always prided himself on knowing what he wanted and going after it, but people around him always had to have opinions. Still, even if this
was
really what Amanda wanted, once her head was clear, she’d most likely regret anything happening between them. He brought his palms to her shoulders and leaned down to catch her gaze. “You don’t have to go making stupid mistakes to prove them wrong, you know.”

“My mistakes to make. You said I was a…spif…spiftire. Was it a lie?” Her eyes were brimming with unshed tears. Derek wanted to find the asshole who’d made her doubt her charms and plant a steel-toed boot up his ass.

“I said you’re a spitfire and I stand by it. And when you can actually
pronounce
it, this conversation may go a different way. For now, though—”

“Yes?” She puckered her lips and closed her eyes, and Derek was tempted for a second. With a sigh, he gathered her close and tucked her head under his chin. “I won’t be the reason you hate yourself.”

She muttered something against his T-shirt.

“What was that?”

“For an idiot, you make sense some times.”

He laughed and kissed her forehead. “Off to bed with you, before you insult me too gravely.”

She nodded, pulled out of his arms, and headed for her room.

“And, Amanda?” Derek called out just as she reached her door.

She made a complete one-eighty to look at him. “Yes?”

“If you don’t change your mind once the alcohol fumes wear off, you know where I’ll be.” What had possessed him to say that? She’d mock him mercilessly if she remembered in the morning.

Chances were she wouldn’t. And if she did, she’d rather play stupid than admit she remembered kissing him and not wanting to stop. Not that he’d wanted to stop. He’d wanted to do all sorts of deliciously wicked things to her.

The bottle of Jack winked at him. There was little more than a shot or two left, and it wasn’t even eight yet. Amanda would probably sleep all the way to morning, but his alcohol tolerance was higher; he’d be sober in a couple of hours, with nothing to do. Unless he worked on his drunkenness a bit more.

He fetched his smokes and another bottle of Jack from the cabinet and went to the balcony. He knew from experience the wicker chairs were more than accommodating for inebriated messes, the likes of which he was aiming to soon become.

He sprawled in the closest one and let the uncontrolled drinking begin.

It didn’t take him long to realize it wasn’t working. He’d been diligently working his way through the second bottle, yet he still wasn’t wasted enough to stop thinking of how Amanda’s ass-cheeks felt inside his palms. He’d admired her butt even back when he hated her—yeah, okay, so he didn’t hate her anymore; that didn’t mean he liked her—but to have the firm proof of its excellence burning his hands had been a whole other matter.

Her nipples had pebbled, poking him, making him want to wrap his lips around them. He rubbed his chest and downed a hearty swig.

Nope, definitely not working.

He was still half-hard, and his groin wasn’t going to relax any more than his mind had unless he passed out.

He reached for the bottle. Too much thinking had cleared some of the alcohol from his system. He needed to start over. Maybe then he’d stop wondering what it’d feel like getting lost in the heat emanating from Amanda’s core when she’d wrapped her legs around his hips.

Two hours later, he finally realized he’d never stop wondering about that. Or lose the semi beginning to hurt his balls. He dragged his feet to bed, lost his clothes, and proceeded to pull at his cock for what seemed like an eternity. This didn’t help either. His hand wasn’t Amanda’s hand, it wasn’t Amanda’s lips, and it wasn’t Amanda’s pussy. His skin was dry, and his fingers were calloused, and he couldn’t seem to manage to get his grip right, no matter that he’d done this a million—
a billion
—times before.

He was frustrated and chafed. He was a miserable prick who couldn’t even get a drunken jack-off right. Fuck, he couldn’t even do hating his compulsory roommate right—wanting to taste her, feel her clench around his fingers, fuck her until she couldn’t see straight.

He’d have to change his plans, much as that pained him. He’d be better off leaving the apartment and allowing Amanda to get on with the life she was heading for. It wasn’t up to him to save her from herself, and it wasn’t safe for his sanity to be near her more than necessary. If he didn’t move out, he might end up trying to act on his fantasies, or worse, getting even more unsettling ideas—like how there could be more between Amanda and him than snarky comments and sexual attraction.

And he knew how long it took him to get from there to
pussy-whipped
.

“No, thank you,” he told the darkness around him. “Not gonna be anyone’s bitch. Never again.” In the morning, he’d call Kenneth and let him know he was leaving. Then he’d steal Amanda’s organizer once more, and fix the little issues he’d created.

Then he’d put as much distance as possible between himself and the little green-eyed demon who haunted him.

Satisfied with how he’d worked things out in his head, he placed his second pillow between his legs to alleviate the pressure to his cock and balls. Moments before he drifted off, he heard the apartment door slam shut.

