Page 3 of The Spark

"You still talk too damn much," I muttered, stepping aside to let him in. "Shoes off at the door."

He wore black Amiri sneakers—a quiet kind of flex. The kind you couldn’t just grab off a rack. Limited drop, hard to find, and even harder not to notice when he walked in like the room had been waiting on him.

He smirked, kicked off those expensive-ass sneakers, and stepped into my space like he owned it—like this wasn’t about to be the worst decision I’d made in a long time.

I took a deep breath to center myself as I turned to face him. "Ground rules."

Amir barely acknowledged me. He was already making himself comfortable, dropping his bag onto my couch before sinking into it, stretching those long-ass limbs like he had no plans to move anytime soon.

I frowned. "You listening?"

He nodded, but his focus was elsewhere, his dark eyes roaming my space, taking in the rich green of my plants, the framed prints leaning against the walls, the scented candle flickering on the coffee table. Jill Scott spilled out from the corner speakers, the low, honeyed notes ofThe Waywrapping around us like silk.

If I had thought better of it, I would have selected a different album to play since I knew he’d eventually show. But no—the timing was as it always was when it came to him—imperfect and leaving me wide open.

His lips curled slightly, like he noticed. Like he knew.

"Mmhmm." He leaned back against the couch, exhaling slow. "Damn, A. I love your new place. Smells like you. And sounds like you too."

"You don’t even know what I smell like."

His gaze slid to mine, slow and deliberate. "Yeah, I do. I even know how you taste, Amaya. Or have you forgotten?”

A shiver ran down my spine, and I hated that he could still do this to me—make my stomach flip, my skin prickle, my mind race with possibilities I had no business entertaining. Hell no, I hadn’t forgotten— I just tried not to remember that night.

Clearing my throat, I forced my voice to stay even. "Ground rules," I repeated. "No walking around shirtless. No leaving your stuff all over my place. No messing with my art supplies. And no bringing random women in and out of here."

His lips twitched, like he was fighting back a laugh. "Damn, Amaya. You really think I’m that reckless?"

I leveled him with a look. "Do you really want me to answer that?"

His grin was slow, easy, cocky as hell. "Alright, fair. But I got one rule for you too."

I sighed. "What?"

He stood up, moving in closer, his scent wrapping around me, woodsy and warm, laced with the ghost of something sweet. His voice dropped, the way it always did when he was testing me.

"Relax a little," he murmured. "And if you don’t… I’ll help you with it."

My stomach clenched. Heat coiled low and deep, licking up my thighs and my nipples tightened beneath the hoodie I wore. My mind knew his words meant nothing, but my body did not.

I hated him.

And I hated myself more for the way my mind immediately conjured ways he could help me relax.

Because I knew exactly what that would look like.

Amir backing me up against the wall, that lazy smirk on his lips, his hands slipping into my waistband, two fingers sinking deep inside of my already wet pussy, curling slow. His mouth at my ear, voice thick with lust and laughter.

"This what you needed, baby?"

I clenched my thighs, shoving the thought down before it could take root.

And then I did what I did best. I looked him in the eye, smiled sweetly, and lied.

"Not a chance in hell, Barkley."

Then, I turned, grabbed my laptop, and walked straight to my room. If he called out after me, I didn’t hear it. Didn’t let myself stop. And if my hands trembled just a little when I locked the door behind me…

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