Taming the Storm (The Storm 3)

Something in his eyes shifts. “We’re friends. I don’t like it if someone hurts my friends. I wouldn’t see it as fighting over a woman…more like fighting for one.”

He thinks I’m worth fighting for.

Words, Lyla. They’re just words.

Men are real good at words. Actions are where they fail.

Needing a moment away from Tom, away from the ease of his touch and words, I move and sit down on the recently vacated sofa nearby.

Tom takes the empty space beside me, filling it up and putting himself close to me. He catches the attention of a passing waiter and orders us some drinks.

I don’t start talking until I have my vodka and tonic in my hand.

Running my index finger up the side of the glass collecting condensation droplets, I let out a sigh. “My ex-boyfriend, Chad…is bisexual. Something he failed to tell me when we got together.”

Tom stares at me. “Okay…so you went out with someone named Chad, who likes cock and pussy…and you didn’t like that he used to bang dudes?”

“No. The problem was that it wasn’t used to. He continued to bang dudes while we were together—well, not dudes. Just one specific dude.”

My brother.

“He cheated on you,” he murmurs in understanding.

He just doesn’t get the whole picture.

I nod in answer, and then I take a large drink of my vodka, relishing the burn in my throat as I swallow.

“Well, I gotta say, you’re starting to make a lot more sense to me now.”

My eyes lift to his.

“And as for Chad, the cheating fuckhole of an ex—well, he’s clearly an idiot. I mean, he had you…and these”—he gestures to my girls—“the best rack I have ever seen in my life. And I’ve seen a lot of tits—racks in my life. Chad had the best ever in his hands every day, literally, and he traded them for cock?”

“Um…thanks, I think.”

“You’re welcome,” he deadpans. “Seriously, I don’t get the whole dude-screwing-another-dude thing. Sure, I love to fuck ass but a woman’s ass. You—I mean, women in general,” he corrects, “are just pure sex. So soft and warm, and you have those”—he gestures to my girls again—“which are amazing. God was on the right track the day he designed women. Give me a tight, warm pussy any day, and I’m a happy man.”

“Um…way too much info, Tom. Really. And isn’t that the problem? You’ve been a happy man for a long time now. What will you do if you run out of women? You might have to turn to men.”

He looks momentarily horrified at that thought. Then, relaxing, he settles back into the sofa, his arm going around behind me. “That’ll never happen.”

“You go through women at the speed of light. Even though you’re seemingly having a hiatus or rest or whatever, you being you will restart, and it’s possible that you could screw the entire female population of the U.S. by the end of this decade—excluding me, of course.”

“Of course.” He smirks, bringing his whiskey glass to his lips, and he takes a drink.

I ignore his pointed look. “So, what will you do then? Start recycling?”

He clanks his glass down on the table. “Nope. I’m not an environmentally friendly kind of guy. And just so you know, I might have gone through a lot of women in my time, but when I fuck—I fuck long and slow…real fucking slow.”

An image of Tom and me having sex flashes through my mind.

My heart speeds up. I can feel my body heating at the thought of Tom and sex and me.

Him and me…fucking.

I know my chest is flushed. I don’t have to look down to see. I know it is because Tom’s eyes are on it, staring, right now.

Stupid, traitorous, underused, and currently oversexed body.

Tom’s eyes lift, meeting mine, with knowledge.

Looking away, I force my spine straight as I hold the glass to my chest, trying to cool myself down. “And I need to know your screwing speed, why?”

He leans in close, real close this time, leaving our mouths centimeters apart.

I gulp down.

His whiskey-scented hot breath blows through my parted lips and fires down signals to my long-unused girl parts, sending them into a frenzy.

Shit.

Squeezing my thighs together, I bite down on my lower lip to regain control.

I will not lose my shit over Tom.

His eyes flicker down to my mouth. “You’re not ready to hear the answer to that question.”

“And what if I ever am—”

What the hell am I saying?

I’ll never be ready for Tom “Screw Anything” Carter. Ever.

“I mean, if I am, at some point in the imaginary, not-real-ever future?”

I see surprise flicker over his face, but he quickly covers it with a grin.

“Well, on that imaginary day, you would let me know, and then I’d tell you. But until then, just use that imagination of yours.”

He stands, running a hand through that outgrown sexy hair of his. “And, Lyla, let it run wild.” With a wink, he’s gone, sauntering through the bar, leaving me and underused girl parts on fire.

A Few Days Later—Tour Bus, Somewhere Mid-America

My imagination did run wild, too freaking wild.

I spent the next few days thinking about Tom. It was way more time than a person should spend thinking of someone she’s living with.

I also took a lot of cold showers, and during restless nights, I would try to expel the ache he left in me with my hand. I couldn’t even use ASBOF because I was afraid the guys would hear the vibrations through these paper-thin walls. So, it was, Hello, Hand, for me.