Page 12 of Duke
“You know me, Bruce. Ain’t like I’m a stranger, right?”
“I know, but—”
“Come on, buddy. We just need to get off our feet for a while, you know what I mean? Been traveling most of the day, we just wanna kick back for a minute.”
Bruce eyed us, and then sighed heavily. “All right, I guess I can let you in. Just…don’t tell anyone and don’t make a habit of it.”
“My lips are sealed, buddy,” Duke said.
We took an elevator up to the third floor, Bruce ambling and shuffling down the long, low-ceilinged hallway to a unit in the far back corner. He jingled through a huge set of keys, found the correct one, and unlocked the door to what I assumed was Duke’s apartment, although he’d called it a “stash spot”, whatever that meant. Stash, like drugs? He’d taken a hit of that black guy’s blunt but, despite that, he didn’t seem like the type to keep an apartment just for stashing drugs.
Bruce unlocked the door and pushed it open, then pocketed the keys. “There you go, kids. Have fun.”
Duke clapped Bruce on the shoulder yet again. “You’re a real life saver, Bruce, you don’t even know.”
Bruce waved a pudgy, veiny hand as he shuffled back to the elevator. “I know, Dan, I know. I’ll see you around.”
Duke pressed a palm to my lower back, gently nudging me into the apartment. I went in, and Duke closed the door behind us.
“So, Dan Stephens.” I meandered into the apartment, which was about as sparse and spartan as you might imagine a commando’s backup stash spot would be. Meaning, a futon on one wall and a stack of moving boxes in the corner, and nothing else.
He shrugged. “The whole point of a stash spot is that it ain’t connected to you. Dan Stephens ain’t much but a fake ID and bank account.”
I stood in the center of the empty living room and finally asked what was on my mind. “So, um. What exactly do you keep in this stash spot?”
“Nothing much. My collection of women’s panties, porn, crack rocks…you know, the usual.” The asshole delivered this totally straight-faced, so I wasn’t entirely sure he was kidding.
I stared at him, trying to read him. Which should’ve been easier than it was, but his expression wasn’t giving anything away. “I want to assume you’re kidding, but I don’t know jack shit about you, Duke. Hell, I don’t even know if Duke is your real name.”
He let out a huff of laughter, shaking his head. “Okay, I get that we don’t know each other, but do you really think I’d buy an apartment under an alias just to store drugs and nudie mags?”
“You called yourself the panty-master. How the fuck am I supposed to know?”
He tilted his head to one side, looking perplexed. “That was a joke, Jesus.” He took two long steps, which put him in my personal space, his cornflower eyes bright and piercing and vivid…and intelligent. “I know I look—and sometimes act—like…what did you call it? A commando from Central Casting? Yeah, I get why you’d think that. But you don’t survive in my line of work by being stupid, so don’t make the mistake of underestimating me, Temple.”
I searched his eyes, and realized I’d been doing exactly that, underestimating, stereotyping him. He looked like a typical douchebag gym bro with more muscles than brains, and he even talked like one sometimes, but the way he was looking at me right now, something told me I was dead wrong in my estimation of Duke Silver.
“Is Duke Silver really your name?”
He nodded. “Sure is, honey.”
“And what do you keep here?”
He ignored my question for a long moment, remaining in my space, towering over me, staring down at me, filling my field of vision with his massive body, his biceps stretching the sleeves of his shirt, chest huge and broad and hard. Goddammit, he was sexy. Too fucking sexy for my good. That hair, fuck me, that hair. I wanted to rip it out of the elastic ponytail holder and run my fingers through it. Shit, I wanted to get a good grip on those kinky red locks and pull that craggy jawline of his between my thighs and ride that sarcastic, arrogant, dirty mouth of his. I wanted to feel those big bear paw hands of his on my bare skin. I wanted to see if he had abs to match his biceps. I wanted to get him out of those stupid fucking cargo shorts.
“You keep lookin’ at me like that and you’re gonna make me think your sass is all show.”
“How am I looking at you?”
“Like you want rip my clothes off and do nasty things to me.”
I did my best to wipe my thoughts off my face. “You wish, soldier boy.”
He held my gaze as he reached up with both hands and nimbly opened a button of my blouse. The shirt had never exactly been equal to the task of holding in my tits, even with a bra, but then that was the point, wasn’t it? Make ‘em look without giving ‘em anything to actually see. So then, when he flicked open that fourth button from the top, my tits kind of spilled out, only marginally constrained and concealed by a not-quite-sheer lacy maroon bralette. Yes, I know, my boobs are a little too big for a bralette, but dammit, they’re comfy and cute and I like them, and I don’t care if they don’t really do the job a bra is supposed to do. You’ll have to pry my bralettes out of my cold, dead hands, along with my yoga pants and my leopard print Tieks.
I felt my nipples harden, and that was when he finally let his gaze break away from mine.
“I’m not just wishing I could do nasty things to you, Fancy, I’m planning to.” He undid another button, and then another, and then the shirt was open completely.