A twinge in my leg as we head down the hallway unfortunately causes me to limp for a fraction of a second. Not enough time for any normal person to have noticed. Barely enough time for my body to notice. Spencer notices, so hyperaware of everything I do.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, frowning.
“No.”
“I saw you wince, don’t lie to me. You need to get off your leg.” The irritation in his tone shouldn’t make me happy. Except that when he’s mad at me, or pissed off, or any of the other emotionsthat flit across his face every day, it means he’s focused on me. And I want his attention on me, always.
“My leg is fine.” Fully healed, with a clean bill of health. I’ve had enough physical therapy to last me a lifetime. Considering the way my leg was broken, and the metal now holding it together, I’m extremely lucky to have healed so well and so quickly.
He slides an arm around my waist, taking some of my weight. “Where are your keys?”
There’s literally no need for him to assist me. The twinge is gone, more a phantom pain leftover from months of feeling it than anything currently wrong with me. I could run circles around him and chase down anyone on the street within seconds. Physically, I’m stronger than I’ve ever been. Mentally is a story that I’m not interested in reading.
I don’t ask him to move, don’t tell him I’m fine again—as if he’d listen—and instead, soak in his touch. The curve of his fingers over my hip, the side of him a heat against me, his hair brushing my shoulder. I’m jealous of my shirt, getting to feel that when I can’t. It makes me want to strip naked so we’re skin to skin, as close as two people can get without having sex.
The only consolation in the fact I can’t have him that way is that no one else gets to either. No matter what kind of woman he fantasises about, that’s all it will ever be. A fantasy. I’ll kill anyone who touches him.
He guides us into my apartment and makes me sit on the three-seater black leather couch. “Take off your pants.”
A terrible idea. “I really don’t need—”
“Now.”
There’s nothing wrong with my leg, and we both know it. “Maybe you should have let me do that before you made me sit down,” I mutter as I awkwardly undo my belt and buckle and shove the slacks down to my knees. He takes off my dress shoesand tugs them down the rest of the way until I’m sitting there in nothing but my shirt and jacket, and my black briefs clinging to my thighs. Pulling off my jacket at least makes me feel a little less awkward.
I bite back a moan when his fingers dig into my leg, moving up my calf and massaging aches that aren’t there. His touch is magic, lighting me up and shooting straight to my dick. He can’t miss the way I react to him, the way the fabric of my briefs stretches and expands. He moves up my leg to my thigh, dangerously close to the part of my anatomy that’s now hard and wanting. He keeps working me over until there’s not an inch of my leg that he hasn’t dug his palms into.
“That’s the wrong leg,” I finally manage to get out.
“Is it?” Spencer asks, the corner of his mouth lifting, revealing his dimple. He kills me, and I willingly walk into the fire every time he beckons me into it with that smile. “Oops.”
There’s no oops about it, the fucker. He knows what he does to me, and he deliberately provokes it. As much as he doesn’t want to touch my dick, he wants me towanthim to. Torture and pleasure all wrapped up in a man with bleached-blond hair and brown eyes that fucking twinkle as though he isn’t the devil himself in pretty packaging.
He switches legs, giving it the same treatment until I’m so fucking hard that I’m going to need to have a shower to take care of it. His thumb grazes the side of my dick, and it twitches, almost like it’s reaching out for him, begging for more than a cursory glance. If all it took was begging, I would gladly do it in a second.
“You might want to take care of that,” Spencer says quietly, his deep voice washing over me.
“I plan to,” I say through gritted teeth. “My leg’s fine now; you can let go.”
He does another round of both legs before finally giving me some temporary relief from his touch. When he stands, his dick is level with my face. Soft. Not even half-mast. He enjoys the thrill of working me up, but it does nothing for him. I wish that knowledge would make my dick go down, but it doesn’t. The anguish and longing all swirl with lust and a feverish greed to be consumed by him. A familiar feeling that leaves me empty and wanting and somehow satisfied at the same time. As long as he’s near, I’ll take any of it. All of it. Whatever he gives. That’s all I need for my life to have meaning.
His gaze follows me as I move into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind me.
I wish I could hate him. Even a little bit. But I can’t. He’s the only light in my world.
His touch lingers in my mind as I get into the shower and take myself in hand. I’m leaking into my palm. It won’t take long. I come with his name on my lips, his smile imprinted in my mind. I can’t even conjure a nameless, faceless man to think about. It’s only him.
Always him.
He’s not in the lounge or the kitchen when I come out, towel wrapped around my hips, hair dripping water down my chest. I pad barefoot across the space, checking the front door. Locked, of course; Spencer will have checked that and all the windows.
He’s already in my bed, under the deep-red covers and propped up with two matching pillows, a book open in his hands. A biography about the razor gangs that dominated the Sydney streets in the late 1920s, with two women locked in a war at the helm. Women are fucking terrifying.
“Where are your glasses?” I ask, already knowing his response.
“In the bin,” he says absently.
“I hope you kept my place.”
