Tangled Extra Scenes Page 3

  “And how exactly does me not changing the toilet paper roll disrespect you?”

  Her face goes blank, like she’s shocked that I don’t immediately understand the insanity that is her.

  “Well, who do you think is going to change it?”

  “Uhh…I don’t?”

  She spreads her arms out, like I just said the magic words.

  “Exactly.”

  I pinch my nose. Maybe if I stem the flow of blood to my brain, I’ll pass out.

  She goes on, “You don’t think about it at all! You just assume, ‘Oh Kate will do it. She’s got nothing better to do’…”

  I put my hand up, cutting her off. “No, no—I don’t think that! If I need toilet paper and it’s there, I use it. If it’s not, I improvise.”

  Her face wrinkles. “Well, that’s just disgusting.”

  So this is what it feels like to be stuck in quicksand. You kick and struggle…but you just keep on sinking.

  “You know what? Okay, fine. You’re right. I’ll change the toilet paper roll from now on. Problem solved.”

  But apparently it’s not.

  She folds her arms. “I don’t want to be right, Drew. I don’t want you to change the toilet paper roll because I’m yelling at you. I want you to want to change the toilet paper roll.”

  Okay—now I start laughing. I just can’t help it.

  “Why the fuck would anyone want to change the toilet paper roll!”

  She looks offended. Highly. “For me. For me, Drew! You know, I happen to like doing things for you because I love you. But only if you appreciate it. When it just becomes…expected…then I feel degraded. And it makes me not want to do things for you!”

  Her lips are moving. I know she’s trying to tell me something.

  What it is? No clue.

  “I don’t even know what that means!”

  She points her finger at me. And hops up and down. “Yes, you do! You’re just purposely not seeing my point to drive me crazy.”

  No, I’m really not. Because judging from this conversation? She’s already there.

  And then a thought occurs to me. “Are you on the rag?”

  Her mouth opens wide. And you might want to take a step back, because I think her head might actually explode.

  She grabs the nearest thing she can reach—a picture of us on vacation two months ago—and flings it at my head. Frisbee style. Lucky for me, she’s got bad aim. The shelf behind me? Not so lucky.

  Smash.

  “Why is it that whenever a woman is justifiably upset, the guy always blames it on PMS?”

  Please. I’ve been on the receiving end of Alexandra’s premenstrual-induced psychosis often enough to recognize the signs.

  “Oh, I don’t know…could it be because it usually is the reason?”

  That’s when Kate starts to pummel me.

  With both fists.

  Like a kindergartener going to the mat over his favorite color crayon.

  “You…are…such…a…jerk!”

  Somewhere in between the second and the fifth punch, my dick peeks out from where he’s been hiding since the beer bath to reevaluate the situation. To see if there’s any way to turn this sorry state of affairs into something…a little more to his liking.

  He thinks there is. And so I grab Kate’s wrists and back her up against the wall, holding her hands over her head.

  Restrained—such a nice look for her.

  Her chin is high, and her eyes are blazing. “I so don’t like you right now!”

  I smirk. “I’m sensing that.”

  She twists and pulls but can’t get free. Like some beautiful, exotic fish caught in a net.

  “You’re an insensitive prick.”

  I lean in, pressing the lower half of our bodies together. “I resent that. My prick happens to be extremely sensitive. Wanna see?”

  Kate catches on to what’s coming and opens her mouth to protest. Which works well for me. I swoop in and cover her lips with mine. She tries to turn her head away, but I grab her chin and hold it tight. Which allows her to take one newly freed hand and bury it in my hair.

  Before yanking with all of her motherfucking might.

  I lift my mouth from hers. “Feisty. I appreciate you trying to make things more interesting, but it’s really not necessary.”

  And then I’m at her neck, nipping and sucking, working my way down to her cleavage. Kate slaps at my shoulder, but there’s no real effort behind it. Which means I’m wearing her down.

