Taming Marco (The Moran Family Book 2) Read online

  “Victor.” I finally pull my gaze from his and realize there’s a tiny woman standing next to him. She’s an almost mirror image of me, except for the bitchy sneer she’s directing my way and the fine lines I notice on her mouth that hint at her secret love of smoking. Her hand is entwined with his and it’s clear by the looks they’re exchanging that there’s more to their relationship than a one-night stand. These two know one another. I idly wonder how well … and for how long.

  Victor gives me a half-assed up and down then glances around the room. “Who are you here with?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m here with Mia. And Marco.” I throw it out and let it hang in the air, mostly because my bitch side is fully in charge. “Who is this?” I direct my question to his companion and offer her a fake smile.

  “This is Portia…” he glances down at her then looks at me once more, smirking “…my girlfriend.”

  Maintaining my composure deserves another gold medal. Somehow I manage not to start screaming or throwing insults. “Well good for you. I’m glad you’re happy.”

  “About fucking time,” he growls.

  A few thousand retorts are on the tip of my tongue but wisely, I remain silent and turn my back on them, weaving my way to the table and tossing back shot number one while I walk. Shot number two goes down just as easily, though I fear that neither one will erase the image of him standing there thrusting silent knives to my heart, touting his happiness with my doppelganger hanging on his every word.

  Mia takes one look at me and hops off her bar stool. “What’s the matter?”

  A new song starts to play, one of my favorites of Miss Mary J and the perfect song I need to remind myself that no man is going to get me down. Grabbing her hand, I pull her toward the dance floor, throw my arms in the air and start to roll my hips to the beat.

  Damn him. Why can’t he just stay gone? He acts like I’m the bad guy and while I get that it was probably in bad taste to break up with him on Valentine’s Day, you can’t tell me he didn’t see it coming. Or maybe he was just convinced he was doing everything in his power to make sure I was happy and fulfilled. Who knows? But the idea that he’s so easily replaced me, after all the shit that went down—and with a virtual twin as well—makes me wonder if the only real thing I ever was to him was an open set of legs and a convenient housemaid.

  The breath catches in my throat, and I can feel the beginnings of tears pinch my eyes. Dammit, I do not want to cry over that guy anymore. We’re over; we’ve been over for years now. So why, I ask myself, am I still bruised by the fact that he replaced me so quickly?

  I’m so lost in my head and in the beat of the music that I barely notice Mia’s worried look. I do notice the warm, male hand that slides into mine and the murmured “come on, sweet cheeks, let me take you home.” I’m so close to falling apart, I can’t even verbally tell my friend goodbye. I can only exchange a look with Mia that I pray she interprets as “we’ll talk later.”

  Marco pulls me slowly through the crowd and out into the balmy Miami air toward his car. He says nothing as he helps me into the buttery soft leather seat, nothing as he secures the seat belt over my lap. He remains silent as he starts the engine, turns the stereo low, and shifts into reverse, leaving me to try and hold it together until I reach the safe confines of my apartment.

  When we’re about a mile away, he’s finally brave enough to ask, “What happened in there?”

  “Not now.”

  He’s not happy about my refusal to answer but thankfully remains quiet as he pulls up to the curb in front of my building. I mutter my thanks and toss the door open, stomping toward the double doors and punching in my access code. I can hear his car idling behind, though not the sound of the car door, which is a great relief. One more word from him and I’m going to lose it.

  I take the elevator, mostly because my high-heeled feet are killing me, then trudge with a purpose down the hall toward my front door. I make a beeline for the stairs once I’m inside, race up them and start pulling off clothes as I walk, leaving a trail of silk and cotton in my wake.

  Shower on, I brush my teeth while the water heats then step under the spray and let it roll over my head and down my face. The sob bubbles up from somewhere deep inside of me, the same place I’ve been hiding it since I first heard Victor’s voice earlier. Then I’m falling, sliding, landing on my ass on the cool, white tile. The water hides the tears that I finally allow myself to shed.

