The loud buzzing of the doorbell surprised him out of his thoughts. Wondering who it was, he leaned over and hit the intercom button.
“What?” he barked out, not in the mood to be polite.
“Tate,” a female voice said, teasingly. A shiver of lust ran through him at her voice. Damn, he loved how she said his name. “Let me in.” He didn't hesitate, he buzzed her in. His stomach clenched and something close to excitement came over him. She wasn't gone. She hadn't left without saying goodbye. Maybe it was pathetic, but at that moment, he didn't give a shit. He went back to the bedroom and threw on a pair of loose black workout pants. He hustled to the door and opened it, then he went back to the kitchen and got to work making coffee, trying not to seem to eager for her return, even though he was. If he got his way, she would be on her back in his bed for the rest of the day. Well, on her back, on her knees, on her stomach... any position.
All positions.
“Hey!” she called out as the door swung open wide. He placed his palms on the counter and leaned over so that he could see her walk in the door. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup and her hair was pulled back from her face in a ponytail. He liked how she looked early in the morning, he decided. She was carrying two plastic grocery bags and she scowled at him as she entered, but he couldn't help but smile a bit. It was scary how happy he was to see her.
“Hey what?” he said, just to annoy her even more.
“I'm going to need you to get an elevator in this building,” she said, kicking the door closed with one foot. “I'm not down for a fourth floor walk-up at nine in the morning.”
“It's a good workout,” he said with a shrug. She stuck her tongue out at him as she walked over and dropped the bags on the edge of the counter. He dropped his head to hide his smile and rooted through the bags she'd brought, seeing that she'd gone to the store and bought strawberries and real maple syrup and flour and eggs and sugar and a various assortment of things he hadn't had as long as he'd lived there. She took off her coat and kicked off her shoes in the foyer as he pulled items out of the bags and lined them up on the counter.
“You didn't have to go to the store,” he said. “If you would have woken me up, I would have bought whatever you wanted.” She glanced up at him, and he swore he saw more than a little of the mischievous girl she used to be in her eyes.
“I took money out of your wallet, so it's cool,” she said, her lips twitching like she was trying to contain a smile. He stared at her, not moving his face, letting her know that he didn't think her joke was funny. But after a minute, she laughed anyway just to spite him. “Still no sense of humor, I see,” she said brightly as she stepped around the counter and into the kitchen. He took a step back when she shooed him away from the counter, but he couldn't keep his hands from finding her hips and sliding up to her waist. She ignored him, pulling the rest of the items out of the bags. “You like pancakes?”
He shook his head in disagreement, but he couldn't quite find the words to fuck with her. In reality, he loved pancakes, especially pancakes made by a beautiful woman in his kitchen, but he didn't want to make it too easy on her. Besides, he was too busy leaning in to run his nose up the curve of her neck. She smelled like sweetness and vanilla, but he could also smell the intoxicating scent of sex still permeating her skin. “Well?” she asked, her voice a bit more strained and breathy as she turned her head toward him.
“Mm-hmm,” he murmured because he was hungry, but his mind wasn't on eating.
“Good,” she said, then stepped out of his grasp and opened a cabinet that contained the bowls and plates. She stood up on her bare tiptoes like she was looking for something. “I need a mixing bowl.” He bent over and opened the cabinet door in front of him. He pulled out a large mixing bowl and set it on the counter. She glanced over her shoulder at him, her eyes flickering with amusement, like she knew he would get right down on his knees right there and lick her pussy if she asked him to. Because he would. “And a big skillet,” she added, slamming the cabinet door closed. “Cast iron if you have it.” He did, coincidentally, so he found the skillet for her and set it on the stovetop as she went to work cracking eggs in the bowl.
While she busied herself with cooking, he busied himself with bothering her. He swept her hair off her shoulder and pulled her sweater down to expose her shoulder. He ran his lips over her warm skin while she did her best to ignore him. After he trailed kisses up her neck and got no response, he circled his arms around her waist and pulled her back against his chest, resting his chin in the space between her shoulder and her neck. “I need a wooden spoon,” she said lightly and he leaned over, taking her with him, to open the drawer next to the stove. She slapped at the arm he kept around her waist but he didn't budge. He handed her the spoon and then wrapped his arm around her again and squeezed. She squealed and slapped at him again, this time with the spoon. “How am I supposed to cook with you hanging on me?” she said, but he could tell she wasn't really that frustrated.
“This is what you get for not waking me up this morning,” he said, his lips against her ear. She shivered against him and sucked in a sharp breath.
“You looked tired,” she said, bumping her ass back against his groin, like that was going to dislodge him. In response, he just tightened his arms around her. “I'm making you breakfast, so we're even.”
“No,” he said, then ran his teeth along the shell of her ear.
“So you didn't like it when I wasn't there when you woke up?” she asked, and he could practically hear the gears turning in her mind. He wasn't going to give her the answer she wanted though, even as he clung to her like he never wanted her to leave again. It wasn't in his nature to be so open, even with the woman he was fucking. Although he hadn't had a woman in his life for so long, he wasn't quite sure how to act.
