Hardest to Love Read online

  The bedding had soaked up the icy water, and she arched her back. “It’s, it’s cold.”

  “I’ll warm you up.” He joined her on the bed, mattress dipping slightly. He moved over her, arms and hands on either side of her, his long body in a push-up, almost a plank. Before she knew it, his head lowered and his mouth was on hers again, arms locked, biceps flexing.

  Their kissing was electrifying, a sensual cataclysm of lips, tongues, fingertips. One by one, the beaded buttons of her dress came open, freed by his expert hands.

  He hadn’t ripped a single thread or seam. No, it was her who was ripped open, all her romantic notions about sweet courtship, picnics and flowers, razed to dust. She was lost in his arms, unable to push him away.

  A moan escaped her lips as he pulled down the top of her dress over her shoulder and tugged down the bra strap.

  I won’t let Elena catch her breath. Not one word will escape those lips. Her mouth belongs to me. Under her pretty Asian dress is warm pliant female, the smooth slope of her belly, a sweet collarbone and an ivory bra. Beneath the belly button, the elastic lace of matching panties. The heavy luscious breast under my hand begs release from its taut Lycra cup.

  Rockets explode in my head. I’m on fire. Get her naked, now.

  She tries to say something, but my mouth suctions over hers.

  “Nick.”

  “Shhh,” I whisper. I trail kisses around her ear. “It’s rude to interrupt when someone’s trying to ravish you.” I flick the hardening nipple with my thumbnail.

  She gasps and rolls her head, chin straining upward in a moan.

  I bring her mouth back to mine and smile against her lips, so soft and delectable. “Kiss me back like a good little girl.”

  Her eyebrows come together. “You obnoxious—”

  But it’s brought the desired effect—leaving her hot and riled. Her hands claw futilely into my back, those bitten-off nails unable to wreak damage. While she can’t scratch, she sure as hell can paw, and she’s kissing me like the lioness I knew she’d be, our mouths warm and wet and urgent.

  On the bed, we slide around on the bedspread. The top of her dress is bunched around her waist. Goddamn. Those spectacular centerfold tits. If I can’t get to them, I’ll go nuts. I tunnel my way under her back and bra band, my fingers intent on releasing the hooks.

  “I—I thought your hand was numb.”

  “Miracle cure. Your body.”

  Either this bra comes off, or I’ll detonate. I roll over and take her with me. She’s on top, and the area left by the washcloth is damp against my back.

  She’s straddling me in lacy panties with smooth thighs sent from heaven. I curl up like I’m doing a sit-up to recapture her mouth. My hands move down silky skin to cup her ass. Oh, that’s another luxurious destination I’d like to stay at, her firm, round ass. She takes good care of herself, but I can take even better care of her.

  Before I remove her bra, I’ll make her crazy. My thumbnail brushes over the erect nipple and circles. Flicks back and forth, and then I tease her with a sexy pinch.

  She moans, pleading. The luscious tit molds to my hand, held under its Lycra restraint.

  Niiice. Elena with an E is a very full-sized D.

  “Uhhmm—” Her hair is wild, long bangs spilling over one eye. Her mouth is a little swollen from kissing, a deep pomegranate red in the moonlight.

  My thigh and aching cock brush against her hip.

  One of her hands drops to my chest and tweaks my nipple. Then drops a little farther, around the wet tip of my cock.

  I hiss in a sharp breath. “Yeah, baby. That’s it,” I coax. More of her hands all over me. Anytime her tongue wants to join the party, it’s got a backstage pass to my cock.

  The first bra clasp is unhooked. My breath hitches. Going for the second hook. “Oh, baby. Yeah.” Third’s almost free. My breath hitches in. I can’t wait to get my hands on those creamy tits. Tease those nipples between my fingers and drive her into a frenzy. I am going to fuck her non-stop until both of us need traction. Plow this fertile flesh as hard and relentless as I want, in a guaranteed marathon to set records, our own private show called Extreme Fucking.

  She twists her head and strains to get up. “What’s—that?”

  In a daze, I glance over. On the nightstand is the small cardboard box normally stored in the bathroom vanity. The cleaning lady forgot to put it back. “Nothing.” Free the beast. Free the beast. My cock twitches and pulses; I’m so hard I could pop. Get inside her. Get inside. I unclasp my belt buckle.