  Here’s what makes me the angriest about the whole thing: I still feel guilty about what I’ve done. Even after the crappy way he handled our ending, the lack of romance and conversation in our relationship, the emotion we faked, after all is said and done I still feel guilty for not discussing my issues with him ahead of time instead of just breaking things off cold turkey. I feel bad that I didn’t fight harder—and yes, that I was attracted to Marco when I had no right to be. My focus should have been solely on my boyfriend at the time and not on the handsome stranger whom I like to flirt with.

  By the time I curl under the covers in my favorite pajamas, wet hair splayed across the pillow, I’m weary from all the crying and nursing a dull headache from all the alcohol I’ve mixed. My phone has buzzed and quacked and rang off and on for the past hour, until I was forced to shut it down and stow it in my purse.

  As I sprawl across the bed, I think about all those nights I shared a space like this with Victor. He was never a big cuddler, not even after sex, but sometimes we’d be watching TV together and I’d fall asleep in the crook of his arm, that rock-solid chest of his a comfortable pillow. I miss having a body next to me, I miss sticking my foot under the sheets and finding a warm, hairy, male leg to rub my toes against. I miss the soothing and sometimes annoying sound of another person breathing, the barely-there sound of two hearts beating in slow tandem.

  Rolling onto my stomach, I force my eyes closed, reminding myself that my inner list of cons about Victor is much longer than the list of pros. The truth of the matter is that I don’t miss him, not really. I miss someone. I miss having a person next to me, having someone to come home to, having a regular person as a sounding board. I miss the idea of happiness, the concept of great love, and my biggest fear is that I’ll live my life not really ever knowing either one.

  There are times when I ask myself why the hell I bother with women. Aside from the obvious physical reasons, there’s a lot of drama that comes with having them in your life. Between my mother and sisters, my pseudo-sister Mia, and of course Amita, I’m seriously considering taking a hiatus from all women for a good long time.

  Or at least for a week or two.

  That dustup at the club the week before has left me with a whole lot of unnecessary drama in my life. First, it was the endless calls from Mia, wondering if I’d talked to her very silent best friend. Then it was my mother, who’d heard about it all from Mia at Sunday dinner and expressed outrage at Amita’s ex making contact with her at all. Then, of course, Isabella had to get involved because you know, that’s just what women do. By midweek I finally told all of them to go far, far away.

  The only female I have needed or wanted to talk to at all has been completely incommunicado since I dropped her off at her door last Saturday night and even though I’ve been playing it cool and have only dropped her a few texts, the worry has now set in. As has my decision to give all women a two week hiatus.

  I don’t enjoy worrying about anyone or anything, and normally I’m not the worrying type. Until Amita came along. Then all that shit started to change. Now I find myself wondering what the hell asshole Vic said to her that ripped the life from inside her, worrying that she’s blaming herself—yet again—for something that wasn’t even her fault and very concerned that my friend has walked away for good.

  This is why I need a break from women. I sound like a fucking pussy for crying out loud.

  Strolling through my door after seven Friday night, I immediately head to the state-of-the-art surround sound
and press the power button. Mellow R & B wafts through the entire condo, one of the finer selling points of this over-priced place. After shedding work clothes for a worn pair of jeans and plain black tee, I pad barefoot across the wood floor into the kitchen.

  The all-white space isn’t welcoming, and sure is not anything like the warm, vibrantly colored kitchen at my parents’ house, but it serves the purpose—especially since I spend little time here. I’m debating between a beer and a shot when the doorbell chimes, a rather foreign sound considering I’ve only ever had a handful of visitors.

  Shock is an understatement when I pull the door open and find Amita standing there, a bottle of Patrone in hand. She gives me a sassy smile, quickly perusing my casual wear, and murmurs, “You staying in tonight, hot stuff?”

