I grip his hair and I do not want to let him go, ever. His hands open on my back and they’re so big they cover nearly all of it.
“Happy New Year,” he says.
He gives me a peck on the lips as a friendly New Year’s kiss. He eases back an inch and returns to give me another.
As his lips press onto mine, my toes curl unexpectedly. My mind spins in a thousand directions. I replay things Rachel has said about him, which I have mulled over consistently in private.
That he called me succulent.
That he’s a lacrosse fan and would have gone pro if he hadn’t literally struck oil, big time, becoming a multimillionaire overnight—a billionaire within years.
That Saint respects him and has invested in helping him through the volatility of this market because he believes in Tahoe’s business sense.
The three friends’ public personas aren’t necessarily true. But what is true for Tahoe Roth? He is the embodiment of sex. He also has a gentleman ingrained in his bones due to his southern upbringing. You can tell a lot about a person by how well they treat others, and he is playful but honest, and always himself.
You can tell a lot about a man by how he kisses, and nobody has ever sparked me up the way his strong, firm lips do.
We ease back and stare at each other.
Tonight Tahoe is in jeans and a soft white V-neck sweater, and he looks delicious. His blue eyes are so achingly familiar on me they’re like a shot to the heart…as he reaches out and takes my hand, and kisses the back of it.
He doesn’t smirk, he doesn’t smile, he just kisses the back of my hand, all while looking into my eyes, his gaze possessive and raw.
“Happy New Year, babe!” Trent cries, pulling me to him. His mouth covers mine, and by the time I’m able to peel away, I glance frantically around the room.
At midnight, I was with Tahoe Roth. Is it true that’s where I should focus?
I then catch a glimpse of him crossing the room, leading the blonde he came to the party with out the door.
START WITH A BANG
I overslept. Or actually didn’t sleep. At the department store, we’re open from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. on New Year’s Day, and while I’m standing looking pretty and trying to be helpful behind the Chanel cosmetics counter, I replay it.
Yeah, not a good idea.
Every time I replay last night, Tahoe’s eyes seem a little darker and his gaze seems to trek over my face a little more slowly. His arms feel a little stronger and a little tighter around me. And his smell is a little fiercer and manlier.
I want to text him something funny and ludicrous. To make last night seem what it was, just another New Year’s Eve kissing the first person who passed. It could have been Rachel. Or Wynn. Or even Valentine.
But none of them would have looked at me the way Tahoe Roth did last night.
I don’t know what to text, but I fiddle with my phone and scan my Twitter to distract myself. To keep from texting him. Or maybe to stalk him. Fuck.
He posted:
Not a bad morning.
Okay Tahoe, speak in English buddy. What the hell does that mean?
I’m sure he’s referring to the strawberry-blonde he took home. Is he? But what if he isn’t? What if he, too, remembers the kiss…? The mere thought of him remembering it gives me palpitations.
It’s already been on my mind every minute since last night.
I know we’re just friends and that he can’t be monogamous and doesn’t even want to. At least he’s never hinted that he wants to, and even if he did, I have no reason to believe he’d choose me as the girl he’d want to be monogamous with. The staring contests, the panties, the tour of the chocolate factory, last night—they don’t mean anything but friendship.
Even that kiss was a friendly one.
It wasn’t wet, or hungry; it was tender almost…curious. All of that equals friendly.
The toe curling wasn’t his fault, that was all mine, and I have to move on with the knowledge that my closest guy friend is a sex god and my body reacts to him. So what?
Still, I’m so haunted I can’t stop thinking about it. Trent has been sweet to me. Last night he told me he’d been waiting for a girl like me his whole life, that I’m funny and not frivolous. After being lied to for two years by your ex, it’s almost surreal to hear nice things and realize how much you want to believe them. I really like being around him, and I want to see how far we can go.
So I’m extra reluctant when I get a text from T-Rex:
Game tomorrow night. Come?
Shit! I nearly drop my phone.
I set it down and hurry to the customer who just sat to get her makeup done. I start with the foundation and silently work to enhance the best of her features.
She peers into the oval handheld mirror on the counter while we’re in the process. “Do you think it’s too much blush?” she asks.
“Hmm?”
I ease back from her face. Shit. She’s got red suns on her cheeks.
“We’ll get that fixed,” I say.
Thanks, Roth.
“And too much eye shadow? It’s a daytime event,” she says worriedly.
Brown rainbows over her eyes, um, yes, a tad too much.
“Right, uh…” I hurriedly dab with a cotton ball. “There. You’ll look great in the pictures.”
“There won’t be pictures.”
I look at her. Then dab at her face with more cotton balls. “I’m sorry, let me fix this.”
“Boy trouble?”
I purse my lips. I won’t discuss Tahoe with anyone. He’s my dirty secret, like a fantasy.
