Spitfire Suckerpunch (House of Pain Book 2) (21 page)

“Fuck work,” he replied. He pressed his cheek to her shoulder and she could feel the roughness of his stubble against her skin. She liked the way it teased her skin, but she ignored the sensation.

“Tate,” she said, using the voice that he seemed to respond to when he was turned on.  Soft, but firm. “Let me go.” He exhaled a sharp breath through his nose and she wondered if he was going to listen to her or not. Then he surprised her, pushing himself over onto his back. Immediately, she missed his weight and his warmth and the rhythm of his breathing, but she forced herself to sit up. She pushed the thick blankets off of her legs and scowled as the cool air of the room hit her bare skin. His apartment wasn't as drafty as Gina's, but the air was still cold in contrast to the lush heat of the bed. “Bathroom?” she asked, pointing to the door against the far wall, even though she knew it was the bathroom. She glanced over her shoulder at him and he was staring at her through his lashes, his face blank and emotionless again. He nodded, simply, and she slid off the mattress and made her getaway.

She closed the bathroom door behind her lightly. She checked herself out in the wide mirror that stretched over the double sinks. She didn't look too bad, she decided as she ran her hand through her hair. She hadn't washed off of her makeup the night before and her mascara was smudged. But she had to pee first.

As she sat on the commode and did her business, she took the time to look around. Like the rest of the apartment, the bathroom had been renovated recently. White tile wrapped around all four walls. The floor was a black slate tile that looked familiar to the stone on the countertops in the kitchen. There was a deep clawfoot tub against one wall. Gray towels were folded on a cedar rack next to the tub. It was plain but nicer than she expected, just like the rest of the apartment. And it was clean. She hadn't been in many men's bathrooms, but she imagined that most men weren't as tidy as Tate. In comparison, with three women often using it, Gina's bathroom looked like a war zone.

After flushing, she went to the sink. She washed her hands and quickly tidied up her face. Then she bent and took a quick drink from the faucet. She hadn't realized how thirsty she was. Lots of sex was dehydrating, apparently. Although a shower was tempting, Shay decided that it was best the sooner she got out of there. She needed to get back to her life and away from the fantasy that was Tate.

He was starting to seem too perfect. She knew he wasn't, but it was hard to remind herself that when he lived in a big lovely apartment and had a big lovely dick. It didn't help that he knew how to fuck like he was born to do it. It would be easy for a girl to blind herself to the reality of the situation, but she wasn't going to fall down that rabbit hole. No how, no way. Tate was still a cop. He was still one of the assholes that had gotten her in trouble in the first place. She couldn't let herself forget that.

When she opened the door, he was still on his back in the bed and he was staring up at the ceiling. She glanced around on the floor, quickly locating her bra, panties, and sweater. As she went to collect them, the silence of the room got to her and she found herself wanting to say something. Anything.

“You don't have curtains in here,” she said, grabbing her sweater and shaking it out.“What kind of a person doesn't have curtains in their bedroom?” she teased, keeping her voice light. “Are you some kind of pervert?” He rolled his head on the pillow to look at her. His face was still blank. No smile, no nothing.

“Maybe,” he said and a shiver ran down her spine at the way he said it. She suddenly had a shockingly realistic vision of him fucking her against one of the open windows, slamming into her, not caring that any one who happened to pass by on the street below would get a good show. No, she thought, shaking her head as she mentally chastised herself. No more thinking about sex.

“I'm surprised Leah let you get away with no curtains,” she said, stepping into her panties and sliding them up her legs. She didn't like how bitchy her voice got when she said the other woman's name, but it almost couldn't be helped. After being fucked like Tate had fucked her the night before, it was easy to think of herself as special. She didn't want to think about any other woman he'd had in his bed before. She didn't want to think that somehow he treated all of his lovers the way he'd treated her. “She doesn't seem like the freaky type,” Shay continued, unable to stop herself from talking.

“She never came here,” he said, sitting up. The muscles in his chest and arms caught her attention as he moved.

