How to Date the Guy You Hate by Julie Kriss Page 0,45
effortless. Megan didn’t put me on a pedestal, and she didn’t treat me like a disappointment. She got mad when I fucked up and she called me on my bullshit, but she recognized my honesty and my willingness to try. And when we were in bed together… Jesus Christ.
There’s a fact about men. I don’t know whether women understand it; maybe they don’t. But there is nothing better to a man than the knowledge that a woman—a beautiful woman, a hot woman, a strong woman who can pick and choose—loves to fuck him. Not just that there’s a negotiation between two consenting adults. Not just that sex is something he wants, and that she agrees to when he gets lucky.
No. It’s that changed dynamic, where he knows that without a doubt he just completely fucking turns her on. That if he kisses her just so, and moves in close, she’ll start to thrum with anticipation and want. That heat will start to come off her skin. That she loves sex, but more specifically, she loves sex with him. That she’ll ask for it. And ask for it again.
It isn’t just ego. It’s everything. A man who has a woman who loves to fuck him can leap tall buildings in a single bound. He can move mountains if he has to. I’d spent four years without that, four years with a woman who made me feel like sex with me was something she had to put up with, a pill she had to swallow once a year. And every time Megan looked at me, she ripped off every shred of my clothes with her eyes. The difference was profound.
It made me feel like something was changing.
It also made me feel very, very possessive. In a deep, crazy way.
But I had to remember that that was me, not her. Megan had never asked me for anything more than a wedding date and my A-game in bed so she could forget her problems. She’d never hinted that she needed me for anything else. And there had been that flash of fear on her face before I’d left the hotel room. I didn’t know what it meant. I didn’t know what she was afraid of, and I already knew she wouldn’t tell me.
I stepped forward as she came toward me and took her bag from her hand. She rolled her eyes, but she didn’t stop me. There was no stopping me. Standing by like an asshole while a woman hefts her own bags into the car is not what I do.
I slammed the trunk and looked at her. “You ready?”
“You paid the bill,” she said, her tone accusing.
“Sure,” I said, and looked at her face. “Forget it. I have extra money.”
“Extra money? What does that mean?”
“It means the guy who owns the club three doors down from Zoot Bar hired me for extra shifts last week and paid me cash.”
“That isn’t extra money, Jason,” Megan said. “That’s just money.”
“Cash is extra money. It doesn’t count.”
“It counts. You’re spending it on this trip, which you’re taking because of me.”
“Of course I’m spending it on the trip,” I said. “Why do you think I worked the extra shifts?”
She stopped and bit her lip, took a deep breath. Looked away from me.
I watched her for a minute, and then I figured it out. “You have a hard time when people help you, don’t you?” I said to her.
“I’m supposed to handle this myself,” she said.
“Well, the rule just changed,” I replied. “You’re handling it with me. You ready to go see Mr. Wonderful Ex-Boyfriend? You look smoking hot, by the way. He’s going to go down on one perfect knee and beg for you back.”
“I don’t—” She frowned. “He’s marrying my cousin. I don’t want him back.”
“Well, he’s going to weep perfect preppy tears from his preppy eyes when he sees you,” I said. Like I said, possessive. “He might get salt water on his tasselled shoes.”
“You think Kyle is preppy?” she asked.
“His name is Kyle. And he’s spending a billion dollars to get married on Cape Cod. So yes, he’s preppy.”
The skin high on her cheekbones flushed for a second, and she shook her head. She looked like she was about to say something. Then, without warning, she turned and moved her body up against mine. I could feel the press of her breasts beneath her top. She rose up on her toes, put an arm around my neck, pulled me down, and kissed me. Long