“And what would Kincaid say of respect with you speaking that way in front of me.” She crosses her arms over her chest, and I fight to keep my eyes on the road despite knowing her thick sweater barely hints at the spectacular tits hidden under it. “I thought you weren’t supposed to cuss in front of women.”
“Anyone who has had their lips on my cock gets the real me.”
“Pretty presumptuous for a man who can’t remember what happened that night.”
“It came back,” I confess. “The memories.”
“Yeah? And exactly when did it happen?”
“The second I slid my cock back into that tight pussy of yours,” I say, glancing at her briefly, but managing to keep from smiling at the way her cheeks flush.
“I’m still not happy that someone researched me,” she says, changing the subject. “There’s no way I could cause harm to Cerberus. Just because I let you fuck me doesn’t give—”
“Let me fuck you?” I huff out a laugh. “Let me? You fucking begged me for it. I was doing your uptight ass a favor.”
“Begged?”
I cut my eyes at her, her tone so dangerous I wouldn’t put it past her to punch me in the side of the head despite us being in a moving car.
“Begged,” I repeat, pulling one hand from the steering wheel to adjust the erection in my jeans. “And it isn’t about hurting anyone in Cerberus. You have the power to hurt Faith, and that’s something that everyone at the clubhouse will mitigate if they can.”
“I’d never hurt her,” she says as if she can’t believe anyone would think that, and it hurts her feelings to imagine people thinking she would.
I wait for her to start another argument, but she grows silent, her eyes locked out the passenger window each time I look over at her.
Neither of us speaks another word all the way back to Farmington.
Most arguments have a winner, but as I pull up outside of her house, I get the very distinct feeling that we both somehow lost this one.
Chapter 19
Sylvie
Begged.
I’m stuck on that single word for the last half of the trip back to Farmington.
He’s right and I hate him for it.
I begged that first night, whimpering with need when he prolonged what we both wanted. He wasn’t a man to just get in and get out like I’ve grown accustomed to. He took his time, kept us both on the edge until neither of us could fight it any longer. I despised him in the moment, but when the time came to fully let go, it was a moment that will stick with me for the rest of my life—the way his eyes rolled back, the tension in his muscles, the utter perfection of feeling his cock throb inside of me.
I begged him last night, with my eyes, with the tremble of my legs, with the breathless moans I did my best to hide. He noticed. The man notices everything.
Silence is thick between us as he pulls into my driveway, hitting the button on the garage door opener. I wait until it’s open fully before climbing out of the car. I hate the way his bike just sits there on the stained concrete as if it belongs. I enter my home through the inside garage door and lock it behind me.
I need to put this weekend behind me completely. Will is taking care of the sale of the property in Telluride, and I won’t have to return to that town ever again. Spade won’t be forced to accompany me. I can avoid him altogether.
Eventually, I’ll be able to forget the way our bodies came together as if evolution intended for them to meet. Eventually.
The buckle on my purse clanks in the empty kitchen when I drop it on the counter, my hand immediately lifting to rub the tension between my brows.
“Ten more minutes, max,” I whisper, a compromise of how much longer I’ll give myself to think of Spade as the roar of his bike in my garage swims around me.
It doesn’t immediately drive away, and I refuse to think what that could mean. Jesus, if that man knocks on the door and asks to come inside, would I be able to tell him no?
I doubt it. My mental game at rejecting him is strong, but I crumble when faced with the real choice.
I freeze when a knock strikes my front door. I know it’s him. What I don’t understand is my rush to pull open the front door. The man is giving me whiplash, or maybe I’m giving myself whiplash. I want him gone, but at the same time, I feel this keen sense of desperation to have him here.