“Nah, just thinking about a friend,” I finally say.
“Happy New Year,” he says.
He gives me a peck on the lips as a friendly New Year’s kiss. He eases back an inch and returns to give me another.
As his lips press onto mine, my toes curl unexpectedly. My mind spins in a thousand directions. I replay things Rachel has said about him, which I have mulled over consistently in private.
That he called me succulent.
That he’s a lacrosse fan and would have gone pro if he hadn’t literally struck oil, big time, becoming a multimillionaire overnight—a billionaire within years.
That Saint respects him and has invested in helping him through the volatility of this market because he believes in Tahoe’s business sense.
The three friends’ public personas aren’t necessarily true. But what is true for Tahoe Roth? He is the embodiment of sex. He also has a gentleman ingrained in his bones due to his southern upbringing. You can tell a lot about a person by how well they treat others, and he is playful but honest, and always himself.
You can tell a lot about a man by how he kisses, and nobody has ever sparked me up the way his strong, firm lips do.
We ease back and stare at each other.
Tonight Tahoe is in jeans and a soft white V-neck sweater, and he looks delicious. His blue eyes are so achingly familiar on me they’re like a shot to the heart…as he reaches out and takes my hand, and kisses the back of it.
He doesn’t smirk, he doesn’t smile, he just kisses the back of my hand, all while looking into my eyes, his gaze possessive and raw.
“Happy New Year, babe!” Trent cries, pulling me to him. His mouth covers mine, and by the time I’m able to peel away, I glance frantically around the room.
At midnight, I was with Tahoe Roth. Is it true that’s where I should focus?
I then catch a glimpse of him crossing the room, leading the blonde he came to the party with out the door.
START WITH A BANG
I overslept. Or actually didn’t sleep. At the department store, we’re open from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. on New Year’s Day, and while I’m standing looking pretty and trying to be helpful behind the Chanel cosmetics counter, I replay it.
Yeah, not a good idea.
Every time I replay last night, Tahoe’s eyes seem a little darker and his gaze seems to trek over my face a little more slowly. His arms feel a little stronger and a little tighter around me. And his smell is a little fiercer and manlier.
I want to text him something funny and ludicrous. To make last night seem what it was, just another New Year’s Eve kissing the first person who passed. It could have been Rachel. Or Wynn. Or even Valentine.
But none of them would have looked at me the way Tahoe Roth did last night.
I don’t know what to text, but I fiddle with my phone and scan my Twitter to distract myself. To keep from texting him. Or maybe to stalk him. Fuck.
He posted:
Not a bad morning.
Okay Tahoe, speak in English buddy. What the hell does that mean?
I’m sure he’s referring to the strawberry-blonde he took home. Is he? But what if he isn’t? What if he, too, remembers the kiss…? The mere thought of him remembering it gives me palpitations.
It’s already been on my mind every minute since last night.
I know we’re just friends and that he can’t be monogamous and doesn’t even want to. At least he’s never hinted that he wants to, and even if he did, I have no reason to believe he’d choose me as the girl he’d want to be monogamous with. The staring contests, the panties, the tour of the chocolate factory, last night—they don’t mean anything but friendship.
Even that kiss was a friendly one.
It wasn’t wet, or hungry; it was tender almost…curious. All of that equals friendly.
The toe curling wasn’t his fault, that was all mine, and I have to move on with the knowledge that my closest guy friend is a sex god and my body reacts to him. So what?
Still, I’m so haunted I can’t stop thinking about it. Trent has been sweet to me. Last night he told me he’d been waiting for a girl like me his whole life, that I’m funny and not frivolous. After being lied to for two years by your ex, it’s almost surreal to hear nice things and realize how much you want to believe them. I really like being around him, and I want to see how far we can go.
So I’m extra reluctant when I get a text from T-Rex:
Game tomorrow night. Come?
Shit! I nearly drop my phone.
I set it down and hurry to the customer who just sat to get her makeup done. I start with the foundation and silently work to enhance the best of her features.
She peers into the oval handheld mirror on the counter while we’re in the process. “Do you think it’s too much blush?” she asks.
“Hmm?”
I ease back from her face. Shit. She’s got red suns on her cheeks.
“We’ll get that fixed,” I say.
Thanks, Roth.
“And too much eye shadow? It’s a daytime event,” she says worriedly.
Brown rainbows over her eyes, um, yes, a tad too much.
“Right, uh…” I hurriedly dab with a cotton ball. “There. You’ll look great in the pictures.”
“There won’t be pictures.”
I look at her. Then dab at her face with more cotton balls. “I’m sorry, let me fix this.”
“Boy trouble?”
I purse my lips. I won’t discuss Tahoe with anyone. He’s my dirty secret, like a fantasy.
“Nah, just thinking about a friend,” I finally say.
