All That He Loves (Volume 2 The Billionaires Seduction) (51 page)

“Can we please stop talking about Viggo Mortensen’s ass?”

“Whose ass do you want to talk about, then?” he grinned.

“Nobody’s.”

“What about… Michaelangelo’s David?” he asked. “That’s a pretty great ass, right?”

I walked into the trap before I realized it had been set.

“That’s not the part I’m used to looking at,” I said – and then blushed furiously as he burst into laughter.

“Oh my God, the truth comes out!” he howled.

“Shut up!” I snapped.

“Want to go back to talking about asses?” he asked as he wiped a tear from the corner of his eye.

I decided to go on the offensive.

“What’s your fascination with men’s asses?” I asked with an evil leer.

He grinned and shrugged. “I’m completely secure in my ass-omeness.”

“Your what?”

“Like awesomeness, but with an ass. Ass-omeness.”

“Oh… my… GOD,” I said as I rolled my eyes.

“Hey, I’ve got a great ass,” he said nonchalantly. “Or so I’ve been told.”

DO NOT comment on that, Kaitlyn. Do NOT comment on that –

“What was
your
favorite part – or was it Viggo Mortensen’s ass, too?”

“No,” he laughed, then settled down into a thoughtful mode. “I liked how it ended.”

“That was the only part I hated,” I said with a frown.

“But it was still beautiful,” he argued. “He had a job to do, and he didn’t want to endanger her. He loved her so much that he let her go.”

“He could have let his job go.”

“It was what he was born to do.”

“Whatever. I still think it sucks.”

“Yeah, well… that was only
one
of my favorite parts.”

“What else?”

“I liked the tattoo scene, where he’s being interviewed by the gangsters, and his life story is in his tattoos.”

In the movie, Viggo Mortensen is covered in elaborate tattoos, and each one holds a piece of information: where he had been in prison, how long, what he had served time for, what his various roles in the mob had been. The gangsters who are considering making him a ‘made man’ knew the symbolism and could tell everything about his life just by looking at those tattoos.

“That was cool,” I agreed, then added as an afterthought, “I don’t even like tattoos, but that was cool.”

He stared at me like I’d just said I hated puppies. “You don’t like tattoos?”

I realized who I was talking to – and how many he had visible on his arms.

My mind wandered to
other
places he might have them, too… but I had to immediately stop
that
train of thought in its tracks.

“I’m just… not a huge fan in general.”

“Away from me, woman,” he said grandiloquently, swatting at the air with his hand.

I grinned. “Well, it would be different if you had cool ones like Viggo’s.”

“Oh, you’d rather I spent three years in a Russian prison,” he said, slowly nodding his head like
I seeeee.

“No,” I laughed. “I mean, it would be cool if you had your life story in tattoos.”

“I do.”

I gave him a
Bullshit
look.

“No, really,” he said. “I mean, not exactly like the movie, but – basically, everything I love. Look.”

He pointed to the inside of his forearm, where there were four tattoos in a line. The first was a cursive word that looked like ‘Zoso,’ whatever that meant. The second was three ovals arranged in a triangle with a circle through them. Another had three overlapping circles, and the final one was a circle with what looked like a feather inside.

“Led Zeppelin IV,” he said, quite seriously. “Greatest rock album of all time.”

“What about the Beatles?”

“Got them here, too,” and he pulled up his t-shirt sleeve and pointed to a tattoo of the band’s name in the world-famous font that everybody knew.

It was on his bicep.

It was a very large,
very
nice bicep.

“But – the rock album – Sgt. Something – ”

“Sgt.
Something?”
he asked indignantly. “You mean
Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band?”

“Yeah, that.”

“‘Yeah, that,’” he said, mocking me good-naturedly. Then he grew serious. “Fantastic album. But…”

He hesitated.

“The Beatles are probably the greatest pop musicians of the 20th Century, I’ll give them that. I love ‘em, especially the White Album. But except on a few songs like ‘Revolution’ and ‘Helter Skelter,’ they don’t really
rock.
Not
hard.
They’re light and happy even when they’re trying to sound like they want to fuck you up. Even their darker stuff like ‘A Day In The Life’ or ‘Strawberry Fields’ or ‘I Am The Walrus’ is… ethereal.”