  “What is that?”

  Reaching for the top of my zipper. My lips run along her neck. “Shhh.”

  “Are those panties?”

  PAN-TEES. Two sharp, accusing syllables.

  She scrambles from underneath me, pushing me away.

  Tomorrow, I demand the maid’s head on a Swiffer.

  “That’s a box containing women’s things.” Pure female outrage comes out like a bark. She struggles to sit, yanks her dress up over her chest, and stomps over to the box. Lifts a loose stiletto by its thin silvery strap, its five-inch heel dangling. “You have a Lost and Found in your bedroom.”

  I’m on my back, staring at the ceiling. If I stay motionless like a crime victim, she might not attack. Later they can outline me in chalk.

  “You have a lost and found of women’s things. You have a lost and found.”

  I’m still on the bed and roll over, face down, in a frustrated sprawl. The sheet sucks in and out with my nostrils. “I can’t throw those things out. Whoever it belongs to might need it.”

  “How can this woman leave her shoe here? She leaves in one shoe and hobbles off? God. Serial killers keep their victims’ stuff. You are sick. Pathological.” She scrambles to her feet and draws her dress back over her arms and shoulders. She yanks it together with a fist. “I am not getting anywhere near that bed unless I’m in a Hazmat suit.”

  I lift my head so she can hear. “This is the best mattress money can buy.”

  “I don’t care. That bacteria-infested thing is a health threat. It has to be sanitized for my protection!”

  She grabs her shoes and coat and races for the private elevator.

  The door closes before I can pry it apart.

  Plan B is the public elevator and I chase her in the lobby. She’s trying to run, handicapped by her pink shoes, heels clicking in a gazelle-like canter, whereas my bare feet pound the icy floor in heavier steps. Ice floes, these goddamn tiles.

  But I’m inches from capture. That’s the advantage we have over females: we don’t wear flimsy footwear or lug purses.

  “You are evil.” Her furious voice echoes in the glass-surrounded lobby.

  “Why don’t you say that a little louder until a couple of patrol cars pull around front.”

  I lunge and manage to grab the sleeve of her red coat. For several moments, we play a bizarre tug-of-war. I try to pull the coat off, and she does a half-spin to keep it on, swinging like a broken subway turnstile. I’m half-naked, she’s half-coated. We’re lunatics.

  Underneath, I can see that only two of her dress buttons are fastened. Thanks to both of us, a seam is splitting along the side of her red coat.

  “Let go!”

  “You forgot your hat.” I release her sleeve to avoid ripping it.

  She slaps at me like I’m a purse snatcher. “Let go, you—you—shirtless shit.”

  “Clocks around the world just stopped. Her Royal Preachiness swore.”

  “You could do with some morality, Mr. Gomorrah.” In front of the double doors, she opens her purse and drops her keys. They land in a metallic clink on the polar cap floor.

  I drop to my knees and fumble around blindly for them before she can.

  But then she’s right there with me, smacking at my hand like a deranged woman at a shoe clearance. She reclaims the keys and pulls herself to her feet, teeth bared. “You had me help you unbutton your shirt, you calculating—”

  “Oh, I don�
�t think I had to push too hard, baby.”

  That stops her dead in her tracks. She stares, and her nostrils flare. She spins and rushes to the lobby doors, her dark head jerking around as she mutters angrily to herself.

  The arctic blast hits me, millions of needles pricking my bare skin. What overrides the pain is getting her to stay. The rough inlaid brick scrapes the soles of my feet. “You’re too upset to drive,” I yell after her, running. Ouching.

  Ahead of me by several yards, shoes clicking, she snarls over her shoulder. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not discombobulated.”

  “Dis-en-huh?” My teeth chatter at jackhammer speed.

  She storms toward her dark green Camry, which she’d parked in the front row usually reserved for deliveries, the handicapped or emergencies. She rounds the car to the driver’s side and yanks a yellow slip from underneath the windshield. “Great. Just great. Eighty dollars I don’t have.”

  “I’ll pay the goddamn fine. Let’s go back inside.”

  “No.”

  “I’m freezing to death out here. I’m not one of those monks who can chant away hypothermia.”

