Spitfire Suckerpunch (House of Pain Book 2)

by Lavender Parker

  Unknown: 456 180th st Apt 4B. 8:00

  It was a simple text, but she was completely unprepared for it. She knew immediately it was Tate and for a minute, she just stood there and stared down at the phone in her hand. Her whole body was suddenly on edge. It was Sunday night and Tate had obviously not forgotten that they had plans for Monday. Shay hadn't forgotten either. She'd just shoved it to the back of her mind or else she wouldn't have been able to function.

  Working the desk at the salon had been torture for the past few days. Every time the shop was slow, her mind would drift back to him. She would close her eyes and think about how he smelled and how strong his arms felt around her. About how he finger-fucked her and sucked her tits and moaned in her ear. It was hard to not think about him. She didn't have enough else going on in her life to distract her either, sadly. Sex with Tate was the only thing she wanted to be doing and, unless she forced herself not to, she thought about it constantly.

  She rolled her phone in-between her hands, debating on whether she should answer right away or not. She didn't want to seem too eager, but she didn't want to seem distant either. He didn't like games, and she didn't want to try her luck. He'd had a major case of blue balls when he'd left the other night. She'd been mean to him in order to make a point, but obviously he wasn't done with her. It seemed he hadn't gone back to the Asian woman, or found another girl to fuck. She clenched her fist around the phone at the thought of him finding someone else. She didn't know if the woman from the restaurant would ever forgive Tate after the lies Shay spread, but she didn't want to risk it. She wanted to be with him at least once more. She wanted to be able to take all the time she wanted. She didn't want to have to rush.

  They'd already technically had sex twice as far as Shay was concerned, but she still hadn't seen him completely naked. She wanted to run her hands over every inch of that man's body. When they were through, she didn't want to have any regrets. She wanted to taste all she could so the hunger wouldn't come back. Then, when they went their separate ways, she would be free. She might be thinking about him 24/7 now, but once she got him out of her system, she would let her eye start to roam. Andre, the delivery guy at the salon, was still flirting with her on a daily basis. There were also other men that she saw often around the neighborhood, cute young professionals who looked like boyfriend material. Well, maybe not boyfriend material, because she didn't know if she was ready for all of that just yet. But a date would definitely be nice.

  She thought about that restaurant where she'd interrupted Tate's date. It was cozy and candle lit and not too fancy and the food looked good. A place like that would be perfect. Unfortunately, when she thought of herself on a date there, she could only imagine Tate across from her at the table, his big shoulders encased in one of his trademark black shirts and his green eyes glowing in the lowlight of the candle between them. She imagined him reaching out for her hand and her sliding her fingers between his. Holding hands on a date. How normal. Shaking the weird thoughts out of her mind, she quickly typed back a response but then hesitated to push send.

  Shay: Say please.

  She ran her teeth over her bottom lip, wondering if she should play with him like that or not. The truth was, she liked it when he said please. She liked how she could make him beg. And she was pretty sure he liked it, too. Otherwise, he wouldn't be texting her and basically begging her for more. So she hedged her bets, her stomach doing a flip-flop as the text sent. She rolled it in her hands again as she waited for a response like an idiot. The smell of the baking cakes were already starting to seep out of the oven and into the kitchen, wrapping her in the familiar scent. Normally, it would relax her, but as she waited for his reply, butterflies were building in her stomach. She could hear the laugh track on Gina's sitcom in the background and she had to stop herself from yelling at her aunt to turn it down. Until Tate answered, she didn't want any distractions.

  She didn't have to wait long. The phone vibrated a minute later, and Shay quickly glanced down at the screen.

  Tate: please

  Shay couldn't stop the smile from widening over her face. She felt a thrill of excitement go up her spine as she realized he liked it just as much as she liked it. Pulling off her apron, she skipped into the living room and collapsed heavily on the couch beside Gina, who gave her a disturbed look.

