“What?” I snap when I open the front door.
The man has the audacity to smirk at me as if he has unfettered access to my thoughts, but maybe it’s because I’m finding myself unable to control my actions around this man.
My eyes drop to his lips, wondering how they’d feel on mine rather than just my skin.
I snap my eyes up to him. That’s exactly what’s wrong with this entire situation, I realize in a sudden flash of cognizance. At the time, when he was inside of me, I felt like he was giving me everything he had to offer, but that’s not the case. The no kiss rule feels like a hot hand against my cheek, just another slap to the face like forgetting me.
“Sylvie.” My name is a whisper on his lips, and since I’m a glutton for punishment and can’t seem to take a hint, it sounds needy and filled with anguish.
Clearing my throat, I straighten my spine a little as I meet his eyes.
“May I help you?”
Like the sadist I know him to be, he drops his own eyes to my lips, but instead of feeling proud to have his attention there, it feels like a taunt, as if he knows I feel a loss and he’s still unwilling to give it to me.
“You’ll need to close the garage door. Here are your keys.”
I hold my hand out, flat palm facing up, expecting him to just drop them in my hand and leave, but that would be the courteous thing to do. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Spade is that in the bedroom or out, the man doesn’t adhere to common courtesy.
One warm hand cups the back of mine as the other drops my keys into my palm, the tips of his fingers moving slowly across my wrist.
A shiver runs up my forearm, and of course it’s something that he notices, his tongue sneaking out to run along the lower curve of his utterly perfect mouth.
Instead of begging him to stay, instead of inviting him in, I turn back inside and close my front door right in his handsome damn face.
I don’t have to imagine what would happen if he stepped inside while my body burned for him.
It’ll be another rinse and repeat of the last two times.
Don’t get me wrong, it works. The man’s skill set is divine, but his ingrained schedule of actions that I’m sure has impressed a plethora of women, is insulting for me.
I press my back to the door, taking long, deep breaths until his motorcycle roars away. It takes less than a minute. Why would it take longer? The man isn’t struggling with wanting to stay. I’d bet everything I have that he ends up atJake’sfor a quick beer before taking a different woman back to the clubhouse for the same orgasm-inducing rinse-and-repeat night of pleasure.
I walk back through my kitchen and close the garage door, not because he instructed me to, because I’m in no way obeying the asshole, but I want to feel safe in my own home.
I’ve never struggled to feel safe here, but something about being alone in my house right now makes my skin crawl because once again Spade was right in something he said on the drive back from Telluride.
Will is an only child. He had a slew of cousins that were always around. He worked diligently to keep them away from me when they flirted. It was what attracted me to him, that tiny sliver of possessiveness, but it just wasn’t enough to light any type of fire between the two of us. More than anything, I wanted a higher level of connection to Will. I wanted proof that I could love and be loved. I was hungry for it, and I knew that had more to do with feeling less than wanted because my own mother couldn’t be bothered with sticking around.
“Fuck,” I grunt as I head out into the garage and struggle to get my overpacked suitcase and overnight bag into the house.
Wind rattling the garage door makes me skittish, and I convince myself that my subconscious is just looking for a reason to call Spade and beg him to come back.
It takes two trips to get my belongings into the house because I’m not some macho muscle-bound asshole like Spade, and a sheen of sweat is forming on my skin despite the chill in the air from the heat not being on the entire weekend.
I’m getting ready to strip for a bath when my phone rings. I’d like to say I calmly head toward my purse in the kitchen, but in fact, I scramble for it like an infatuated teen thinking her crush is calling.
I feel like an asshole when disappointment washes over me at the sight of my best friend’s name on the screen.
“Hey,” I answer when the call connects.
“How are you?”
“I’m good,” I say, feeling like a liar.
“Are you?”
“Yeah. Why do you ask?”