“Ethereal,” I said, nodding my head and raising my eyebrows mockingly.

“Is that too big a word for a rock musician to use, Ms. Journalism Snob?” he teased me.

“Just show me your other tattoos, Rock Boy.”

He had a lot of them. I had to admit, the presentation was pretty cool. They were linked in a beautiful, twisting frame composed of sinuous shapes, like those centuries-old Japanese paintings of ocean waves, or a beautiful depiction of twisting vines. And amidst the twisting shapes were individual symbols that appeared like paintings hung in a gallery.

A red hot chili pepper for… you guessed it. A dollar bill on a hook for Nirvana. The Rolling Stones’ famous lips. A Union Jack for The Who. An elaborate Celtic Cross with flowers and revolvers for… yes… Guns ‘n Roses. A black-inked portrait of Jim Morrison – the famous shot of him that everybody knows – that was done startlingly well, in minute artistic detail. And all over, woven into the fabric of the design, were quotes from some of the most famous rock ‘n roll songs of all time.

Did I mention that he had to take off his shirt to show me most of the tattoos? The majority were on his back and chest.

Sweet baby Jesus.

I think I ovulated right there on the spot.

His entire back
rippled
with muscles. When people talk about guys’ arms and call them ‘guns’? Yeah, they were talking about Derek’s. And his skin was perfect… not a blemish at all, just lovely, smooth olive skin. His chest… oh my God, I almost had to sit on my hands to stop myself from touching his pecs. His abs were like nothing I’d ever seen outside of a Dolce & Gabbana underwear ad.

Every girl in the place was staring at him – and most of them were salivating. All the guys with them were glaring.

Well, not
all
the guys. A few of them were salivating, too.

Derek didn’t care. Didn’t even register. He just kept turning this way and that, pointing to different ones and telling me the stories behind them.

The funny thing was, he was
so
into his tattoos – like an enthusiastic little boy showing off his Matchbox car collection – that he didn’t notice the effect he was having on me.

At least, I don’t
think
he noticed the effect he was having on me.

Or maybe he
did
know, and it was all part of a calculated effect.

Bastard.

Either way, he was passionate about his tattoos, and kept on talking as he pulled his shirt over his head and back into place.

I felt very, very sad as that gorgeous body disappeared from view… but also a little relieved. My lady parts were about to spontaneously combust if the show went on much longer.

“I’m going to add a new one, a special design, for every album I do,” he said excitedly.

“Yeah?” I asked, my voice a little unsteady at first. “Have you added the first one yet?”

He shook his head. “Haven’t recorded an album yet.”

“Do you know what the title’s going to be?” I asked, then took a sip of Coke through my straw.

“Yeah.
Spirals Go Inward, According to Kaitlyn.
”

I laughed and snorted soda up my nose.

After I had finished coughing – and he had finished patting me on the back
(unnnhhh)
– I said, “Just call it
According to Kaitlyn.
”

He paused. “That’s actually a pretty good title…”

“Didn’t Adam Levine do something like that? Like,
Songs For Jane?
No –
Songs ABOUT Jane –
”

“Oh my GOD, you did
not
just compare me to Maroon 5.”

“What? I like Maroon 5.”

“You just like the lead singer.”

“He’s hot.”

“I’m hot. You like me?” he asked roguishly.

I squinted at him. “You’re conceited.”

“That’s true. “

“I’d think you wouldn’t mind getting compared to a rock group that’s sold millions of albums.”

“Savage Garden sold millions of albums, and I don’t want to get compared to them.” He leaned back in his chair and pointed at me. “I know what you like about Maroon 5.”

“What.”

“That song where he talks about the girl’s so hard to satisfy, and he keeps making her come every night.”

My face immediately turned beet red.

I knew exactly which song he was talking about. One of their first hits, “This Love.”

I actually really liked that song.

And I secretly liked that one line about her coming. It turned me on a little whenever I heard it on the radio.

It turned me on even more when Derek said it.