  I shrug. “Undecided, sweet cheeks.” Taking a step back, I throw my arm wide and announce, “Come on in.”

  She oohs and ahs at all the appropriate times when I give her the nickel tour and while she inspects my vast collection of CD’s, I inspect her. She looks good, all things considered. She’s dressed casually like me, but I’ve gotta say that a pair of snug jeans never looked so good. Her deep blue casual top falls low over those upturned breasts that I’d give pretty much anything to get my hands or my mouth on.

  Rein it in, Moran.

  “You’ve got eclectic taste in music,” she comments, turning to face me and handing me the bottle of booze.

  I shrug. “I like a little bit of everything.”

  She smirks. “I bet you do.”

  While I’m happy that we’re back to our normal banter, I do have to wonder what brought her here tonight. I’d actually forgotten I’d given her my address, right up until I saw her standing on my doorstep. “How’re you doing, sweet cheeks?”

  Amita shrugs and looks away. “I’m okay.” Her eyes dart back to mine. “If I’m interrupting something, I can leave.”

  “You’re not interrupting anything.” Nodding my head toward the open slider door, I state, “Go relax on the balcony. I’ll get some glasses.”

  While I’m digging around for some decent cocktail glasses, I hear the volume of the stereo increase and then smile. She and I do have this in common. Among other things, I think with a grin.

  I tuck the bottle under my arm, grab the glasses I’ve now filled and topped off with a slice of lime, and move back out into the living room just as the song changes. As it does, and my eyes settle on her, all thoughts of friendship fade instantly in the blink of an eye.

  She’s dancing with her eyes closed, hips swaying, dipping, promising as the suggestive words of the song take over, telling her to hop on if she’s horny. The song is raw, uncensored, and exactly what I’d say to her out loud if we were anything more than just friends. If I was a good man, a good friend, I’d either ignore what’s happening or leave the room. But since I’m neither, I drop the bottle and glasses off at the nearest table, move up behind her, and slide my hands around her waist.

  We move like two people who have been dancing together for years, or better yet people that have been fucking good and hard for a nice, long time. When her arms sway high, I dip low. When she grinds, I grind right back. I’m instantly hard. I know she can tell by the way her ass moves against my pelvis, which puts all sorts of dirty, naughty thoughts front and center.

  The music engulfs us, ripping away the fears and hesitation. Her eyes are still closed, head tilted back, those gorgeous silky waves falling across my chest. I grip her hips with my hands, sliding one up and under that bounty, just inches away from where I want to be, as we continue to roll and gyrate against one another. Damn temptress that she is, she’s completely uninhibited. She arches her back and grinds hard against my fully erect cock, head falling against my shoulder as a silent moan echoes from her open mouth.

  Fucking hell. It would be so easy to bend her over the railing and give us both what we silently crave, but even as much as I want to do that—and even as hard as I am—I’m not sold on the fact that she wants what I want. Right here, right this moment, I am her rebound guy. We both know it.

  The song comes to an end and as it does, I can feel her entire body slowly begin to fill with tension. Eyes now open, she glances at me over her shoulder, and I swear it looks like she blushes. She hides it well, though, stepping out of my arms, retrieving our glasses and handing one to me, then taking a seat and propping her sandaled feet on the railing.

  I settle in next to her and stare out at the ocean. There’s two ways this can go: I can demand some answers, which I’m guaranteed will only push her away, or I can take the high road and use my standard smartass approach.

  Is there a door number three?

  I take a gulp of the tequila and let it burn before saying, “Well, that was fun.”

  She snickers and gives me a sideways look. “Stop it.”

  I make a big issue out of adjusting myself, and she quickly looks away and takes a drink. “Babe, you left me blue balled. The least you can do is explain what just happened there.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I like that song.”

  “Uh-huh. Try telling me the truth.”

  There’s a long few moments of silence, and then she says softly, “I’m attracted to you.”

  I chuckle. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  Her feet tap against the railing. “We talked about this, Marco. We’re friends.”

