Page 46 of Torched Spades

“It’s about fucking time…” Scraping his teeth back up my skin, he nips hard at my jaw.“Say it again.”

Shit, that’s going to leave a mark.

“Johnny…” I moan, hating I love how broken my voice sounds.

“Again…” He grinds his hips against me, the hard outline of his cock digging into my stomach. In response, I spread my legs as wide as my skirt will allow. I don’t care how desperate it looks. I checked my dignity at the door. “I said, again!” he orders darkly.

“Johnny!” I whimper, weeks of pent-up desire ready to explode.

“How far can I push those strict lines of yours, Doc?” Releasing my hair, he slides his hand down my thigh and fists the hem of my skirt. “Say it again,” he demands. “Keep fucking saying it until it’s the only name you know.”

“Johnny…” My head falls back as my skirt inches higher. I’ll hate myself tomorrow, but I don’t care. It’s not my brain that’s in control right now.

“Malone!”

My eyes snap open as a fist bangs on the office door. Dazed, we both turn to find Henry on the other side of the glass, his lips pressed into a thin, tight line. A few skipped heartbeats later, he’s slamming his fist against the glass again, his eyes trained on the man pressed against me.

Releasing my skirt, Johnny steps back, a slow smirk spreading across his face. “Duty calls.”

I’m still reeling watching him back away, all cool and nonchalant as if nothing happened. As if we didn’t just pole vault over every ethical line I hold sacred.

Tell him this was a mistake.

Tell him you know he’s a fraud.

Tell him to stay the hell away from you.

“So, I’ll see you Tuesday at four.” I wince, unsure if it’s a question or a plea.

He winks. “Not if I see you first.” There’s a credence in his voice that sends a chill down my spine.

Seconds before he walks out the door, I call out to him. “Johnny…” My head is spinning as he stares at me over his shoulder. “Whatwasthis?”

His answer is the barest hint of a smile—the kind covered in so many question marks I wonder if it was ever really there. Then, the door slams behind him, and I’m alone.

Lifting a shaking hand, I trace my swollen lips, the taste of his kiss still on my tongue. It isn’t until I go to straighten my skirt that I realize I’m holding something in my hand. Glancing down, I open my fist to reveal a crumpled ace of spades.

I hear my own words ringing in my ears.

“What was that?”

Collapsing against the wall, I scrub my palm across my forehead. “It’s the ultimate fuck you.”

* * *

With a sigh, I pick up the deck of cards I left sitting next to an eighty-proof puddle. As if on autopilot, I start shuffling. Over and over, I toss red and black cards in random order, watching hearts, spades, clubs, and diamonds alternating in perfect chaos.

I can’t explain why I bought them. Compulsion, I suppose. I’ve acted on it a lot in the past four and half weeks, which in my strict, orderly world is cause for my own cognitive evaluation. Letting every card tumble from my hand, I trap the last one between my fingers, absentmindedly twirling it between my fingers.

It’s been two days since my confrontation with Johnny at the warehouse, and my head is still a mess. After leaving the office today, I meant to go home, not end up three drinks in at some dive bar.

Or maybe I did.

Maybe I wanted to drown the conflicting voices in my head in cheap beer and pretend to be someone else. Someone who could refrain from getting emotionally attached to their patients.

And physically attracted, a voice in my head whispers.

I raise my beer in agreement. “That, too.”