Chapter 7 #2
He thinks about his answer as he rubs his chin. “The insinuations.” He drops his head in shame.
“The insinuation I’m easy.” I whisper.
He hangs his head. “Yes.”
I sit down and gesture for him to sit down, but he stays standing. “Josh, why are you so angry with me?”
“I’m not.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Are you going to continue to lie to me?”
He narrows his eyes. “Stay the hell out of my head, Natasha. I didn’t come here to be psychoanalyzed.”
“What did you come here for?”
“I told you, to apologize.”
“Is that for my benefit or your conscience?”
“Stop it, you’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?” I snap.
“The psychology shit.” He frowns. “Just forget it.” He puts his coffee down on my table so fast it spills. “I knew there was no point.”
Oh shit, he’s going. I have to stop him.
“Josh, wait, I’m sorry. I’m just really mad at you.”
He stops and turns. “For what?” He puts his head at an angle.
“I saw you last week at the strip joint.” He rubs his chin again. Ah, my first sign he’s uncomfortable. I’m really not playing fair—I’m totally psychoanalyzing him.
“Tash, what were you doing there?” His voice has gone soft, cajoling.
I look at the ground in embarrassment. “We were there to spy on Bridget’s boyfriend, never in a million years did I think I would see you.” He nods as he listens. I stay silent, trying to gather in my head what to say next.
“Natasha, I’m single,” he murmurs.
“I know.” I’m starting to feel emotional. Cut it out, crybaby. “Would you have gone up the stairs if you had known I was there?”
“You know I wouldn’t have,” he says gently.
“Josh, I can’t handle you being so aggressive toward me.”
He nods. “Me neither. I’m sorry. I’ve been acting like a prick.” I smile and he smirks back in return.
“You have. You can take me out to breakfast to apologize if you want.”
He frowns as he looks me up and down. “I might just take you pajama shopping too.”
“What’s wrong with my pajamas?” I smirk.
“Nothing if you live in a nursing home.” He does wide eyes to accentuate his point.
“Give me ten minutes.” I smile. He nods and flops onto the couch.
Ten minutes later, I am showered and in my room hyperventilating about what I am going to wear. Alluring and sexy without trying hard is a fine line, one that I have to execute to perfection. Shit, where are my favorite jeans? Damn it, in the dirty washing basket. It doesn’t pay to be lazy.
I settle on a pair of faded worn blue jeans, a slouchy white T-shirt that hangs off one shoulder, white flip-flops and a wad of chunky gold bangles. My chocolate-brown layered hair that is midway between my shoulders and elbows is loose and my makeup is natural.
“Ready?” I ask as I head into the lounge room where he is waiting.
He smiles and nods. His eyes scan me up and down, his jaw tics and he gently cracks his neck.
Hmm. As he stands my heart jumps a beat.
Dear god, he really is divine. He is wearing dark green army-style cargo pants and a black slimfit plain T- shirt with a V-neck.
I can see every damn muscle in his arms. His big blue eyes lock on to mine and I feel it impossible to look away.
The sexual energy beaming from his body is demanding attention from mine.
His dark tanned skin and square jaw only highlight his big bee-stung lips.
Everything about him is silently screaming sex to my body.
My stomach flutters with nerves. How in the hell am I going to get through breakfast without jumping him?
Bridget is right—he does smell fucking awesome.
I made myself a promise years ago, that if I ever had a chance to spend time with Joshua again, I would be nothing but totally honest. Can I really do this?
Never again in my life am I going through the disappointment in myself for lying to him. I couldn’t bear it.
He smiles. “Let’s go then.”
“I’m nervous, Josh.”
He stops and turns to me. “Nervous,” he repeats on a frown. I nod again. “What about?” he gently asks.
“Do you think we still have anything in common?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I think it’s pretty obvious we both have hot tempers.”
I smile. “Yes.”
“And I’m hungry and tired because I didn’t sleep much last night.” He smiles.
“Me too,” I whisper.
He holds up his arm for me to take. “I think that’s a good start, don’t you?”
I nod and link my arm with his. “Let’s go.
” I smile. I feel better already. His eyes twinkle as he gives me a warm smile, one that could melt the whole of Antarctica, and I instantly feel at ease.
The unseen tension has immediately disappeared, and we have both noticeably relaxed.
Honesty. He wants honesty. As soon as I told him I was nervous the tension disappeared.
I need to remember this for future reference. We head down the stairs.
“How long have you owned the apartment?”
“Um, about six months I guess,” I answer.