  “Girl, what is the matter with you?” Gina asked, eyebrow raised. On her lap was her ball of yarn and her crochet needles. At some point in the six years Shay was inside, Gina had taken up crocheting. She was currently in the middle of knitting what looked like a bright yellow scarf.

  “Nothing,” Shay said, rolling over onto her back and staring up at the ceiling. She tossed her legs over the arm of the couch and sighed, a smile bubbling up again. For the first time in a long time, she felt young, she realized. Young and dumb and giddy. “Everything's fine.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Shit.

  Tate ran his hand through his hair as he tossed the thick file folder onto his desk. He'd been re-reading the same paragraph of the police report of his latest case for the past hour. He couldn't concentrate. Ever since that text she'd sent, late the night before, he couldn't concentrate on anything. Pulling out his phone, Tate unlocked it and clicked into his pictures. There was only one saved. He tapped on the thumbnail and settled back in his creaky office chair, lifting the phone close to his face.

  It was unmistakeably Shay, even though her face wasn't in the picture. She'd taken it from her chin down, her fingers curling above her collarbone. Most importantly, she was wearing a tank top, but the strap was drooping down over her shoulder, revealing miles of smooth brown skin. The swell of her big tits stretched the thin, tight fabric of her white top, revealing her dark nipples underneath. Her nails were pointed and purple, reminding him of the number she'd done on his back. He arched against the back of his chair as he thought about what she'd done to him. His dick was already uncomfortably hard, just from looking at a picture. The thought of having her in the flesh in a few short hours was the only thing getting him through the day.

  When his phone had vibrated on the nightstand at 1:00 am, he'd grabbed it without thinking, not realizing what she had planned for him. When he saw the picture, he sat up straight in bed, his eyes scouring every inch of his screen. From her hair to her nails to her tits, she was absolutely playing the role of a cocktease. His erection was instantaneous, even though he'd already jerked off in the shower before he got in bed. She was teasing him, torturing him, but damn if he didn't like it.

  The picture had shaken up his mind and it wasn't even that explicit.

  He knew that in a few short hours, he would have her in his bed. He would be hers, at least for the night. Whatever she wanted him to do, he would do it. He was looking forward to it. But there was no way in hell he was going to let her go until both of them were completely satisfied. He needed his life back. He needed to get rid of the distraction that was Shay Spears. The only way that would happen was if he fucked her until they both couldn't walk. It was the only solution, as far as he could see.

  He only lasted another hour at work before he grabbed his jacket off the hook on the back of his office door and got the hell out of there. He didn't feel like he could breathe until he was out of the precinct and heading for his car. He drove home on auto-pilot, blasting Jay-Z on his way up to Washington Heights. He was a powder keg of energy as he squeezed his car into a parking space and then bounded up the four flights to his apartment.His mother's friend Juanita usually cleaned his apartment on Wednesdays, but he was rarely home, so the apartment was clean enough. All he really had to do was wash the few dishes in his sink, feed the cat, and shower. He threw on a black T-shirt and a pair of loose workout pants and then forced himself to sit down on the couch and wait. He didn't have a TV, so he didn't even have something loud and obnoxious to distract him. He pulled out the historical account of the Genghis Khan he was reading, but he barely looked at it. Instead, he stared out the window at th
e George Washington Bridge and waited.

  And she did make him wait.

  It was 8:45 p.m. when the buzzer rang. He knew he should be pissed at her for taking her sweet time, but he wasn't. Every minute he spent waiting for her only heightened his tension, and he had a feeling it was all a part of the game. He was a man who hated games, but where Shay Spears was concerned, he was starting to like them. She was a master of push and pull. Tate was beginning to realize just how much he liked it when Shay pushed and pulled him. He buzzed her in and then opened the door. He leaned on the door jamb and listened. He could hear the click of her boots on the marble stairs of his pre-war building as she ascended the four floors. His heart sped up in his chest the closer she got. When she came into view, he let out a deep breath like he'd been punched in the gut.