“What do you mean?” she asked, vaguely, her eyes following his hand as he lifted it and rubbed it across his chest. He didn't answer her question, just looked at her like he knew what she was thinking as his hand worked over his chest and then upward, his fingers digging into the bulge of his shoulder muscle. For a second, she wondered if he was sore from all of the exercise he'd gotten last night. Or if his big scar hurt him in the mornings. For a second, she thought about getting back in bed with him and massaging away any tension in his muscles. And then sucking his dick.

“I never slept with Leah,” he said lazily. Shay froze as the information sunk in. Then she forced herself to pull on her bra. She had to keep moving or else she was never going to leave. He stopped massaging his shoulder as he watched her. She could feel his eyes on her as she hooked her bra closed.

“I'm to blame for that, I'm sure,” she said, even though keeping the conversation going was taxing. She just wanted to get out the door with her pride and dignity intact. If he kept looking at her like that and touching himself like that, she didn't know how that would be possible. He stayed frustratingly silent, but his eyes told her all she needed to know. She was walking on eggshells. Of course, it was because of Leah. He was still pissed that she'd fucked him over with his other woman. An errant memory of the elegant Asian woman, sitting across from him at the table at the candlelit restaurant, popped up in her brain. She didn't want to feel jealous, but she couldn't help it. She didn't like thinking of him smiling at another woman. It was too damn soon.  “But you still got laid, so good for you.” She threw her sweater over her head and yanked the hem down over her stomach, a little too forcefully. “Her or me, I guess it didn't really matter.”

“You're so full of shit, Shay,” he said, an edge to his voice. She looked at him sharply.

“I didn't lie, though, did I?” she said, rolling her shoulders to get the wide collar of her sweater to lay right. “She'd be here right now if not for me. But I made it up to you, didn't I?” She tossed a wink at him and she knew it was shitty, but she couldn't stop herself. Her words held too much truth. She could practically see him in the middle of his big bed with Leah, his face between
her
thighs and his hand squeezing
her
tits.

“It's too early,” he said, shrugging off her annoyance. “Get back in bed and we'll talk about it later.” His blunt, suggestive answer forced a shocked laugh out of her. He'd surprised her once again. A normal person might tell her to go to hell or get the hell out of his house. But not Tate, apparently.

“No,” she said, even though his offer was tempting. Very tempting. He narrowed his eyes at her and leaned forward, placing both of his hands flat on the bed in front of him. Weirdly, she instantly got the feeling of being hunted. He was looking at her the way a lion looked at a gazelle, right before he pounced and ripped its throat out. She bit her lip, taking a step back involuntarily. Part of her wanted to run the other way, but the most of her wanted him to grab her and pull her kicking and screaming back into the bed.

Not that she would ever admit that out loud.

A buzzing sound rang out, shattering the silence and breaking the tension between them. They both looked toward the sound, as if neither could believe it had really happened. But then the door buzzer rang out again, and it couldn't be denied. “Are you expecting somebody at—” She glanced at the clock on Tate's bedside table. “Nine in the morning?”

“Shit,” he said, tossing the blankets back and putting his feet on the floor. Shay tried not to watch him as he got out of bed but was unsuccessful. The man even had nice feet, for God's sake. He strolled out of the bedroom without another look at her and she followed him. He headed for the buzzer, but she headed for the living room and the rest of her clothes. “What?” he barked into the intercom.

“It's me,” the tinny voice replied through the intercom. It sounded like a kid. “Let me in, dude. It's cold
.
”

“Shit,” Tate hissed again, scrubbing his hand through his hair. Then he pressed the button to unlock the door. Shay grabbed her jeans off the floor beside the couch and glanced up at him. He looked just as annoyed as she felt but reality had pierced their bubble. Real life was pushing its way back in and Shay didn't like how it felt anymore than he apparently did. “It's my brother,” Tate said, the words clipped. He didn't need to say anything more. Shay got the message loud and clear.

It was her cue to leave.

“You might want to get dressed,” she said lightly, hopping up and down as she pulled on her skinny jeans. Tate stood in the kitchen, still naked, watching her as she wiggled her way into the tight pants. He worked his jaw, like he had something he wanted to say. “Tate,” she said, a little more forcefully. “Get dressed.” Only then did he move. He ran his hand down his chest as he strolled past her, his eyes not leaving hers until he disappeared into the bedroom. With a shaky sigh, she plunked down on the couch and tried to ignore the memories of what Tate had done to her on that very couch hours before. She wrestled with her boots, but managed to get them zipped up before a knock on the door echoed through the apartment. Shay stood, debating if she should open it.

