Page 17 of All Twerk, No Play

As I drifted off, I bit the inside of my cheek when he sang under his breath, “No, my first name ain’t baby, it’s Victoria. Ms. Blackstone if you’re nasty."

"All My Life," Foo Fighters

Cruz

“So…youandVictoria, huh?” Kate asked, pouring sage green paint into a tray and handing me a roller.

“You know I don’t kiss and tell,” I said. Kate rarely asked about my sex life, but since she’d played Wingman, guess she wanted me to spill the tea. Which is ironic, because Victoria was the first woman I’d ever brought to my apartment, yet the tea had stayed firmly in its cup.

Victoria passed out the moment her head touched the pillow, while I’d tossed and turned on the couch, knowing she was only feet away … and completely out of reach. Since she’d barged into my self-defense class two months ago, I’d been thinking about the hot redhead, wondering if I’d ever learn her name.

Victoria: Regal, strict, formal, triumphant.

Of course her name was Victoria.

Then I’d heard her singing, without knowing it was her voice.

Then she kissed like she was on fire and my mouth could quench her thirst.

Then she threatened to fight her way out of that elevator.

I couldn’t believe that these were all the same woman. Confident yet guarded, fiery but cold, all wrapped up in a curvy body meant for a pinup calendar, with perfect tits and an ass that most of my clients would kill for.

Of course, it couldn’t be easy. Not only did she have no interest in casual sex, she was hung up on Mallory Clarke’s asshole brother.

And she was my tenant. I stayed strictly professional with tenants, since one stray complaint could get me fired … and she seemed like the type to ask for the manager.

So why the hell had I invited her to my place? As soon as I offered, I knew it was a terrible idea to let a tenant sleep in my bed.

But in her apartment, there was a moment when her facade cracked. Her eyes flicked to the ceiling and she just looked so damnlonely. It was there and gone in a second, but I’d caught just enough to invite her downstairs.

So I laid in the dark, trying not to let my mind run wild with memories of her gasp when I slid my leg between hers, her ass writhing under my hands, her greedy mouth when she pressed her tongue between my lips.

The sting of rejection should have made me want her less … but was I motivated to impress her by wounded pride?

Maybe I should have woken her when I left for boot camp, but she looked so peaceful in my bed. Her copper hair was loosely braided, her arms wrapped around my comforter. Her thick makeup had smudged on my pillow, revealing a cute trail of freckles across her nose and cheeks. My fingers itched to trace her creamy skin, but given her defensiveness, startling her awake might result in her hand around my throat—and not in a sexy way.

Returning from class, I pictured walking in to her still asleep, the sun slanting through the tiny basement window reflecting the sunrise on her hair. She’d slowly rouse, eyelids heavy. Her lips would part, then her legs would part under the blankets. She'd crook her finger in an invitation. I’d crawl across the covers to meet her lips, kissing my way down, taking a long pit stop at her luscious tits. I’d pull off those sweatpants and settle between her thighs until she forgot that asshole’s name and replaced all of her thoughts of him with me.

For one night, anyway.

Yet I wasn't surprised when I returned to an empty apartment, the bed corners pulled tighter than the stick up her ass. I laid down on the bed, sniffing her lingering scent on my pillow like a chump, the sole sign that her visit hadn’t been a figment of my imagination.

So when Kate called to request help painting the spare room of her lake house, I’d jumped at the opportunity to escape. Even though she was technically older than me, Kate felt like my third little sister, especially since we’d both grown up in Queens, 200 miles downstate.

I’d met her two years ago swigging a Brooklyn Summer Ale in a bar, loudly booing the Yankees during a subway series game. I claimed the stool beside her, ready to buy her a drink and take her home, until she blinded me with the giant rock on her hand. Like a third base coach, she waved me magnanimously into the Friend Zone.

Our friendship gelled over our love ofThe Twelve, a fantasy dramabased on the 12 Olympian gods and goddesses. I’d binged the whole DVD series on the boat—not much else to do for fun when you’re 800ft underwater for 100-day patrols—then re-watched it with her during the baseball off-season. She’d turned it on today as background noise for painting … though her digging for gossip took precedence.

When she glared at my lack of answer about what happened with Victoria, I went with, “You were right. First ballot Hall of Fame.”

“And the crowd goes wild,” she clicked her tongue like the crack of a bat. “You gonna see her again?”

“You know my policy,” I said, grateful to use my ‘one-night’ rule as an excuse, when the truth was I would throw myself off her terrace for another chance to kiss her.

“She’s the kind of woman you waive that dumb shit for.”

“Nah, you said it yourself, she’s hung up on her ex,” I said. “And turns out I have to see her again, because … surprise! She lives in my building.”

---