  “I’m still mad at you.”

  “I’m sure you are.”

  I rest my nose against her skin, inhaling deeply. Then I take one nipple in my mouth—over her dress—and suckle it hard.

  See, Kate’s breasts are kind of like start buttons. No matter how tired or moody she may be, a little attention to those bad boys switches things around real quick.

  Her head slams back against the wall. And she moans, holding my head in place.

  We have ignition.

  I grip her knee and hoist it up around my waist, lining us up, and grind against her. And despite my soaked clothes, I can feel how hot she is.

  Turned on.

  “You’re a bastard.”

  I chuckle. “So you’ve said.”

  I kiss her again, our tongues tangling in their own sensuous battle. Then I slide my hand between us, down her panties. She’s slick and smooth. Velvet wetness. When I push two fingers inside her, her voice changes. It’s all breathy and moaning—not a trace of pissed-offness to be heard.

  “God…Drew…”

  And then she’s pulling me against her and kissing me back with all she’s got. Telling me without words what I’ve known all along: horny and angry are a fabulous combination.

  I push my shorts down and drag both of her legs up around me. Pressing her into the wall.

  But just as I’m about to slide into home, Kate puts her palm against my forehead and pushes it back.

  “Wait…no…wait…”

  What? Wait? I hate waiting.

  “What?”

  Even though she’s panting, her eyes are round and dark with…worry.

  “We have to talk about this. We can’t just cover all our problems with sex. I have some valid issues here, and if this is going to work, we need to figure this out.”

  I press my forehead to hers. Thinking. Or trying to, anyway.

  With my cock so close to Mecca, it’s difficult to remember my own name at the moment.

  And then it all becomes clear. And I look at Kate’s face. “So, in a nutshell…you want me to stop being a dickhead?”

  She mulls it over. And then she nods.

  “Yeah. Pretty much.”

  I nod too. “Got it. That’s really all you needed to say, baby.”

  And then those lips that I love break into a big happy bang-me-up-against-the-wall smile. “Okay, then.” She scrapes my bottom lip between her teeth before moving down my jaw and nibbling my neck.

  Then she whispers, “You’re going to miss the game.”

  I shred her underwear and get what’s left of her dress out of my way.

  “Fuck the game.” That’s why God gave us DVR, right?

  She giggles wickedly. And looks me straight in the eyes.

  “I’d rather you fuck me.”

  Have I mentioned how much I absolutely adore this woman?

  I lean back just long enough to rip my sopping shirt over my head. “God, I love you.”

  Kate giggles again. And in her best Han Solo impression, tells me, “I know.”

  ***

  Okay, ladies—what have we learned from this example? Keep it simple. Be broad but don’t bog us down with specifics. It’ll only confuse us.

  You’re an asshole.

  You’re a slob.

  Stop being that way.

  Any of the above should work just fine.

  As for Kate and me? We had our first living-together-in-sin fight. A milestone. Go us. Overall, I think it went pretty well
. In fact, if all of our arguments end like this? I won’t complain at all.

  No. Wait. I take that back.

  If all of our arguments end like this?

  I plan on complaining a whole hell of a lot.

  What A Difference A Year Makes

  Dates are important to women. Particularly to women in relationships.

  There’s all the major holidays: Christmas, Valentine’s, Easter. There’s the birthday—obviously. Then there’s the day you met, the day you went out, the day you dropped the L-bomb, the day you got engaged, the day you got married…

  I could go on, but I really don’t want to.

  Because here’s the thing—guys don’t give a shit about any of that stuff. When we pretend to care? It’s only to avoid the verbal ass-whipping that’s sure to follow if we act like we don’t. For us, there’s only one day worth commemorating. One moment that deserves recognition. The ultimate holy day of obligation.

  I like to call it—the Fuckiversary.

  It’s the day you first sealed the deal. Bumped uglies. Hit the homerun.

  Or in my case—the grand slam.