“I didn't like waking up alone with a hard-on and no one to fuck,” he said, lying through his teeth. She scoffed and turned her head toward him.
“No pancakes for you,” she said, her brow furrowed. “If you're going to be a dickhead.”
“What do you want me to say?” he said, sincerely wanting to know. Did she want him to say that he missed her? Did she want him to say that what they had going wasn't a temporary thing? Because he didn't know if he could say that. The only thing that he knew was that he was damn happy that she'd returned.
She dropped the spoon against the side of the bowl and turned around in his arms to face him. He stared down at her, again taking note of how young she looked. She was so young and yet she'd been through so much. He tightened his arms around her involuntarily, a sense of protectiveness rising in him. She'd fucked up in the past, but who hadn't? She deserved a life free of bullshit, as much as anyone else. She stared up at him, studying him, and then she surprised him. Without a word, she raised her right hand ran her finger around the edge of his scar. He almost flinched out of habit, but he stopped himself.
“Does this hurt?” she asked, her eyes trained on his chest. She splayed her fingers on his scar, lightly pressing her hand against the scar tissue.
“No,” he said, because it didn't. It did, however, feel strange to have her hands on the most sensitive part of his body, apart from his dick. He wasn't used to having someone touch him in that way. The other women he'd been with had always avoided the area, like the scar was a disease that was spreading. Oddly, Shay didn't seem to care though.
“You have my lipstick all over you,” she said, snorting out a laugh and rubbing the pad of her thumb against one of the pink marks on his chest.
“I like it,” he said, before he could tell himself not to.
“Do you remember—” she said, still not looking at him as she ran her tongue over her lips.
“I remember,” he said, cutting her off because he had a feeling what she was going to say. She flicked her eyes up to meet his and he could have sworn, she was eighteen again, a girl who had no worries or pain.
“How did you know what I was going to say?” she ask
ed, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.
“It was called Nights in Red Satin,” he said, recalling the name on the tube of lipstick that she'd tried to steal in a flash. She opened her mouth like she was going to respond, then she closed it again, dropping her eyes back to his chest.
“That's not what I was going to say,” she murmured and he didn't know for sure if she was lying or not. “I was going to ask about your scar,” she said, tracing the edge of his scarred flesh, from his chest down to his stomach. He tightened his abs at her touch, feeling his dick harden even though he didn't like thinking about his scar, or the history behind it. “How did you get it?”
“I don't know. That's one thing that I don't remember,” he said, gritting his teeth against the strong urge to throw her over his shoulder and carry her into the bedroom.
“What do you mean you don't remember?” she said, her attention focused on his body.
“I was too young,” he said. “The police report said I got burned in the bathtub, but I don't remember, so I don't know for sure.”
“The police report?” she furrowed her brow, looking at him again.
“The woman who gave birth to me was arrested for child abuse,” he said, matter-of-factly. He was long used to the sordid details of his childhood. He almost felt numb when talking about it, oddly enough. “They put me in the system when I was four.”
“Shit,” she said, her fingers still roaming. He shrugged, clenching and unclenching his jaw as she continued her assault on his sensitive skin. “So you looked at your own police report?” she said, cocking her head. He nodded, thinking about all of the feelings that had welled up in him the first time he'd read it. After his past being a mystery for so long, it had been overwhelming to read about what had happened to him. But then again, he had Big J and Maria and all the rest, so it didn't seem like he'd actually gotten such a shitty deal in the long run. The older he got, the more he realized how lucky he'd been. “Have you read my police report?” she asked, jarring him out of his memories.
“Yes,” he said as she hooked her fingers on the waistband of his pants.
“Hmm,” she murmured. Then she dropped her hand and pivoted, trying to turn back to the pancake batter. But he didn't let her. He grabbed her hips and forced her back around to face him. He didn't want to talk about past shit anymore. He just wanted to kiss her. So he did. She moaned in shock when he brushed his lips across hers. She tilted her head back, exposing her throat and he took advantage, dragging his mouth down her neck and back to her mouth. He kissed her in earnest then, not aggressively, but firmly. He wanted her to know that he wasn't pissed about waking up alone earlier, but he wasn't happy about it either.
He didn't appreciate feeling like he was something she could just throw away. The thing they had between them was more than that. It was strange and probably not a good idea, but he didn't give a fuck. The time for second guessing was over. He was in too deep. As he dragged his tongue across hers, all he could think about was getting more. More of her taste. More of her body. More of her taunting smiles and her dirty looks and her long, colorful nails.
He hoisted her up on the edge of the counter, setting her on her ass and spreading her legs open wide to accommodate him. But he didn't push. He just wanted to make his point. His dick was hard as hell, but that could wait. She moaned into him and he circled his arms around her waist, lightly, focusing all of his attention on how she felt against him and her mouth against his. She crossed her ankles behind him, pulling him closer to her and he hissed against her lips. Goddamn, she was too much. He slanted his mouth over hers and kissed her slow and deep and she didn't fight him or try to rush. He wanted to languish and taste her and tease her and she let him.
“You want to fuck or you want to eat?” she whispered against his lips, like she could feel his hesitation.
