Spite Club

by Julie Kriss

  So I picked up my bowl of cereal and walked over to the sofa.

  “You’re agreeing?” she called after me, like she couldn’t quite believe it.

  “Sure,” I said. I put my bowl down on a side table and kicked my shoes off, unzipping my jeans.

  “What are you doing?” She’d come closer now, carrying her own bowl. She sounded alarmed.

  “Getting comfortable,” I replied. “It’s two o’clock in the morning.” I looked at her as I hooked my thumbs in the waist of the jeans and pushed them down. “You just saw it all, redhead. There’s nothing new. Relax.”

  I kicked my pants off, and her gaze slid down over me, her cheeks getting redder. “You, uh,” she said. She nodded toward my crotch, speechless. “Um.”

  I looked down. I still had a boner in my boxer briefs, hard as a rock. Pretty impressive, though of course I’m biased. “Yeah, well, you were just talking about sucking me off and swallowing,” I said reasonably. “Don’t worry, it stays where it is. What did you want to talk about?”

  “Nick,” she said, exasperated and obviously turned on, “we can’t talk properly with that.”

  “It’ll go down in a minute.” Painfully, but that was how it went sometimes. I sat on the sofa and put a throw pillow over it. I picked up my bowl again. “Better?”

  She looked like she wanted to protest, like there was a catch, but finally she gave in, moving to the other end of the sofa with her own bowl. She grabbed the blanket from the sofa’s back and put it over her lap so I wouldn’t see her bare pussy beneath the hem of my shirt. That was us, two classy people with our crotches covered. They should send us an invite to Buckingham Palace.

  We ate for a minute—I had worked up a nice post-sex appetite—and finally she said, “I have questions.”

  The alarm bell went off in my head again, but I ignored it. “Go ahead.”

  She looked around my penthouse. “You own this place?”

  “Yes. Trust fund. I didn’t earn it.”

  She looked surprised at my words, but for some reason it was important that she know. I didn’t want her getting the wrong impression of me. “What do your parents do?” she asked.

  “Invest other people’s money, and skim pieces of it,” I replied. “And, apparently, pay off their kids instead of raising them.”

  I sounded harsh again, but it was the truth.

  “So you don’t get along with them,” Evie said.

  “They hate me,” I clarified. “They think I’m a disappointment and a waste of space.” They weren’t wrong, but it didn’t mean they had a claim on any of my mental real estate. Not after they way they’d abandoned Andrew for the crime of getting into an accident and not being whole anymore. I really didn’t care what they thought of me, but fuck with Andrew and as far as I’m concerned, you’re done.

  “Who’s Andrew?” Evie asked.

  I stared at her in surprise. It was like she’d read my mind. Or had I spoken aloud? I was pretty sure I hadn’t. “How do you know about Andrew?” It came out hostile, but I couldn’t help it.

  She looked taken aback. “The jacket you lent me,” she said. “It had a business card in the pocket. Andrew Mason, programmer.”

  Now the alarm bells were going off like crazy. I wanted to get on a plane and take off again. But I calmed myself. It was okay if she knew his name, after all. It was just a name. “Andrew is my brother,” I admitted—more than I’d admitted to any other woman I’d been with, no matter what dirty things we did in bed, or how many times. I’d never even said Andrew’s name to a single one of them.

  Evie put down her cereal bowl, which she’d cleaned out. “And?” she prompted.

  No. I had nothing else. Just saying his name had been like wrenching a rib out of my chest, listening to it snap. “And nothing,” I said.

  “Do you get along with him?” she prodded.

  The back of my neck was sweating. “We get along fine,” I said. “Do I get to ask the questions now?”

  She didn’t look finished, but she said, “Okay.”

  “Did you just fuck me to get back at Bank Boy?”

  She stared at me, her lips parted in shock.

  I wasn’t sure why I had asked that. Partly because of the Andrew questions—I needed to shut her down, regain control.

  But part of me actually wanted to know the answer. Whether I was the nearest convenient dick for her. Whether she was slumming it for revenge.