Amanda opened her eyes to complete darkness. She supposed she should count her blessings; she wasn’t sure her head wouldn’t split at the sight of light. She blinked a couple of times until she could discern shapes. She was in her room, in bed, fully dressed. A glance at her bedside table showed it wasn’t even midnight yet.

And she’d kissed Derek.

The memory made her sit up so fast, her stomach roiled. She’d cheated on Mason. The man who loved her. The man who’d asked her to be his wife.

She jumped out of bed, ignoring the wooziness. She couldn’t afford the luxury of sleeping it off. She had to go to Mason, confess, and beg him to stay with her. She had to come clean before she’d weighed the pros and cons of keeping the evening’s activities a secret. She’d be honest and fight for her man.

Mason would understand. She’d been drunk. Not in control. Derek had taken advantage.

Liar!

Derek stopped her from compounding the worst mistake of her life, and for that alone she felt grudging respect. She could leave that part out of what she told Mason, though.

The walk to Mason’s was a blur, and Amanda couldn’t even tell how she found herself knocking on his door. She was there; that was the important part.

“I’m so sorry, I did a horrible thing,” she blurted the moment Mason opened the door.

No, not Mason. A tall brunette, wrapped in a floral sheet looked at Amanda through the opening. “And you are…?”

Amanda was at a loss for words. Who was she, other than a misguided fool? The place inside her that had broken at Parker’s betrayal, the one that only recently stopped hurting with every breath, now felt hollow. Mason had promised to keep her heart safe. He’d promised to love her and make her happy.

Despite knowing better, she’d believed him. Maybe it was a good thing that they’d never gone all the way.

“Wrong door,” she said. “Sorry.” She slipped her engagement ring off her finger and let it fall to the ground.

She turned just as Mason appeared before the other woman. He wore the silver boxer shorts Amanda had gotten him as a gag-gift on his birthday. She’d called it a gift-wrap, but he hadn’t gotten the joke. “Amanda. What are you doing here?”

“Yeah, ’cause that is the question,” she said without looking at him. She ran down the stairs and all the way home. He didn’t follow.

The world spun around her. She didn’t know how to feel. Hurt and betrayed, yes, but above all, there was anger. Anger at Mason for being yet another two-faced bastard. Anger at herself for letting him lead her on the way he had. She’d been such an idiot.
Such
an idiot. Her gallant fiancé was banging someone on the side, and she’d felt bad for kissing a guy while her inhibitions had been lowered by alcohol.

That wasn’t her main problem, nor was waiting for Mason to be ready to consummate their relationship. It had been her choice, and she’d stuck by it. No, she felt like a loser for having tried so hard to fit what Mason viewed as the perfect woman. She’d changed her hair, her makeup, her clothes, her attitude, all to make him happy. But he hadn’t been happy. Not enough to be faithful to her, at least.

She reached her room but didn’t want to sleep alone.

Correction, she didn’t want to sleep at all. She’d done enough of that for the past year. God! How had she fallen for another cheater’s lies? After Parker, she should have seen the signs.

She needed to let off some steam before she blew up. In the morning, she’d have to deal with the repercussions of her discovery, but for now, she wanted to forget and go crazy.

She couldn’t handle more alcohol, and raining blows on a dummy at the dojo wasn’t enticing enough.

There was something else she could do…

She tiptoed to Derek’s room. The door was only half closed, and she slipped inside and looked at him. He lay face down, arms extended, no apparent care in the world. She wanted to caress the corded muscles in his shoulders. She no longer had a reason to hold back.

Not giving herself time to reconsider, she shed all her clothes and climbed next to him. Human contact would have to be enough for now. When he woke up, she’d ask for more. She’d ask for all she’d needed and refused herself for so long. And he’d said he’d give it to her.

Amanda lay there, nose touching Derek’s underarm, inhaling his scent and trying to clear her head, until she could wait no more. She dragged her nails lightly across his back and smiled when he flipped on his back.

“Fuck!”

Oh good, he was up. She kept her eyes closed and draped one leg across Derek’s hips. The bulge there indicated all of him was awake. She didn’t know whether to laugh or be offended when he rolled away so fast that he fell off the bed with a loud thud.

“You’re the lousiest drunk I’ve ever met,” he said. “There’s no way you haven’t slept the alcohol off.”

“I’m not drunk.” Yes, that made her sound all the more desperate, but she didn’t care. She
was
desperate. Desperate for a good—no, a
great
—fuck, and she’d spent hours convincing herself that getting it from someone she severely disliked would mean no complications in the future. “Now, will you come to bed, so we can talk about it like grownups?”