  She was wearing tight, dark jeans and high-heeled boots. She had on a short red coat cinched with a belt around her trim waist. She had a fluffy white scarf wrapped around her neck. Her purple hair was curled and flowing over her shoulders. Her eyes brightened when she saw him and she smiled a bit and he felt it deep within him. She looked good. Damn good. And she would look even better naked and on her back in his bed.

  “Jesus,” she said as she stepped closer, unravelling her scarf from around her neck. “You could've warned me it was a walk-up.”

  “Didn't want to scare you off,” he said as he stepped back from the door to allow her entrance. Tate felt his whole body go on edge as Shay brushed by him and entered his home. Her perfume was floral and spicy, and he wondered how long it would linger on his clothes and in the air of his apartment. As unlikely and as strange as it was, in the three years that he'd lived there, he'd never had a woman in his apartment. Well, other than Juanita on Wednesdays and Maria, when he'd first moved in. Maria had insisted on seeing the place after he bought it. She'd even bought him curtains for the living room. But he'd never had a date over. Before, when the apartment was a construction zone, he'd used that as an excuse as to why he couldn't have people over. However, the apartment had been completely remodeled for over a year, so he really didn't have an excuse anymore. Shay walked to end of the foyer, leaning around the corner to look at the kitchen and living room.

  “It's big,” she said, then turned back to him. She tapped her purple nail on the teal blue wall of the foyer. “I like this color,” she said vaguely. “I would have figured you would have white walls.”

  “Why?” he asked, dragging his eyes up her body. Her jeans hugged her ass in the best way and her black leather boots had completely impractical heels, which lengthened her legs and made her almost tall enough to reach his shoulder. The fact that she was wearing purple lipstick didn't escape his notice. A sizzle of heat shot through him and a cool sweat broke out under his collar. She pulled off her scarf, her eyes on him.

  “You seem like a by-the-book kind of dude,” she said, draping her scarf over the jacket he had hanging on the hook closest to her. Her voice was slightly husky and filled the small space with warmth. He took a step closer to her, wanting to pull her close and bury his face in her neck. She glanced at him over her shoulder, like she knew exactly what he wanted to do. “You seem like you don't break the rules or step outside of your comfort zone.”

  “What comfort zone?” he asked, his brain starting to feel sluggish, like it wasn't working right. He didn't know why her presence had that effect on him. She was just a woman, dammit. A completely unpredictable woman who threw him off balance and wanted to dominate him and force him to his knees, at that. A woman who had fucked him over and fucked him up. In some ways maybe he deserved it. Maybe he deserved her. As she unbuttoned her coat and shrugged it off, he had to admit to himself that he was about to do something that he might end up regretting. He was horny as hell and he had been ever since that night in the salon, but he knew that she was dangerous. He could practically hear alarms going off in his head as she set her bag on the floor and took off her coat.

  She wore a slouchy, fuzzy white sweater that slid off her smooth brown shoulder and revealed her flat stomach as she reached up to hang her coat on an empty hook. He could see her red bra underneath. She wasn't playing around this time, he realized. She'd come for him, guns blazing. He just had to try not to get shot down. She flicked a purple curl off of her shoulder and stared at him, like she was ready to aim and pull the trigger.

  “Are you going to give me a tour?” she asked, raising a sculpted eyebrow. He wanted to push her up against the wall and take her right there, but he didn't. Instead he walked past her, angling his body away from her so he didn't touch her in the narrow hallway.

  “Kitchen.” He gestured at the kitchen with no fanfare, despite the fact that the kitchen was his pride and joy. He'd spent so much time in there, gutting the room and tearing out walls and crumbling cabinets. He'd opened it up to the living room and put in an expansive island covered in a polished slate countertop. The room was well-lit, well-designed and well-appointed and he felt a sense of pride every time he looked at it. But she didn't have to know all of that. He had a feeling she wouldn't care anyway. Still, he couldn't help but glance back to see her reaction. She strolled after him, her heels clicking on the wood floor, a small smile spreading over her lips as she stepped further into the apartment. She set her bag on the smooth stone countertop as she walked around the island and into the kitchen.