“It’s a nice place.” His eyes wander around the cream room with high ceilings. The large taupe lounge wraps around in a horseshoe shape. A huge cane pendant light hangs low over the industrial coffee table and thick pile rug. “You have good taste.”
“Thanks,” I smile nervously at him.
Half an hour later, we are arriving at my favorite café, waiting to be seated by one of the waitresses.
I can’t help but notice the amount of attention Joshua gets from the female population.
Every woman is taking a double look at him, but he doesn’t even seem to notice.
I’m sure he is used to this. I, however, am finding it a little annoying.
I suppose it’s not every day you see a six foot four muscled-up man whose chiseled jaw, olive skin and chocolate buzz-cut hair scream “Do Me.”
A pretty redhead shows us to our seat. “Would you like to order some drinks?” She looks from me to him and back again.
“Yes, I’ll have a tall latte, double shot.” He smiles.
“I’ll have a skim cap, please.” She scribbles on her pad and leaves us alone.
He rests his elbows on the table and links his hands together under his chin, waiting for me to speak first. His eyes have a mischievous glow to them.
“So, Josh, tell me about your life.”
He shrugs his shoulders. “What do you want to know?”
“I hear you’re wealthy.”
He smiles. “In some things.”
I tilt my head to the side. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I have money. It depends on your definition of wealthy.”
“Oh, I suppose. What’s your definition?” I ask, surprised.
He shrugs again. “Happily married, healthy kids.”
Smiling, I rest my chin on one hand while I find myself swooning at his feet. “Are you dating?” I ask.
He scrunches up his nose, “Hell no.” Our drinks arrive and the waitress’s eyes linger a little too long on Mr. Orgasmic here. I narrow my eyes at her. OK, enough, buzz off.
“You?”
I frown. “Huh?”
“Are you dating?”
“No, nothing like that.”
Mum told me you had a boyfriend.”
I nod, a little embarrassed. “Um ex-boyfriend,” I murmur.
“What happened? Why did you break up?”
I shrug.
He smiles. “I see you’re still a shit liar.”
“I hoped you hadn’t heard about that.” I wince.
“What? Heard that some poor bastard asked you to marry him and you knocked him back and then dumped his sorry ass?”
I put my hands over my face in embarrassment. “It sounds cold when you put it like that.” I peek out from my hands to see him smirking at me.
“What happened?”
“We were never going to work out. I have never been so shocked in my life as the day he proposed. It was awful.” His thumb is under his chin and he is wiping the side of his pointer across his lips as he listens while leaning back in his chair, his gaze locked on to mine.
“Why wouldn’t you have worked out?”
“We weren’t…compatible.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Compatible,” he repeats. Why did I say that? “You mean sexually?” His eyes darken with an emotion I’m familiar with. Arousal.
“Among other things,” I quickly add. I suddenly feel very uncomfortable. “Why aren’t you married?” I blurt out.
He smiles a slow sexy smile. “I haven’t found anyone who fits the job description.”
“What’s the job description?” I breathe.
His eyes bore into mine with an intensity that heats my blood. “Someone who fucks like a slut, with the morals of a nun.”
I choke on my tea. Of all the things I thought he would say, that was definitely not it. I feel a familiar frisson of uneasiness creeping up on me.
“You can’t be serious?” I gasp.
“Absolutely.” He nods as he takes a sip of his latte, his eyes not leaving mine.
“You want to marry a slut?”
He nods again. “It depends what your definition of a slut is. What do you think a slut is?” he asks.
“Someone who will sleep with anyone,” I reply.
He nods and takes another sip of his latte.
“You see, I think a slut is a woman who loves to fuck.” I swallow the large lump in my throat.
His voice has dropped to a low husky sound, one that is screaming to my subconscious.
He continues, “I couldn’t be with a mousy woman who doesn’t love to fuck as much as I do.
I have an insatiable appetite for sex.” He licks his lips.
“High maintenance so to speak.” His eyes burn into me once again, silently daring me to say something.
His eyes drop to my lips. Want pools in my stomach.
“The woman I marry will have to endure hours and hours of being tied up to our bed, legs spread wide while I pleasure her with my tongue and fuck her with my hands and then put up with me continually driving into her tight cunt with my cock so hard she won’t know where I end and she begins.
Only to be rolled over and taken again from behind.
Constantly. She would have to love taking me orally and vaginally and anally…
repeatedly.” He gazes at me again and steeples his hands under his chin.
For the love of god, my mouth has gone dry.
“Can I take your order, love?” I jump. Oh shit, did she just hear that?