“Whatyou’reworking with?”
“Yeah. When I charm your pants off, I need to know how gentle to be.”
I wanted to feel outraged or scandalized, but everything about this conversation was turning me on. Spade was so unapologetic in his intentions, that I couldn’t help but want to get on board. The sexiest man I’d ever laid eyes on seemed like a good guyandhe was interested in me. I wasn’t a nun for Christ’s sake.
“No.” I wheeled the suitcase over to the dresser and started filling it. “I’m not a virgin. I’ve had sex before.” My cheeks warmed at the admission. I’d never talked to anyone about this stuff, especially not a smoking hot guy.
“And you sound so impressed,” he replied with a chuckle. “Must have been vanilla as shit. Did you even come?”
He had no right to ask that sort of question, yet his brazen tone and foul mouth set my body on fire. Struggling to take some sort of control over the conversation, I snapped, “I don’t need a man to make me come.”
My admission sent both of his eyebrows up toward his hairline. “You’ve never been properly fucked before.”
It was a statement, not a question. I was so damn transparent he already knew the answer. I wanted to argue but couldn’t. He was right. I’d read enough romance novels to know there should be shattering or quaking or something happening when I hit the big “O.” Granted, I only read fiction, but vibrators got me closer to the kind of orgasms I read about than penises or fingers ever did. And tongues? I had yet to date a man who could even find my clitoris, not to mention lick it. It must be tiny or hidden or something. Maybe mine was recessed like an innie belly button.
Watching me, Spade chuckled.
Hoping he couldn’t read the thoughts that were probably written all over my face, I glared at him. “What?”
“I was just thinkin’ that if you ever want to remedy that situation, I’d be willing to make the sacrifice.”
To… fuck me? Properly? I stared at him, half appalled, half intrigued. “How very noble of you.”
“Make no mistake about it, nothing I want to do to you would be considered noble.”
The heat in his eyes sped up my heart rate and made my core pulse with need. It was too much, too intense. I turned my attention to my dresser and started shoving clothes into my suitcase, trying to hide my flaming cheeks and diamond-tipped nipples. “Are you always this forward with women? Your approach feels more like getting hit over the head with a shovel than a spade.”
He laughed. “My road name didn’t come from a garden tool, babe. It came from me running a Boston on some racist motherfucker while I was in the Army.”
“A Boston?”
“Yeah. You’ve never played Spades before?”
“The card game?” I wasn’t expecting that. “No.”
“You’re downplaying the relativity of it. Spades is more than a card game. It’s a lifelong pursuit. A metaphor for life. It’s notagame, it’sthegame. There are levels to this shit. It’s like coming of age. The house makes the rules, and you have to be intuitive and flexible enough to roll with the cards and change up your style.”
He sounded like the Yoda of Spades. Relieved he was laying off the innuendo long enough to talk about a different type of passion, I nodded. “And you’re good at this game, I take it?” I needed to keep him distracted from the bras and panties I was stealthily loading into my suitcase, because my body was only one more sexually charged comment away from bursting into flames. Cards were safe. We needed to continue discussing them.
“Good?” He snorted. “Babe, I’m the best.” It didn’t even sound like he was bragging, just confident.
Finished with my underwear drawer, I moved on to the closet. I had no idea how long I was going to be staying with the Dead Presidents, but I packed enough clothes for a week and grabbed my jewelry and family photos so they wouldn’t disappear while I was gone.
Spade helpfully added a few of the books from my nightstand to the suitcase. When I gave him a questioning look, he shrugged. “Educational material.”
Shaking my head, I grabbed my pillow and threw my laptop backpack over my shoulder. He took my suitcase and we headed out.
Exiting my apartment, I practically ran into the building manager who was in the hallway, studying the remnants of my door. I’d meant to call him about repairs but hadn’t had the chance and honestly, I wasn’t up to fighting. Matt and I had a rocky history that started with a broken garbage disposal he still refused to fix. On the rare occasion he answered my calls, he waved off my concern and made vague promises he clearly had no intention of following through on. It wasn’t personal—Matt had a reputation for skimping on tenant needs—but I needed him to do better this time. I needed a good door that I could sleep soundly behind, confident the average Joe couldn’t bash it in like Nate had.
“Hey, Matt.” I gave him my friendliest smile, hoping it would incite him to play nice and help me out for a change. “Any idea how long it’ll take to get that door fixed?”
Spade sidled up to me and rested his hand on my lower back. I should have probably been skeeved out by his assuming position, but the heat of his hand felt protective rather than sexual and his posture felt like solidarity. He wasn’t copping a feel, he was telling me he had my back. Grateful, I smiled at him.
“That door’s beyond fixing. He’ll be replacing it, and the frame. Right, Matt?” Spade asked.
Matt tensed. A mix of fear and irritation crossed his features as he took in Spade’s stance. “You must be the one I spoke to on the phone.”
“Spade,” he replied. “Nice of you to come up so I don’t have to go lookin’ for you.”