  Because if she was slumming it, I needed to know now. I didn’t ask myself why.

  “I don’t see how that’s possible,” she said, her voice getting tight with anger. “He’s not here to watch us. And he already thought we were—”

  “Not literally,” I said. “In your head. You know what I mean. Did you fuck me to get back at him in your head?”

  She let out an exhale of breath, like I’d shoved her in the stomach. Her cheekbones were red again, anger and sex mixed together, and I felt my cock wake up again beneath the throw pillow. He’d gone to sleep when we talked about my family. “You have some nerve, asking me that,” she said. “You told me to fuck someone the first night we met. You said it would make me feel better.”

  “And did it?”

  That hurt her for a second—I hadn’t meant it to, but it did. Her jaw went tight and her lip quivered. Then she said, “Nick, if you don’t shut up I’m about to throw my cereal bowl at you.”

  Great. Now I was an asshole. Usually I didn’t care, but this was Evie. “It’s just a question,” I said. “I want to know.”

  “You want to know?” she said, her voice getting higher, more wound up. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I don’t fuck people, all right? I don’t just do it. Some people do, but not me, not anymore. And I’ve had the worst week of my life, and you drive me completely crazy. What we did tonight—I’ve never done that. Not ever. Maybe it’s routine to you, but it wasn’t to me. It was something, but I don’t know what, and I’ll probably obsess about it for weeks while you forget about it tomorrow. That’s it, all right? That’s all I know.”

  She didn’t think that was an answer, but it was. My mind stopped at those two words, not anymore. So she wasn’t as square as she tried to be, redhead Evie. Just like I’d suspected. But whatever she’d done in the past, I didn’t care. Not even a little.

  I had my work cut out for me. I put down my bowl and tossed away the throw pillow. “You think that was routine?” I said, as her gaze dropped. “That’s what you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think!” Her anger was mixed with lust now, and maybe a little fear. Not of me, but of herself. “I mean, you have a drawer full of condoms—and maybe you were trying to get back at—”

  “Do not,” I said, my voice a low warning. “Do not say that name. I do not want to fucking hear it ever again. Now, take that blanket off and open your legs.”

  She stared at me for a second. Shocked, flustered, affronted, turned on.

  Then she did it.

  I won.

  Eighteen

  Evie

  I wasn’t going to give in. I was going to tell him to stuff it, and then I was going to get dressed and leave, go home and get on with my life without Nick fucking Mason. He deserved it.

  Instead, I pulled the blanket off my lap and opened my legs.

  Damn it.

  I couldn’t really blame myself. Nick without clothes on was a serious sight. All those muscles, that smooth skin. That bad boy tattoo. Those sexy hands, that sexy stomach. His cock was huge and hard for me—I had done that to him. He was leaned forward, prowling over the sofa toward me—there was no other word for it—and my body took over. My brain went stupid and shut up, because my body knew what that cock felt like now, and wanted it again. Again and again and again.

  He put his hands on my hips and pulled me forward, scooting my butt down the sofa, making my t-shirt ride up so it showed my belly as I unbalanced backward. He grabbed the backs of my knees and pulled them apart and up, so my knees were bent
below my armpits and I was completely exposed to him. I was panting, and I could feel how wet I was. He would be able to see it, smell it.

  What had we been talking about again?

  We’d been fighting about something. He’d made me mad about something. Now he was tracing the insides of my thighs, sliding his big hands up toward my pussy, brushing it with his fingers, and I wasn’t mad anymore. All of the energy from the anger had turned into pulsing desire. I wanted to yell at him and I really, really wanted to come. Given the position I was in, I knew which impulse was about to get satisfied.

  He hitched his body on the sofa, changing his position, moving his knees back, and then he bent and licked me, fearlessly, along my slit from bottom to top and down again, his tongue slick between my folds.

  I let out a shaky breath and made a little mewling sound. He licked me again, going slow—testing, exploring. I could feel it. He was trying things. Figuring out exactly what made me crazy.

