Page 9 of Seduction in Spades

“Option A. We get a hotel room and fuck each other’s brains out.”

Superman chokes, losing all composure. He bangs on his chest until he has tears in his eyes. Wiping them, he shakes his head. “You don’t hold back, do you?”

I like him shaken up like this. However odd it seems, it makes me feel safer.

“Option B,” I continue, pretending to be unfazed as he rubs his hand across the back of his neck. “We go back to your place.”

“But that puts me at risk of having a stalker on my doorstep.”

“True. However, I’m not looking for anything past tonight. Hence the lack of exchange in numbers and names. I’m not in a place where I have the time, energy, or desire to have any kind of relationship, much less date.”

His mouth turns down in a frown and he takes a slight step back like I’ve offended him or hurt his feelings. I get the feeling he doesn’t do this—sleep with strangers—which is reason number four hundred fifty-seven why I most definitely want to sleep with him.

If I’m going to take the lead, then I need to do just that.

“Option C. We say our goodbyes right now and wish each other well.”

Superman keeps his hands locked behind his neck, and I can’t help but let my gaze travel across the wide expanse of his shoulders and muscular arms. I would really,reallylike to feel those arms wrapped around me.

Please don’t pick Option C. Please don’t pick Option C.

I wasn’t lying. My libido can’t handle going home alone tonight. Or rather, going home sexually unsatisfied.

“Have you at least narrowed it down to two options?”

He drops his arms and shakes his head. “No. Just one.”

Well crap. I’m going to have to wring out my panties and dust off my pink bunny when I get home. I hold out my hand to end our night with a pleasant handshake. He takes my hand in his, then slowly brings it to his lips.

“I’m going to press my luck”—he kisses my knuckles—“with Option B.”

Shivers of something so much stronger than lust run through my body. The pull is magnetic. There’s no kryptonite between us.

“You don’t have a dungeon where you lock up unsuspecting women and don’t feed them for days on end, do you?”

“If I had a dungeon in my brownstone, I’d turn it into something much more... satisfying than a prison.”

I’m almost afraid to ask what he’d turn it into. Almost. I’m too horny to find my common sense. “What would you do with that space?”

He lowers my hand from his mouth and begins walking down the sidewalk. I follow because, A, like I said, I’m horny. And, B, he’s got a death grip on my hand. And C, have I mentioned how hot he is?

I don’t pay much attention to where he’s taking me, and my mouth doesn’t stop running. “For the record, I’m going to take a picture of you and send it to my brother and all my friends, so if I go missing or they find my body in some dumpster, the entire world will know it’s you. You’ll be totally fucked.”

“Sweetheart.” He leads me into the parking garage behind the casino. “Anyone who sees you tomorrow is going to know how totally fuckedyougot tonight.”

My knees buckle. Literally, buckle. Superman catches me by the elbow and chuckles.

He stops in front of a sleek, shiny black car. “Give me your phone.”

Because I’m a stupid kind of horny, I hand it to him, no questions asked. He taps the screen, holds it up, and takes a selfie of the two of us. He taps the screen again before I get my sense back.

“Hey. I have a passcode on my phone. How did you get in.”

He winks at me and hands it back. “Feel free to send it to your friends.” He opens the passenger side door and I slide in.

While he rounds the hood, I check out the picture he took of us. Of course, he looks like a god, and the line between my brows is deep and my mouth is hanging open. I’ll crop myself out and make a poster of his face to hang above my bed. Or better yet, on my ceiling so I can stare at him when I take my pink bunny for a joy ride.

He gets behind the wheel and starts the engine without inserting a key. I can’t tell what kind of car it is. The crest in the middle of the steering wheel is unfamiliar to me. Some sort of crown or pitchfork. It’s too dark to read the embossed script on the dashboard. The seats are buttery soft, not stiff like the fake leather seats in the old Toyota I sold before moving to Boston.

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