Another knock.

Tate emerged barefoot from the bedroom in a pair of gray sweatpants and a sleeveless NYPD T-shirt. She hung back in the living room as he made his way to the door and unlocked it. But curiosity soon got the best of her and she leaned forward in order to peek down the hallway to the front door and kitchen. Tate swung the door open and a tall hispanic boy with a scowl on his face and fancy designer headphones covering his ears bustled into the apartment like he owned the place.

“Hey,” he mumbled before tossing his red knapsack on the countertop of the kitchen island. Tate grabbed the headphones, pulling them off of the kid's ears.

“Why the hell aren't you in school?” Tate grumbled out.

“Don't know,” the kid said with a shrug.

“Not good enough,” Tate said.

“You gonna arrest me for truancy?” the kid flashed a small smile and leaned on the counter. Tate stuffed his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, staring at his brother with that intimidating stare she was getting used to. Like he was in detective mode and trying to get a perp to talk. But this was different. Tate was different.

Tate'd said the kid was his brother, but like his sister Gennifer, the 'siblings' looked nothing alike. She was beginning to think Tate's family was thoroughly unconventional. And large. As an only child, she couldn't imagine having as many siblings as he appeared to have. However, the change in him was palpable. She'd seen him around his family before, but now that she knew him a little better, she could tell the difference in his demeanor. He loved the kid, she could tell. Even when he was pissed, she could see the change in his eyes. Although his face was still schooled and blank, his eyes were softer. Feeling like an intruder on a family moment, she cleared her throat and stepped into the doorway. She felt two pairs of eyes on her immediately and she forced a small smile.

“Who are you?” the kid asked, craning his neck to look at her. His gaze dropped to her boots and then back up, lingering for a moment too long on her tits.

“My name's Shay. What's yours?” Shay shot back, knowing exactly how to deal with kids with attitudes. She'd grown up around kids like the one standing in front of her. Shit,
she'd
been a kid like him.

“Shay, this is Brandon. Brandon, Shay,” Tate said brusquely. With introductions out of the way, he stepped around the island and into the kitchen. “Coffee?” he asked, turning around to look at her.

“No,” Shay said, shaking her head. “I should go. I'm already late.” Tate narrowed his eyes at her, like there was something he wanted to say. But he didn't. The kid, Brandon, broke the quick silence, spouting out rapid fire Spanish that Shay couldn't begin to understand. A lifetime spent in New York meant she knew a lick of Spanish, but she was nowhere near fluent.

“No. I'm taking your ass to school,” Tate said, after apparently understanding what Brandon said. She supposed she shouldn't be surprised that he was fluent in Spanish, but she still was. The kid mumbled something more in Spanish, and Shay had the distinct impression it wasn't good. However, Tate ignored it and turned back to her. “Let me drive you,” he said, the slight hint of pleading in his tone sending a little tremor through her ribcage.

“I'll take the train,” she replied. A muscle in his arm jumped, but he didn't respond otherwise.  Brandon muttered something else in Spanish, most of his attention on his phone. Tate shoved the kid's shoulder lightly as he passed him. He gave her a heated look as he he walked out from behind the counter on his way to the foyer.

“You're not his girlfriend, right?” Brandon asked matter-of-factly, turning around to look at her as he slid his headphones back on. “He doesn't have girlfriends.”

“No, I'm not his girlfriend,” she said, letting the kid's words sink in. Wondering what he meant, she followed Tate to the door silently. She put on her coat as he threw on a a hoodie and a pair of running shoes. It was awkward, how abruptly their time together had come to an end. She didn't know what to say, especially with Tate's little brother within earshot. He held out her scarf and she took it, finally daring to look at him. He was stone-faced as ever, not giving her any emotion. But she remembered how he'd looked at her in the bedroom, like he didn't want her to go. She didn't really want to go either, if she was honest with herself, but she had to. She didn't know if or when she would see him again. She didn't know what the hell they were doing. All she knew is that she had to get out of there.