  “Now this is what I'm talking about,” she said, opening the fridge and glancing in. “This is a real kitchen.” She slammed the fridge door shut and turned to look at him. “My aunt's kitchen is practically a closet.” She slid her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. His eyes followed the movement of her sweater as it slid down her arm. “There's an elderly lady in the building that used to make cakes. Like, she made over ten cakes a week in a kitchen a third of this size. Wedding cakes, even,” she said, but he didn't know why she was telling him that. He wondered what she was trying to say. “But you're probably not much of a baker,” she continued.

  “No,” he said.

  “I used to work in the kitchen. At Bedford.” She shrugged nonchalantly, her sweater dipping even lower, showing off the lacy edge of her red bra. Unfortunately, at the mention of the prison, his attention snapped back to her mouth. That was a mistake, because at that moment, she chose to run the tip of her tongue across her bottom lip. A tension-filled silence descended on them. The familiar mixture of the promise of sex laced with the undercurrent of anger crackled between them like electricity.

  The effect hadn't worn off. It was still fucking hot.

  “I brought you something,” she said. “But you might not want it.”

  “Depends on what it is,” he said, halfway tempted to drop on his knees right then and beg to lick her pussy. He wanted to bury himself in her until both of them got whatever the hell they needed from each other. Then they would both be able to get on with their lives, although even he had to admit, his life would be a hell of a lot more boring without her in it. She stepped closer to him until her chest was inches from his. Humor flickered behind her eyes.

  “You're probably going to laugh,” she said, her eyes on his mouth.

  “I probably won't,” he answered, in all seriousness. Having a woman like Shay Spears within grabbing distance wasn't a laughing matter. His dick was already straining painfully in his pants.

  “It's cake,” she murmured after a minute. Then she turned on her heel, breaking the spell she had on him just in time. She reached into her bag on the counter and pulled out a plastic container. “I made it myself.”

  “Cake? Is it poisoned?” he asked before he could stop himself.

  “You'll have to try it and see,” she said, tossing a wink over her shoulder. “And it's pretty damn good, if I do say so myself.” He watched her as she sauntered over to the fridge and opened the door again, placing the container on one of the half-empty shelves. Something squeezed in his chest as he watched her move around his kitchen like she owned the place. She barely knew him, and yet, she was b
ringing him cake like she knew he had a weakness for dessert and that, late at night, he often got cravings for sweets despite his diet. She was acting like she knew him and it made him feel odd. This was supposed to be sex, and sex only. Nothing else.

  “What do you want?” he blurted out, knowing the words sounded harsh and blunt and not at all sexy.

  “What do you mean?” She turned toward him, her eyes widening in confusion.

  “What did you come here for?” he tossed back, practically daring her to fulfill her promise. The promise she'd made the other night. He was dying for it and he so fucking tired of waiting. She closed the gap between them, sliding her hands into the back pockets of her jeans and jutting her tits out like the sexy-as-hell cocktease she was.

  “I think it's obvious what I want,” she purred. “Did I not make myself clear?”

  “Stop fucking with me,” he said.

  “I'm not,” she said, stepping another inch closer. “Am I pissing you off?”

  “No,” he answered. It wasn't a lie. He wasn't pissed off so much as horny as fuck. It was hard to think straight with all his blood flooding his lower half.

  “Then show me the living room,” she said, dropping her eyes to his mouth.

  “Why?” he murmured, his hands itching to touch her.

  “Because I want you to bend me over that couch,” she said. “I want you to bend me over and fuck me until I scream.” For a second, he wasn't sure if his head had exploded or not. He just knew that his hearing dropped out and his heart sped up. It only took him a second though. Then he was moving. His hands were on the waistband of her jeans, unfastening them. She splayed her hands on his chest and gasped and it only turned him on more. He shoved his hand into her pants, his fingers brushing the coarse hair at the apex of her thighs.