Chicks-In-Charge was fighting, and to have it originate here, in her own backyard, felt like a slap in the face. Zora couldn’t recall how many times she’d had Tate Hatcher’s little pearls of shit—not wisdom because there was nothing wise about his idiotic take on the fairer sex—quoted to her, or how many times she’d had to respond to one of his ignorant ideas. In light of Chicks-In-Charge’s success and Tate’s equally successful book, the media had paired them up as unwitting adversaries. It was provoking, to say the least.
Zora had read the damned book, several times in fact, because one needed to know one’s enemy, and she could see where some people might find it entertaining. The author—dubbed “the last true bachelor”—was unquestionably witty, wrote with a wry sort of humor that under ordinary circumstances would appeal to her. A lot, if truth be told. Unfortunately, being insulted didn’t appeal to her, which negated any positive thought she could form about the book, or even the author for that matter.
The first time she’d read it, she’d kept flipping the book over and staring at his picture on the back of the dust jacket. Marveling at his stupidity, she’d told herself. She’d marveled a lot since then—couldn’t seem to help herself. Despite the fact that she vehemently disagreed with every idiotic point made in his book, there was something in that picture—about him, specifically—that drew her.
Naturally, she’d rather be roasted alive than admit it.
But she saw humor and intelligence, a little too much confidence in his heavy-lidded aged-whiskey eyes, and there was something equally obstinate and sheepish about the angle of his jaw, the somewhat full curve of his sexy mouth. Zora paused, remembering, then jerked out of her stupor as the elevator doors slid open once more.
Good grief, she mentally chided. She had enough man trouble without romanticizing the literal author of recent misery. To retaliate, she’d personally written an article for Chicks-In-Charge to debunk each and every point of his ignorant, outdated opinions and had even used his book to showcase the continued stupidity of his own sex. In fact, she planned to deliver that very workshop at this conference.
A pity that such idiocy was packaged in such a handsome body though, Zora thought, unable to completely banish his gorgeous image from her mind. A true injustice.
Which reminded her of another injustice—her unsatisfied sex life. She wouldn’t be able to rectify that this weekend as she’d hoped, but she knew how to start.
By getting rid of Dex.
She’d essentially told him it was time to fish or cut bait. He hadn’t fished, so she’d cut bait. Though she was heartily annoyed, she couldn’t very well blame him. He’d maintained from the beginning of this ill-gotten relationship that he had no intention of spoiling it with sex. That he wanted a “true” relationship devoid of the drama of copulation. She was the one who’d changed her mind, not him, so if anyone was at fault, technically it was her.
Frankie, who’d thought Zora had lost her mind when she’d shared the parameters of her newest relationship, had correctly predicted this end. She should have listened to her, Zora thought now. Dex had seemed manageable—the only kind of man Zora allowed herself to become involved with. She had to be in control, had to have the dominant role in every aspect of the relationship, most especially the sexual aspect. A holdover mentality developed as the result of a relatively harmless, but nonetheless terrifying incident that had happened in her early teens.
One of the neighborhood boys—one she’d had the audacity to humiliate by being a better baseball player—had cornered her one afternoon behind the dugout and pinned her to the ground. Though being raped hadn’t been a real danger, the sexual menace underlying the act coupled with the horrifying fear of not being able to get him off her had marked her in a way that couldn’t be seen. For that one blinding moment, she’d been powerless and, after her brothers had dragged the brute off and beat the living hell out of him, she’d vowed she’d never feel that way again. Would never need another person to fight her battles. She’d been grateful, of course, but a secret part of her had envied them that strength, and she’d wanted it for herself. She thought she’d arrived, inasmuch as she was able.
Zora fished her key card from her robe pocket, planted it in the lock and let herself into her room. A glance at the bedside clock told her she’d been gone for more than two hours. A long time to stew, she decided, even by her standards. The idea of delaying the conversation until tomorrow held considerable appeal, but smacked of cowardice, so before she could think better of it, Zora gave the connecting door a hard push—it had a tendency to stick, she’d discovered earlier—and entered Dex’s room.
The light from the bedside lamp illuminated the room—the pile of discarded clothes, specifically—and the hum of the shower told her where she’d find him. Zora barely resisted the urge to snort. The bastard had already had a shower this evening, she knew. His hair had still been a little damp when she’d made her move. That he was in there again begged one of two assumptions. He’d either had to wash her unwanted advances from his pure unsullied body…or he was in there whacking off.
Her money was on the latter.
Her irritation renewed, Zora pulled in a deep breath and let it go as she strolled into the bathroom. “Dex, it’s Zora. I hate to interrupt you,” she said, purposely loading her voice with innuendo, “but I have something to say.”
His shadow behind the curtain momentarily stilled, then resumed movement. Ah, the silent treatment. That figured, she thought, the infantile jerk. Oh, well. The sooner she got this over with the better. She’d tell him what she thought, then go take a shower herself. Had to do something to relieve this infernal tension. Had he changed shower gels? Zora wondered absently, as a wholly masculine scent, one she didn’t readily associate with him, reached her nostrils.
Zora dropped the commode lid, sat down and sighed heavily. “Look, Dex. Things, uh…Things aren’t working out. Being abstinent is obviously a choice and a viable one for you, at that. But, as we discovered tonight, it’s not for me. I thought it was, but it’s not. I like sex. A lot,” Zora added meaningfully as her hollow womb echoed the sentiment, “and, frankly, I miss it.”
Zora paused, glared at the shower curtain—his unnaturally still form behind it, specifically—waiting for him to reply. He made a muffled noise, one that sounded ominously like a smothered laugh, but if there were any thoughts clanging around that empty head of his, he was evidently disinclined to share them with her. Still pouting, Zora surmised and expelled a quiet sigh of exasperation.
“I realize things might not have been so difficult for you,” she said, her voice somewhat tight, “because you at least have had a few orgasms. I, on the other hand, have not. I don’t mean to be cruel,” she hastened to add, which wasn’t altogether true. She hated a selfish lover and he hadn’t even been that—he’d been a selfish non-lover. “I’m just being honest with you. Like you were honest with me tonight,” she said pointedly. “You resented being seduced—or my attempt, rather,” she added with a bitter snort. “And I resent being perpetually…unsatisfied. So obviously this isn’t going to work. I’m horny. I want to get laid. And that puts us at cross-purposes because you don’t.”
She glared at the curtain again, waiting for some sort of response. Honestly, Zora thought, growing increasingly annoyed with his continued silence. Hell, she hadn’t expected him to break down and squall, but a tsk of regret, a token apology, would be nice. Hell, anything but this sulky silence.
She let go a perturbed breath, rolled her eyes. “Don’t you have anything to say?”
She watched him reach forward and cut off the tap. “Actually, yes.”
Zora