  It worked. What made me crazy, it turned out, was when he licked down, then up, pressing my clit with the flat of his tongue. It turned out that made me completely fucking wild. I pressed my head back and fought for breath. Twisted my hands on the sofa arm above my head. Pushed my hips up into him. Kicked one of the empty cereal bowls off the coffee table, then tried to squeeze his head between my thighs. He didn’t even care. Just pinned my legs open and kept going, doing exactly the right thing until I went to that place where I was so close… so close… the place where everything stopped, where the world went away and there was nothing except Nick’s tongue, which was the best thing that had ever happened to me. I was, while he held me in that place, completely religious about that tongue.

  And then I went over the edge. This orgasm shot up through me like lightning, cracking through my body in a hard flash that made me go silent in shock before I made more embarrassing sounds. A few hard twists and it was gone again, leaving me wrung out and unable to move.

  Nick lifted his mouth from me at last. I could feel his breath between my legs. “Jesus, redhead,” he said, his voice strangled and hot. “When you come, you don’t fuck around.”

  I had no words to say. I lifted my head and looked at him, braced on his arms over me, his eyes ink-dark again. I had never seen anything so beautiful in my life. He took my breath away.

  I pushed myself up on my elbows, then up. And then, struck by a perfect flash of inspiration, I slid down to the floor on my knees.

  His eyes widened for a second when he saw my intent. He took me in, on my knees on the floor, taking in every detail of me. “You want to see if I really like blow jobs?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Please.”

  He pushed his boxer briefs off and sat up, his knees apart. I moved between them. He pulled his T-shirt over my head and off me, throwing it away as I raised my arms. It was like a practiced dance, neither of us speaking. Naked, I put my hands on his hot, muscled thighs and leaned forward, sucking his cock into my mouth.

  He made a low, growly sound, very turned on and male, and the sound made me shiver. I braced myself on his legs and leaned in further, taking him deeper, sucking in the taste of him. He was big and very hard and utterly delicious. I moved my mouth down him, then up, taking him in the way he’d taken me in, exploring his skin, the head, my tongue moving over him. He pulsed in reaction in my mouth.

  “Fuck,” he said, trying to hold on.

  I decided not to have mercy on him. He didn’t deserve it. My position was perfect for what I wanted to do, so I did it. I gave him head that I hoped he’d never forget.

  I took him deep, slowly at first, and then in a rhythm, over and over. I used my tongue on him, my lips. I’d given blow jobs before, but never like this. I was a genius, and Nick’s cock was my area of expertise. In seconds, I knew everything I needed to know about it, every inch of it, every throb of reaction. When it came to Nick’s cock, I was an artist.

  I could feel his body tighten, his breathing get shallower. I wondered if he was watching me. He probably was. I pressed him deep into me, until the head of his cock hit the back of my throat, and I felt his hand twist softly in my hair. “Jesus Christ, Evie,” he said in a tone of wonder and appreciation that made me wet again. “Jesus fucking Christ.” I kept at it, relaxing my throat, feeling him thicken in my mouth. This was what he liked, then. Two could play this game.

  Seconds later, I evened the score. He came hard in my mouth, his come in hot spurts in my throat as his body pressed up into mine. I swallowed, something I’d never done with any other man before. I’d said he liked it, after all. Time to find out if it was true.

  When he’d finished I sat back on my heels, wiping my mouth. My mind spun, but I had no chance to put my thoughts together before Nick was on the floor too, on his knees, his hand on the back of my neck. He pressed my mouth to his, kissing me long and deep. Maybe he tasted the remnants of his own come; I had no idea, but the thought made me even hotter.

  He broke the kiss, and without another word he put an arm around my waist, pulled me to standing, and flung me over his shoulder. I made an oof sound as he walked me into the bedroom and flung me down onto the bed. Still not speaking, he crawled over me, bracing himself on his arms and kissing me again. I was like hot liquid beneath him, beneath that body, that kiss, the wordless determination of it, like he couldn’t stop himself.

