Free Unsuitable Men by Nia Forrester Page A

recalled that she shouldn’t still be thinking about him when he had never meant more to her than just a friend. And more than that, she’d allowed herself to bring home some guy she might never otherwise consider, just to salve her wounded ego. The moment when she unclothed herself to a new man was always the best moment—that instant when their eyes opened wide because they couldn’t believe their good fortune that a woman such as herself could want to be naked with them. Even the great-looking men reacted that way.
    The problem was that it was almost always downhill from there. They went quickly from feeling lucky to having a lewd look on their faces, as though thinking about all the really nasty things they wanted to do to her. That was about where she generally lost interest in the proceedings. They touched her and she would drift off someplace far away in her mind, moving through the motions, moaning on cue, sometimes faking orgasm to get it over with. A few men were skilled lovers and brought her back to the present and she participated actively, because at the end of the day, she really, truly did enjoy sex. If it was good sex. But those occasions were few and far between. Most of the time, sex made her feel empty unless she took total charge of it as she had done tonight.  But even forcing all her favorite positions hadn’t worked, because she was preoccupied.
    Brendan, the one night they’d been together, hadn’t made her feel empty; and not only because he filled her up with his considerable, er . . . girth. He had treated her body not as a playground, the way most men did, but as a temple at which he wanted to worship. He’d looked at her and touched her face a lot, and sometimes when they’d kissed, she felt his smile against her lips. Charming, even in the middle of the act of lovemaking. And he’d done what none of the men ever had, no matter how awed they seemed by her: he told her she was beautiful. And not only when he was looking at her, but when he was inside her so it felt like he meant more than her physical appearance, like maybe he was referring to her very essence.
    But what the hell was she thinking about that for?
    It was just the one night and there was a good chance she was idealizing it. Besides, now he clearly had no interest in her whatsoever.
    Tracy stepped out of the shower and toweled dry, pulling on the sweats and t-shirt hanging on the back of her bathroom door, and using a tie for her wet hair. She sighed, feeling a vague soreness between her legs. She hadn’t been ready when he entered her the first time but he didn’t care. He was half-drunk himself and clearly could not have cared less about her pleasure; which was probably fair since she didn’t give much of a shit about his. Not that he hadn’t gotten any ; he seemed to enjoy himself just fine and she was the one left wanting and feeling like a human trash receptacle afterward.
    She pushed open the bathroom door and stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the form spread across her bed. He was partially dressed, wearing his undershirt, dress pants and socks, and looked to have fallen asleep. Tracy’s shoulders sagged.
    Oh hell no. She was not having this joker sleep in her bed. As it was, it was past four a.m. and if she let this go on, she would have to face him in the light of day. No. Way. In. Hell.
    Tracy approached the bed and reached out, nudging him on the shoulder. He turned in his sleep and grunted but did not wake up, so she nudged harder. This time he opened his eyes, slowly, lazily.
    “What?” His tone was immediately resentful.
    “You were getting dressed,” she said. “I guess you drifted off.”
    “I’ll be gone in a minute,” he said belligerently. And then he shut his eyes again.
    “Hey!” she said sharply. “You cannot sleep here.”
    This time his eyes stayed open. He looked her over with naked hostility, but said nothing. Tracy felt pinpricks of alarm on the back of her neck, considering