  “They meditate; they don’t chant.”

  “How do you know? Do you get their newsletter?”

  My sarcasm goes unappreciated. Instead her lip turns down, and she brushes away loose dark hairs with a fuzzy tip of her mitten. “I had some hope when you helped me with that little boy.”

  “I don’t like kids.”

  Her pretty face goes slack. “How could you not like kids?”

  “I don’t like anyone. Except you.”

  “Another smarmy line.” She inserts the key into the driver’s door and turns it. The auto locks click. “Tell me, what will get me around the ticket? Should I tell the judge I know you? Schmooze a few of the policemen, tell them I almost slept with the scion of Zaccardi Hotels? Come on, Nick,” she chokes out. “You know about shortcuts and charming your way around everything.”

  “If I want a sermon, I’ll call a priest.” I fold my cold arms over my chest and start hopping. “I am what I am. It is what it is.”

  “What it is, is twenty-four-seven fun and games. A box of women’s goodies so you can crow to yourself that you bagged this one and that one. You’re exciting and good-looking, Nick, but you don’t have a heart.”

  “I sure as hell have a heart. It almost explodes when I’m near you.”

  “That’s lust.”

  “Damn straight, it’s lust. Good healthy unadulterated lust coming from both of us.”

  “Tell me something about your heart, if you’ve got one.” Her breaths come out as ragged puffs in the air. “Tell me something that isn’t about restaurants or money or looks or sex.”

  We stare at each other.

  I can’t answer.

  She shakes her head. “I need to stick with the eighty percent like me.” She gets into the car and slams the door.

  I squint, blink to clear my eyes. The car heater melts away the ice on the windshield, creating two holes. She lowers her head to squint around the edges of the ice and checks the rearview mirror.

  Wait. I blink again and stare.

  Is she crying?

  Goddamn it. Why is she doing that? “Elena!”

  She backs up the vehicle and then accelerates, and the front tires roll forward, missing my bare right foot by inches. A pissed off woman and me in the direct path of 3,500 pounds and four radial tires.

  At the red light, she takes a left, and the beat-up Camry disappears into the early morning frost.

  I return to my condo to thaw out.

  I move closer to the windows, my feet numb. Buildings jut out, black rectangles and tiny squares of lights, Chicago waking up. The water and horizon blend in a dark navy blue. The iconic Ferris wheel is still. In a clearing, there are giant snowflakes in white LED lights, fainter in the growing sunlight. Some kind of Winter Wonderfest.

  I close my eyes. The rewind button is stuck on her crumpled face, her eyes spilling tears.

  Before I wouldn’t give a shit if she said that I didn’t have a heart. I knew that about myself—I didn’t have a heart and didn’t care, either. It’s a load of crap, that “modern culture” prevents men from expressing feelings. Nothing further from the truth. For most guys, the stiff upper lip starts at birth. Blubbering makes us squirm more than the doctor snapping on plastic gloves.

  It’s why my eye was drawn to the toughest woman in the room. Glamour girls, career women, the haughty type, ambitious in their cashmere and silk and Paris perfumes. They’re competitive and confident. Snarky as hell, lightning-fast with putdowns. They’re not needy. They don’t cry. They don’t wear mittens or puff hats or notice old recipe boxes. They replace old recipe boxes with their own. Because, in a tinkling of female laughter, they know better. They have much better taste than the old and tacky.

  But Elena would keep the old box and what was inside it. She’d restore it somehow, blot away the damp smell and clean the brown edges. Bring it to life again.

  That doesn’t fill me with admiration, but scorn. Out with the old, in with the new. She’s too old-school and notices things, which I don’t like. Other girls notice things to use against me. You do this. You do that. That’s why I’ve never let my guard down, so I won’t for her.

  I remember her with the little boy. The wire monkeys. Elena was the girl from the periodic chart, the one who couldn’t be broken down into simpler substances.

  Near the Ferris wheel, a faraway couple trudges a diagonal path across the snowy clearing. They’re moving dots, huddled into each other.

  I’ve done the holidays solo before. Boarding schools as a kid. In my condo as an adult. No big deal. I shove my hands in my pants pockets and stare down at my dirty feet.

