Fool For You (Made for Love Book 4) (29 page)

“I fail to grasp the relevance of your observation?”

He sighs and shakes his head once more. “Just be careful with her. We’re not all as hard as you. Don’t string her along only to cut her loose when you’ve had your fun.”

My mind wanders to the vision of Teddy that’s been playing on repeat in my head all day. I remember the look in her eyes when she thanked me at the end of the night. In this moment, I hear Ben—I
legitimately
hear him—and I know that he’s right. Teddy is not like any other woman I’ve ever chased after before. The thought of hurting someone as delicate, shy, and genuine as her seems cruel.

“I’m not a monster,” I argue in my defense.

“No, you’re a player.”

“Perhaps,” I admit. “But I always play fair.”

It’s true. I don’t lie to women. I don’t lure them in with false pretenses. I’m honest and upfront about what it is that I want. It’s not my fault if they get it twisted, or succumb to the illusion that they can somehow change me—as if their pussies are magic. They’re not.

I confess to myself that I did break the rules, once. With Logan, I entertained the idea of crossing boundaries, regardless of the fact that she was spoken for. But that was just a stupid infatuation, and my distaste for being told
no
. It’s not like that with Teddy. I might be bending my rules by playing by hers, but I’m not fool enough to fall for her; and I’m not afraid of her falling for me. Not permanently, anyway. She chooses me today, but she won’t choose me always. The same applies for me to her.

But for now—for now, I see no reason in denying us what we both want. My shy girl may not be ready to admit it yet, but her body craves mine as much as mine craves hers. We’re both seeking pleasure, and we shall indulge, in time—and for the right amount of time. I’ve been counting down the days since the moment I laid eyes on her.

“Just…remember what I said. Don’t hurt her.”

“I hear you, brother,” I reply with a nod.

He offers me a nod in reply and then reaches for a menu.

“Let’s eat. I’m starving.”

T
he first couple weeks of August have been nothing short of amazing. The weather has been gorgeous, work has been steady, and Judah has been the perfect gentleman. In all honesty, I’m impressed and surprised with how well things are going between the two of us. Granted, I knew he was capable of being kind and attentive, but he’s also proven to be patient and honest. I trust that he’s been faithful to our arrangement and that he’s not seen any other women since he promised me he wouldn’t. He’s taken me out almost a half a dozen times now, and I’ve enjoyed every moment.

I’m learning more and more about him with every passing day, in spite of his mysterious nature. He’s guarded, that much I know for sure. Sometimes I feel like any detail he shares with me about himself is some sort of calculated confession. It doesn’t bother me, though. I understand why he does it—why
anyone
would act just the same. He’s been hurt, and he doesn’t want to experience that kind of pain again. Of course he hasn’t said as much, but I would have to be blind not to figure it out. Besides, it’s something we have in common.

He’s running from love, a truth he admitted to me in so many words the night we went out with our siblings. For a long time, I was too. Only, while his tactics involve indulging his body’s desire for pleasure, mine were the exact opposite, leaving me isolated. Now, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that either of us are actively looking for love. It’s possible that neither of us are ready for that. In fact, I can’t say for sure where our relationship is going at all, but I’ve decided that I don’t care.

I like him. I like him very much. He spoils me, and I’ve never had that before. It feels good to be wanted. And while I know he wants a lot more from me physically, he hasn’t forced me or pressured me into more than I’m ready for. He was telling the truth when he told me he wouldn’t manipulate or coerce me into his bed, and I respect that about him. I know he’s still confident I’ll make the decision to surrender myself to him on my own—and I’m brave enough to admit that I don’t trust myself enough to swear that he’s wrong—but his choice to forsake all other women for a
chance
with me?
Judah?
The most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on? A man who could, and probably has, had any woman he wants? It makes me feel extraordinary. How could I not like him?

The last time he took me out, we went for dinner at The Archibald. Apparently, he headed the hotel’s big remodel project two years ago. The manager of the establishment even let us take a tour so that I could see a few of the rooms. The presidential suite, in the penthouse, had been all Judah’s doing. To say that it was breathtaking would be an understatement. I loved it. I loved it even more that he arranged for me to be able to see something that he’s obviously very proud of. After our tour, he took me to the little jazz bar that’s housed underneath the hotel.

It amazes me the places he has introduced me to over the last two weeks. While a couple of our dinner spots have been familiar, at least half of them are new to me, which only goes to show how different we are from one another. My tastes—and my bank account—never allowing me to frequent such places. Up until this evening, he’s been pretty adamant about taking the lead in planning our dates; but when we arranged to spend our Saturday night together, I told him that we didn’t always have to go out, and a night in would suit me just fine. He listened and then invited me over to his place for dinner.