“I want to eat you,” he said, flicking out his tongue and tasting her bottom lip once more. A wide smile broke out on her face and she threw her head back and giggled, like he'd just said the funniest thing ever.
“You,” she said, snaking her arms loosely around his neck. He dropped his hands to the countertop on either side of her hips and stared down at her, memorizing the way she looked in that moment, laughing and wrapped around him, her ass on his countertop. He would remember her this way, from now on, he decided. “The things you say, I swear.”
“What?” he asked. “What about the things I say?” She shook her head and rolled her eyes, but she didn't stop smiling. He kissed her again, because he wanted to. It was a lazier kiss, a slower kiss. She was there with him and she wasn't going anywhere. Not for awhile, anyway. He didn't need to hurry anything. But he did want to lay down some ground rules. He broke the kiss and she whimpered a bit, like she didn't want him to. The thought that she was enjoying him just as much as he was enjoying her made him feel warm inside and a little loopy, like he'd just taken a shot of 100 proof whiskey. And he hated to drink because hated to lose control. But somehow, with her, he already had lost control. But he didn't care. “When you're with me, don't leave without saying goodbye,” he said, not caring that he sounded like an asshole. She narrowed her eyes at him, like she was trying to decide how to respond.
“But you looked so cute while you were sleeping,” she finally replied.
“I don't look cute. Ever,” he disagreed, not bothering to stop himself from smiling.
“I'm the one that's looking at you and I think you're cute,” she said.
“Get your eyes checked,” he said.
“I have perfect 20/20 vision,” she shot back, her eyes boring into his. He shook his head, seriously debating about pushing her over onto her back and making that smile disappear from her face. Just as he was leaning in closer to make her pay, a loud meow broke through their reverie. It was Char, making her presence known and demanding to be fed.
Shay looked at him, confused and then down at the floor. His scraggly little orange cat sat on the floor, staring up at them. “You have a cat?” Shay said, her eye brows raising like she couldn't believe it. He shrugged, pushing away from the counter and opening the cabinet over the fridge. He pulled out a bag of cat food and dropped a few scoops into the Char's bowl. Shay watched him, a bemused smile on her face. “Of course you're a cat person. Of course,” she said, shaking her head and laughing to herself. Then she hopped down off the counter with a laugh and began mixing the pancake batter again.
***
Shay wasn't quite sure how it happened.
She wasn't quite sure how she ended up spending most of her nights in Tate's bed. She wasn't quite sure how she ended up giggling like a teenager and texting him dirty pictures at work. She wasn't sure how she ended up sneaking out on her lunch breaks for make-out sessions in his car. She wasn't sure how she ended up with a picture of him half-naked as the lockscreen on her phone. She didn't know how, but she didn't really care.
After she made pancakes for him that morning and then he'd fucked her for the rest of the day, something had changed. Neither of them had said anything about it. It was a completely silent development. After a few nights, he stopped asking her to come over. Instead, he texted to ask her what she wanted for dinner, or to ask her if she needed anything from the bodega on his way home. And Shay brought him whatever pastry she was experimenting with—a red velvet cake one night, a lemon torte the next, a failed attempt at a chocolate tart that he devoured regardless of how sad it looked the week after.
Halloween passed and then Thanksgiving and then, before Shay knew it, December snuck up on her. A blizzard hit the first week of the month and stranded her at Gina's apartment for two nights and she thought she was going to go stir-crazy. She made three cakes before she ran out of ingredients and after that, all she could do was lay around in bed and watch TV and text Tate whatever dirty little thoughts came into her mind. She also did something she'd been putting off doing for a long time. It was the elephant in the room and the longer she sat around, the harder it was to ignore it
.
She counted the money that Sam had left her.
She pulled it out of the manila envelope and dumped it out on her bed. She'd taken a few dollars here and there, but since she'd started working at the salon, she hadn't touched the money. She tried to pretend it didn't exist, honestly, but that was silly. She had a stash of cash at her disposal and she had to figure out what she was going to do with it, if anything. She should probably just give it to Gina, but she didn't think Gina would take it. As she counted it up, stacking it into piles of $2000, she told herself that it didn't matter how much it was. Her father was trying to buy her off, but it wasn't going to work. She hadn't seen the man in six years and she felt so numb when it came to him. She loved her father, she always would, but she couldn't handle thinking about him.
Thinking about him hurt too much and reminded her of the past. The past which was becoming more and more further away every day she spent at work in the salon and every night that she spent in Tate's bed. She was actually building a life, a life that had nothing to do with stealing cars or running numbers or crooks or scams. The money sitting in neat stacks in front of her was dirty money. It was the anti-thesis of her new life. But she kept counting.
When she finished, there were ten stacks in all, with another three hundred on the side. She stood and stretched, careful not to unsettle the careful stacks of twenty dollar bills. She'd guessed how much it was, but now that she knew for sure, it was almost overwhelming. She didn't know if she'd ever seen that much money up close. Her father always had money lying around, a grand here and a grand there, but she'd never seen so much altogether. That much money could buy a new car. That much money could be a down payment on an apartment.
Spitfire Suckerpunch (House of Pain Book 2) Page 23