  He broke away again. “Ten minutes,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Give me ten fucking minutes, and I swear I’ll fuck you again.”

  “Okay,” I said against his mouth.

  His mouth trailed down to my breast, my nipple. “You get anything you want,” he said. “Think about it. Get creative.”

  I smiled in the dark. At least he was appreciative. “You really do like blow jobs,” I said.

  “That wasn’t a blow job,” he said, his scruff brushing my breast. “That was some kind of voodoo thing.”

  “I’ll stick pins in you later,” I said.

  “Fine,” he replied. “Just let me fuck you first.”

  An hour later—because he took that long to exact his revenge, which finally had me begging him—we were under the covers, tangled up and half asleep, when I remembered what we’d been fighting about. He’d asked me if I’d had sex with him to get back at Josh.

  It had made me mad at the time, but now I wondered: Why had he thought that? Why did he think I wouldn’t have slept with him otherwise? Did he ask me that just to piss me off? I hadn’t missed the fact that he’d changed the topic when I asked about his brother. Maybe it had been a distraction question, though I didn’t know why. Or maybe, in Nick’s world, it was perfectly plausible that a woman would have the best sex of her life with a man, just to get back at somebody else.

  He seemed so simple on the surface, but it was deceptive. There was something going on beneath that I couldn’t see.

  “Nick,” I said.

  He was lying on his side, facing away from me. I stared at his gorgeous, muscled back.

  “Mmm,” he said, his voice sleepy.

  “Come to dinner,” I said.

  He rolled over onto his back, rubbed a hand over his face. I could see his tattoo, the bracelets on his wrist. The tattoo meant something, I was sure of it, and so did the bracelets. Something he wouldn’t admit to.

  “What?” he asked, confused.

  “Come to dinner,” I said again. “Tomorrow.” I remembered it was the wee hours of the morning. “Today, I mean. At my mother’s. Don’t get leprosy or go to Mars. Come to dinner instead.”

  He frowned a little staring at the ceiling. “You don’t want me there,” he said. “You said it’s a bad idea.”

  I had. I had said that. He should have told me off for saying that to him, that he was basically an embarrassment, but he hadn’t. He seemed used to it. “It’s just dinner,” I said. “You should come.” Too late, I remembered him saying he’d never met a woman’s family. Maybe he’d laugh and say no way.

  He just blinked and turned his head on the p
illow, looking at me. His gaze took me in in the dark. I could see him thinking, could see something behind his eyes. I just didn’t know what those thoughts were.

  “You want me to?” he said at last.

  “Yeah,” I said. And I did. I didn’t want to go to dinner by myself. I wanted him there.

  He looked wary, and then he frowned in confusion again. This was really, honestly a situation he’d never been in. “Okay,” he said finally.

  I smiled a little. It was kind of cute, how being invited to dinner at my mother’s house baffled him. I punched his shoulder. “Relax,” I said. “It’s roast chicken, not marriage.”

  “You’re not making this sound super fun, Evie.”

  “You worried I’m going to domesticate you?” I teased him. “It’ll be fine. You get to keep your balls, I promise.”

  “Still not selling it,” he told me.

  “But you’re coming,” I said.

  “Sure,” he replied. “I’m coming. Now get some sleep.”

  I closed my eyes. I liked Nick’s bed; it was heavenly. My body was sore and warm and wildly satisfied. I had made, possibly, the worst decision ever. The man in bed with me had insulted me, driven me crazy, and fucked me six ways from Sunday. He’d put his cock in my mouth and his thumb in my ass, had said the filthiest things imaginable in my ear, had made me beg him to make me come. And I was taking him home to meet my mother.

  I should be worried. Freaking out. Instead I was asleep in seconds, the best sleep I’d had in weeks.

  Nineteen

  Nick

  Evie’s mother lived in a suburb that looked a lot like Andrew’s, except on the other side of Millwood: modest bungalows, built decades ago but well kept. Except Andrew had picked his house because a one-story bungalow was best for a guy in a wheelchair. Evie’s family owned a house here because it was what they could afford.