  I shudder, feeling colder. Older.

  Alone.

  The November sleet makes the streets shine like asphalt mirrors. I park across the street from a row of three-story brownstones and get out of my Aston. The wind picks up, and I blow warm breaths on my cold fingers.

  Soon I’m at Cos’s front door, where a holiday wreath shoots pine at my nose. He answers on the second ring, sweater tied around his neck, navy shirt, tan slacks. Clearly wifey-poo’s behind the Ken Doll wardrobe and the early decorations.

  “Hey. Nicky.” He claps me on my wet shoulder and offers a lame smile, like he gave away his extra Super Bowl ticket to his boss’s nephew. “Wasn’t expecting you.”

  “You’re not returning my calls.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “Bobby DeVille didn’t make it to the game last Thursday.”

  “Oh. Too bad. I heard the Hawks lost, anyway. How’d you get that bruise on your face?”

  I shrug. “Is there another way I can reach DeVille, or do I resort to a blimp message floating over his house? I need him, Cos. I’ve got to win NEW EATS.”

  “Tiffany doesn’t want any business talk today.”

  The wind blows harder, and I huddle into my black down jacket. I blink against the rain. “She the reason you’re not inviting me in?”

  “We’re in the middle of something.”

  “A séance?”

  Cos laughs. “I said we’re in the middle of something.”

  That stings a little, but I maintain a blank face. The porch’s inlaid brick reminds me of the bookstore’s red bricks. And a pair of stormy blue eyes. “Cos. Do I have a heart?”

  His head jerks back. “A what?”

  “Someone thinks I’m an asshole.”

  “Nick, you are an asshole.”

  “But I’m a friendly asshole. A generous asshole.”

  “Hey. That Nick’s voice I hear?”

  That comes from a guy Cos and I mutually know, a commodities trader named Devlin Greeley. Greeley ambles down the hall to join us at the small foyer. He’s dressed like a Sunday golfer in Dockers and a long-sleeve shirt. He holds a plate containing a demolished omelet, cheddar and green pepper and onion bits rimming the edge, a flaky corner of a c
roissant. I peer past Cos’s shoulder. Several couples cluster around a roaring fireplace, their wine glasses catching flickers of light from white candles.

  Warm and snug as bugs.

  Cos’s ears turn red. “This is . . . one of those couples-only things. A Sunday afternoon brunch thing.”

  In his other hand, Dev holds up a bottle of Jameson. “We’re making homemade Irish cream.”

  I glance at Cos. “That the recipe I gave you?”

  “Yeah.”

  My smile fades. There’s a painful tightening in my throat.

  “Hey, man,” Greeley says. “You look different. You color your hair or something?” He likes to bust my balls.

  Before I can respond, I hear a voice in the hallway. “Marc? We’re waiting on the Irish Crème.”

  His Nordic bride appears, Princess Patton, wearing a red lace dress with elbow-length sleeves. She’s gained a shocking amount of weight. When she steps into the hall light, her round belly goes first, followed by the rest of her. Her eyes narrow suspiciously, as though I’m the sleazy slumlord and she’s the investigative reporter. “Is that Nick? Nick Zaccardi?”

  “Hey, Tif.” Short for Tiffany. “This is quite a surprise.”

  “Yep.” She slides both arms around Cos’s waist. “We’re due soon. Our best Christmas gift ever. Well. I must return to my guests.”

  Feet outward, she walks like a duck back into her house.

  I stare at Cos.

  “Come on, Nicky. You don’t even like kids, and I’m going to tell you the news?”

  No. No, I guess you sure the hell won’t. I’m standing out here in the freezing ass rain. Me, your lifelong buddy, while the cutesy phonies are in there. Blurt that out, though, and I’ll come off like some whiny girl who didn’t get invited to the slumber party.

  Honestly. What kind of wormhole have I stepped into? I can’t reach Bobby DeVille, my best choice for a chef. Elena cries and almost runs over my foot. Cos won’t invite me in because my mere presence will curse his first-born. He didn’t even tell me he was having a kid.

  He shuffles his feet and shoves his hands into his pants pockets. “Aw, shit, Nicky. I gotta be straight with you. I can’t invest in a bar. No way. Not with my daughter coming.”