Page 50 of The Games We Play
She shakes her head, and honestly, even the eye roll turns me on. “I read.”
“Even better. What do you read that talks about safe words?”
“Steamy romance books.”
“We should read them together.”
“No.” She sits up abruptly. “I can’t do that.”
“We could read a scene and then act out what—”
“Spark,” she says, covering her face. “The very idea of doing that makes me ...”
I wait until she uncovers her eyes. “Makes you what?”
“Fine. Hot. You win.” Her exasperation makes me deep down gut laugh.
I don’t need to have video sex to feel good or feel close to her. Because this, flirting and teasing and laughing with her, makes me feel better than I have in years.
16
IRIS
Ilie in bed, debating getting up. Technically, I’ve got nothing to get up for. It’s the weekend. But I’ve been in bed resting, and even though it’s Saturday, I can’t stay in bed another minute. My body aches, but not with the same level of pain I had the day of the accident. More like I ran a marathon without training. I push back the covers, getting used to doing things with only one fully functioning hand, and wander to the bathroom.
I can barely look at the tub without blushing.
I’ve always been a ... compliant sexual partner. I never realized just how much I like the push and pull of being told what to do and wanting to defy it. It scares me as much as it thrills me. I don’t want Spark to control me, and yet I want it more than anything else in the world.
I don’t know what that makes me. A contrary submissive? Oh my God. He’s right. I’m a brat.
I’ve relived that bathtub orgasm at least twenty times. My bones shook with the intensity of it. Same with the one I gave myself after he hung up last night.
After a quick shower, I towel dry my hair, and apply some product as best I can with the brace on. I leave my hair to do its own thing. By the time I’ve had breakfast and read for an hour, my hair’s close to dry.
It’s a little after one when a heavy fist hammers on my door. My stomach flips because I know it’s Spark and because this is exactly what Cillian wants. I wonder if it’s what I want too.
If Cillian asks me what I’ve found out, the answer is nothing. For half a second, I consider if there are innocuous details I can find out or information I can pass on too late to be of use. But I know there is no middle ground in this.
“Can see you sitting in there, little chick. Open the fucking door.”
I do as he asks. “You lack manners,” I say. His cheeks are pink. The air is cool. Fall is on its way. “Why do I have to say please, and you don’t?”
Spark tugs me close and presses his lips to mine. The kiss is soft and tender. “Way it is.” He looks down at what I’m wearing, leggings and a fluffy but warm pink sweater, then offers me the bag in his hand. “Put these on.”
Inside the bag are a leather jacket and leather pants.
“Didn’t know your shoe size, or I would have gotten you some proper biker boots,” he continues. “Put a pair of thick boots on if you have some. Hiking boots or something.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re going out.”
“Where?”
“Jesus, are you always this full of questions?”
I nod. “It’s self-preservation.”
