Spitfire Suckerpunch (House of Pain Book 2) (24 page)

“Don't do that,” he said, pulling away from the kiss and pressing his forehead against hers. “Don't do it unless you mean it.”

“I mean it,” she whispered, sliding her fingers between his pants and his skin. It was then that she saw the splotches of dark red on the white hem of his shirt. “Are you bleeding?” she asked, coming down slightly from the lust high. She pulled back to look at him, putting her hands on either side of his face. She saw the redness around his nose and frowned. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” he said, sniffling. “A bloody nose.”

“Did that guy in the ring hit you?” she asked, hearing her voice rise. She saw there was more blood on his shoulder and she was suddenly pissed. “Did he hurt you?” Tate snorted out a small laugh and took a step back from her. Then he pulled the soiled shirt off and tossed it onto the wood bench behind him. Her eyes dropped to his bare chest and she drank in every inch of his beautiful body.

“We were sparring,” he said, dipping his lips close to hers again. She breathed him, loving the way he smelled, even when he was sweaty and in need of a shower. “It feels good to get hit sometimes.” His voice was so faint, she almost didn't hear him. But when she realized what he said, she felt a shiver of arousal run through her. Two seconds before, she'd been ready to fight somebody because she thought Tate had gotten hurt. But suddenly, the thought of seeing him the ring, swinging and receiving punches, sounded like the sexiest thing she could think of. What was it about Tate that turned everything sexual? He attracted her like a magnet, she was beginning to realize. As soon as he was near, it was impossible for her to not gravitate to him. It was impossible for her not to get caught up in him.

“You never talk,” she said, dragging her fingernails lightly up his ribs. “But when you do, you say some of the weirdest things.”

“You think I'm weird?” he asked, furrowing his brow.

“Yes,” she nodded, circling his right nipple with her index finger. “But I like it.”

“You do?” he asked, shivering lightly as goosebumps broke out over his chest and shoulders. She bit her lip, but she really wanted to bit his skin, hard. Oh, she liked it alright. And she liked him. There was no use pretending otherwise. There was no use lying to herself. She wanted him, at least for one more night. She deserved at least one more night, dammit.

“I like it,” she whispered then he kissed her again, pressing his elbows against the lockers on either side of her shoulders and sliding his fingers into her hair. She normally wouldn't let anyone touch her hair, but she didn't even stop him. She just moaned and went with it because his fingers against her scalp felt good. Everywhere his body touched hers felt good.

“Come home with me,” he mumbled against her mouth, then dragged his lips down her jaw and to her neck. The words sent a shiver of excitement through her.

“But...I have to work tomorrow morning,” she said lamely, even as she ran her hands all over his shoulders and moaned as he sucked on her neck and made her pussy clench. She wanted him. So bad.

“Call off.” He said it so simply and matter-of-factly that it seemed like a perfect solution. After a few more kisses, it seemed like the only solution. “Come home with me,” he whispered roughly in her ear. “You know you want to.
I
know you want to.” She moaned as he bit down lightly on her earlobe. She gripped his shoulders and held on for dear life as he tightened his fingers in her hair and forced her head back. She stared up at him, her heart beating fast between her ribs.

“Please,” he said finally, dragging his eyes up to meet hers. His lips were swollen and his eyelids were heavy. He looked like the human embodiment of sex, the devil and an angel, all rolled up in one perfect, infuriating man. She loved when he said please, like he was begging her for something that he could take any day of the week. The man didn't know how much sway he had over her; either that, or he loved asking permission. Whatever the reason, she didn't mind. “Come home with me,” he repeated, even though he wasn't really asking anymore. He was demanding. She felt those words deep in her soul and she moaned and tilted her chin, craving his lips on hers and his body on top of her. She'd come to House of Pain that night looking for some kind of validation—some kind of answer—that what she'd felt between them was real. He'd given it to her, that was for sure. And then some.

“Yes,” she whispered and, instantly, both of them got the answer they were looking for.

Chapter Fourteen

T
ate sat up in bed the next morning and immediately knew she was gone.

Her side of the bed was empty and when he leaned over and glanced at the floor, her clothes were gone as well. The cold of the room seeped under his skin as he threw back the blanket and stood. The wood floor was frigid under his feet as he stretched his arms up to the ceiling, rolling his head on his shoulders. His muscles were oddly sore but loose at the same time, if that possible. He moaned as he stretched, aftershocks of the sex the night before still going off under his skin. Shay may have escaped him, but her effect on him was still very much present.

She'd said she was going to call off, he thought irritably as his eyes inspected her side of the bed again. She'd said it when his face was buried in her pussy, so maybe he should have taken it with a grain of salt, but she'd still said it. He noticed that she'd left a glass of water on the bedside table. It was the only sign that she'd been there, other than the indent her head had left in the pillow she'd slept on. A sharp pang hit him between the ribs but he shook it off. He told himself to stop being so damn ridiculous. They'd fucked again, and it had been good, but it didn't mean anything.

The problem was, the sex hadn't been merely good.

Good sex in no way described what had happened between them.

She'd sat on his cock and rode him until he could barely remember his name, let alone all the reasons why he shouldn't still be messing around with someone like Shay Spears. Somehow, none of those reasons seemed to matter when he was balls-deep inside of her and sucking on her tits and calling her his queen. No, it wasn't just good sex. It was the best sex. The best sex he'd ever had.

He was the first one to know that the girl was completely wrong for him. They had a bizarre history, but that was only the tip of the iceberg. He had his issues and she had her issues. Not that that shit had mattered last night. He'd thought with his dick, not his head. Unfortunately, when it came to her, it was becoming increasingly difficult to think with anything but his dick.

He quickly made the bed, smoothing out the duvet and not letting himself hesitate when he puffed up her pillow and straightened her side. He grabbed the glass of water off the table and took a gulp as he turned to go into the kitchen. That's when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on top of the dresser. There were pink marks all over his shoulder and chest, like bruises, almost. Furrowing his brow, he dropped his gaze downward and felt another sharp pang in his stomach when he realized what the marks were.

Her lipstick.

The realization turned him on, even though he knew it shouldn't. He glanced up in the mirror again, dragging his thumb across one of the marks. She'd run her sexy mouth all over him and left her marks on his skin like she owned him. He closed his eyes, remembering how she kissed him and bit him and moaned and fucked him. It was almost like a kind of torture, really, because he was horny and she was gone, but damn if it didn't make him feel better. He didn't feel quite as cold anymore, or as angry. Suddenly feeling thirsty as hell, he tipped his head back and drained the rest of the water in the glass.

After taking a piss, he made his way out to the kitchen, still naked. He set her glass in the sink and immediately noticed another half-empty glass of water sitting on the counter, almost like it was taunting him. Shaking his head, he grabbed that glass and put it in the sink with the other one. Trying not to think too much about the fact that she'd left his apartment without a word, he opened the fridge and glanced around. He had strawberry jam, bread, and he was sure he had peanut butter as well. Breakfast of champions, he thought as he plopped the bread down on the counter. He had a long day off ahead of him, but he didn't know what the hell he was going to do with it. He'd probably head down to House of Pain at some point. The only thing he knew for certain he'd be doing was jerking off, because that had been the one constant in his life since Shay had shown up and taken up permanent residence in his brain.

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 asked, 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.”