Unfortunately for me, I was already revved up to 11 by the shirtless tattoo show.

Your roommate missed out BIG time.

The best sex she ever had.

KEVIN – remember KEVIN –

“I told you, I don’t want to talk about sex,” I snapped.

He grinned. “You’d rather do it? That’s fine by – ”

I stood up and walked out of the gyro place.

I was about two hundred feet down the sidewalk when he caught up with me.

“Wait! Wait – I’m sorry!” he said.

He turned around and walked backwards so he could face me as he talked.

“Was it something I said?” he grinned.

I shot him a death glare.

He put up his hands to ward it off. “Okay, yes, obviously it was what I said – ”

“Women are not just sexual playthings for your amusement.”

“I know that,” he said, a little taken aback.

“Not from the way you act.”

“Look, I’m just a sexual person – ”

“Who’s only interested in fucking me?”

“Whoa! Whoa, hold on there, potty mouth!” he laughed.

“Oh –
I’m
a potty mouth, Mr. ‘Every other word out of my mouth is fuckin’ this and fuckin’ that’? Why am
I
a potty mouth, because I’m a
girl?”

“Hey – hey,” he said, his voice suddenly soothing. He moved beside me and touched my arm, but I shook him off roughly.

“Please, will you just listen to me?” he asked, his voice low.

“Go ahead and talk, it’s a free country,” I snarled.

“Look… I think you’re absolutely gorgeous, and yes, I want to sleep with you.”

Oof.

My insides turned to caramel and melted sex.

I glanced at him in shock, then looked away hurriedly, afraid he might see how he’d made me feel.

He continued. “But you seem to think I only want to fu– uh, to sleep with girls and that’s it. But I like you. A lot.”

I walked on in silence.

“Are you going to say anything?” he asked.

It took me a few seconds to admit it.

“…I asked around about you,” I muttered.

“Of course you did,” he said in mild amusement.

Which infuriated me.

“What’s that supposed to mean, ‘
of course
you did’?”

Such an arrogant ass, just assuming I was checking him out before I slept with him –

“You’re a reporter. You’re curious about shi– uh, stuff.”

Oh.

That was an interesting take on it.

Good alibi, anyway.

“So… what’d you find out?” he smiled.

Best sex she’d ever had.

I wasn’t about to repeat any of
that,
though.

“You sleep with a lot of women.”

“That’s true,” he admitted.

“And you don’t date them long.”

“That’s true, too.”

“Like, the average time seems to be about, oh, two or three hours.”

“I see a lot of the girls I sleep with over and over again.”

I glared at him. “So they’re fuck buddies?”

He put his hands up like
whoooaaa.
“Hey, you said it, not me.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Did you actually talk to any women I’ve slept with?”

“…one,” I grumbled.

“Did she say if we’ve slept together more than once?”

Your roommate missed out BIG time.

“No,” I lied. “But she and another girl said you never called them again.”

“Well, for one thing, I don’t have a cell phone. Actually, I don’t have a phone, period.”

I stared at him. “You don’t?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Too expensive.”

How poor
was
this guy? I’d seen homeless people with cell phones…

On the other hand, it explained some things. Like why he kept showing up at my dorm room, yet never asked for my phone number.

“They have these awesome new telephones that take quarters,” I jeered. “Maybe you’ve seen them?”

“Ha ha,” he said, not actually laughing. “Look, those girls you talked to? They want it to look like I’m a heartless jerk. I seduced them and I ditched them, and it’s all my fault because I’m bad, bad, bad.”

“No,” I said sarcastically, “you’re just a perfect little angel.”

“No, I’m very,
very
bad,” he grinned, and then his voice dropped suggestively. “But I’m also very,
very good.
Did you ask about that, too?”

I could feel my face getting hotter. “Why do you always do that?”

“What?”

“Bring it back around to sex.”

“YOU were talking about sex.”

“
I
walked OUT on you because YOU were talking about sex.”

“Well, what do you want? You want to date guys who
don’t
want to sleep with you? You should date a gay guy, then. Or a dead guy, ‘cause I think you might have a shot at turning a gay guy straight.”