  Turning toward her, I reply, “So friends can’t be attracted to one another … is that what you’re saying?”

  She shrugs and tucks a chunk of hair behind her ear. “Yeah. I guess.”

  “Look at me for a minute.” When she slowly complies, I continue. “If you’re asking if I’m attracted to you, I think you know that I am.” I nod to where I’m still semi-hard. “Here’s what makes you different from the usual girls I fuck though. I like you, Amita. I like hanging out with you. I like giving you a hard time and having you give it right back.” Setting my glass on the table, I reach for her hand. Thankfully, she doesn’t resist. “Sure, we could fuck a few times, and it would be amazing, but then what?”

  “You’d walk away.”

  I nod. “Right. I’d walk away.” My hand comes up to cup her face. “I don’t want to walk away from you. I like what we have.” Jesus … I’ve reached full pussy status here, but something in my head is telling me I’m on the right track. Letting her go is not an option.

  “Me too.”

  My eyes drift to her pink, plump lips. “So does no fucking mean we can’t kiss?”

  She laughs and sits back, putting space and distance between us. “We are not kissing, Moran.”

  I leave her statement hanging in the wind and instead ask, “So what happened at the club last week? I know Mr. Fuck Stick was there.”

  She chuckles and sips at her drink, dropping the lime in and swirling it with her finger. “He was. He was there with Portia.” She says the name nice and slow, dragging out the letters. “She’s his new girlfriend.”

  “Wow. That was fast.”

  “Right?”

  I prop my feet next to hers and lean my head against the back of the chair. “Is that why you were upset? Because he was with someone new?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe. I think I was more upset because I was so easily replaced. You’d think after four years there’d be a pause or something.”

  Rage surges up and I snap, “You’re not easily replaced, sweet cheeks. He’s a dick.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  I consider refilling our glasses, then think better of it. Horny me has no business getting drunk with her tonight. That’s got bad written all over it. “Have you eaten?” She shakes her head. “Want to order in, maybe watch a movie or something?”

  A bright, happy smile lights her face. “I’d love that.”

  After much debate—and I do mean much debate because she vetoes every suggestion I make—we finally agree on Chinese food. There’s more debating (otherwise known as arguing) about what mov
ie we’re going to watch, until we finally settle on one of those Fast and Furious movies—which one, I have no clue.

  An hour later we’re seated side by side on the couch, sharing containers of steaming food, and she keeps a running commentary about the movie: “that guy is so cute” or “do you think those shorts are short enough, sister?” It’s as amusing watching her as it is watching the movie. She sits there with her shoes kicked off, legs folded under her, pointing her chopsticks at the screen and looking too damn beautiful. And a whole lot untouchable.

  “Go, asshole! Jesus, it’s the pedal on the right!”

  Fuck. I want to kiss her so badly right now, mouth full of Chinese food and all. Screw the friendship rules, I need to get my lips on hers pronto.

  “Drift, dumbass, drift!”

  “Sweet cheeks?” Her head snaps to the right when I say my nickname for her. She’s still got her chopsticks pointed high in the air. “I need to tell you something.”

  “What? Oh, sure.” She drops the sticks in the container.

  Since I’m all about the honesty tonight, I go right in for the kill. “I really need to kiss you right now.”

  The color falls from her face briefly before her cheeks flush and her eyes widen. “Wait. You’re serious?”

  Reaching forward, my hands cup her face. “Babe, I’m completely serious.” I lean closer to her, and she stubbornly pulls further back. “Where are you going, beautiful?”

  “We are not kissing. We agreed there wouldn’t be any kissing.”

  “No. You said there wouldn’t be any. I didn’t.”

  Her back hits the arm of the couch and the free hand not holding the food container hits the center of my chest. “Please don’t do this, Marco. Kissing me will be bad, bad, bad.”

  I remove the container from her fingers and move closer. “Ah, babe, it’s going to be good, good, good.”