We made a delicious meal—and by
we
I mean, I shredded the cheese and stirred the sauce. Now, after the hour we spent eating and talking, we’re just about done cleaning up the kitchen. I insisted he let me do the dishes, as I’m better at scrubbing than cooking. Just as I lay the last pot upside down on the tea towel he spread out for me, I feel a pair of strong arms slide around my waist. He pulls my body back against his and I melt into him, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“What should we do now?” he asks, his lips grazing my ear.

“What do you want to do?”

He chuckles, the sound making my knees weak. I have to hold on to him in order to keep my balance. Even after all these weeks, he’s still capable of turning me into a twitter-pated mess.

“I don’t know why you always ask me that, as if you don’t already know the answer,” he murmurs, holding me tighter.

My breath hitches in my throat as my heart rate picks up speed. I definitely walked into that one all on my own. Though, instead of telling him no, I ask, “Have you been doing any reading lately?”

For a moment, I stop breathing. I’m surprised that I had the nerve to say the words; curious to know his answer; and secretly hoping for an excuse to give him permission to touch me.

“Dammit,” he mutters.

All at once I feel relieved, disappointed, and amused. When I giggle, it’s because the man confuses my head and my heart, and I don’t know how else to respond. I turn around in his arms, brazenly running my hands up his chest and around his neck, lifting myself up on my tiptoes as I hold him closer. His eyes roam my face, and for a second, I admire him as he admires me.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that,” I whisper, the words falling from my mouth without my consent.

“Used to what?” he asks, his voice low and soft.

At first I don’t answer. Then he grazes his nose along mine and lines up our lips, his long even breaths mingling with my short uneven ones before he repeats the question.

“The way you look at me,” I barely manage, my stomach already tingling with the anticipation of his kiss.

“You are exquisite, Theodora.”

My God, this man—he wasn’t made to be resisted. Every inch of him was carefully sewn together by the Creator of the world; the same God who, in love, warns us away from sexual temptation. And yet—

This man…he was not made to be resisted.

He presses his lips against mine firmly, but he doesn’t linger. When he pulls away and gazes down at me, I take it as a sign—my one and only
out
—a gift granted to my ever weakening ability to tell him
no
.

“Well,” I say, forcing myself to let him go as I take a step away from him. “Since you’ve yet to read my favorite book, I suppose you’ll have to play with me another way.”

He lifts his eyebrows, and I know his mind has gone to a dirty place. I laugh as I shake my head at him, and then I begin to back my way toward the set of spiral metal stairs across the room.

“Pool, Judah. Let’s play
pool
.”

She’ll be the death of me.

I am a man deprived.

As I watch her climb the stairs, I imagine bending her over the railing and fucking her from behind. When she reaches the loft and slips out of my sight, I follow after her, adding the stairs to the list of places I intend to ravage her. The list is ever growing. Every room she enters, every surface she touches, I think about how desperate I am to rip off all her clothes and own her right there. I imagine how fantastic she would look splayed across my dining room table, her legs spread wide as she sits on the kitchen island, her ass in the air as she lays chest down on the couch—fucking
everywhere
—I want her
everywhere.

It’s been five weeks since I first laid eyes on her. I knew I wanted her then, and I want her even more now—but it’s been a decade since I’ve waited this long to take a woman to bed. Ten
fucking
years. I told Teddy that I wasn’t an animal, but after two weeks of long dinners and even longer kisses, I fear she’s turning me into a beast—and I’m starving. My desperation has me ready and willing to settle for her warm body in my bed. If nothing else, she’ll leave behind her mouthwatering scent—at least I’d have that when I’m jacking off in her absence.

Swear to god, I haven’t stroked my dick this much since I was fourteen.

When I reach the loft, Teddy’s back is to me. She’s running her hands along the edge of the pool table, admiring it. Her long, red hair hangs in waves down her back, and my dick twitches at the sight of her little ass in her skin-tight jeans. As I stare, I wonder,
why her?
I wonder why I promised to keep my dick out of other women when she won’t let me put it inside of her? Then she turns around and smiles at me. Then—I know.

I want
her
.

I want to see those pretty brown eyes hooded in lust; those sweetheart lips parted as she moans my name; her chest rising and falling as she tries to catch her breath. I want to taste the sweat that will trickle down her neck; want to grip my fingers in her wild, sex mussed hair; want to sink my teeth into her porcelain-like skin. I want her timid touch, her anxious gasps, and her shy smile. I want her lithe, delicate body writhing beneath me before she shatters under the ecstasy of an orgasm she’s too exhausted to beg for.

I don’t want Diana. I don’t want Cierra. I don’t want some nameless broad from the bar. I want the gorgeous creature standing before me right now; and for reasons I cannot quite explain, the thought of any other dick inside of her makes me irrational. So here I am—
waiting for her to come to her senses.
To chase after another would mean letting Teddy go, and I can’t do that. Not until I have her in every way imaginable.