Page 16 of Torched Spades
“Go,” I say, climbing into the lift. “I got this.”
He hesitates, cocking a copper eyebrow. “You sure you’re ready to run solo on a full cargo, Malone?”
“Condescension is a dangerous thing, Henry.”
“So is arrogance.”
I grit my teeth. “If I drive the lift into the fucking river, I’ll yell. Otherwise, I think I can manage.”
“I’ll only be a minute,” he says, already mid-sprint toward the Bentleys.
Which is fine with me. I’d rather unload the ten pallets of furniture on my own. Besides, I prefer silence—a mute companion in what’s become my private hell.
The one where I wake up fisting my goddamn cock to thoughts of modest skirts and black-rimmed glasses.Damn that woman.Obsession and mind games should be used as weapons, not lobbed back and forth like a goddamn tennis ball.
“Stick to the plan,” I grit out. “No pussy is worth risking everything I’ve sacrificed.” Forcing Becca out of my head, I shift into gear and hit the gas. Immediately, I’m engulfed by shadows as I grip the knob and turn toward the half-emptied cargo ship.
Out of habit, I glance down at my phone. It’s three a.m. People around here call it the “Devil’s hour.”Folklore—what an interesting evangelical fairy tale. The Devil doesn’t need an hour under the cloak of darkness to lure and entice when he walks freely in the sun and lies with a smile.
“Folklore is a dangerous religion,” I mutter, lining the tines of the forklift with the width of the pallet.
“So is arrogance.”
“You sure you’re ready to run solo on a full cargo, Malone?”
There’s a screech of metal seconds before my body lurches forward then slingshots back.Then again, maybe silence isn’t so great after all.Especially after that ginger-capped idiot infiltrated my head again, nearly causing me to gut the damn pallet.
However, it’s not Henry’s smug taunts that got under my skin. That asshole knows I could snap him in half and not lose a minute of sleep. It’s having to grit my teeth and take it. It’s not being able to bare my teeth while assuring him that not only can I operate a forklift; I can optimize one in ways he’d never forget.
Shifting into gear, I release the parking brake and drive forward. My lips twitch, a rare smile threatening the corners of my mouth as I watch the tines first impale, then sink deep inside the pallet.
Yeah, mafankulo. I’m ready. Some things a man never forgets.
It’s almost four-thirty by the time I have every pallet from the cargo container loaded, inspected, and logged inside the warehouse. The moment my feet hit the concrete, exhaustion sets in. Groaning, I swipe the back of my hand across my forehead, bristling at the grimy sweat dripping off my forearm.
How ironic. I spent the better part of my adult life avoiding manual labor only to have a plea bargain shove it straight up my ass.
Since everyone else is still schlepping Bentleys on the other side of the port, I seize the opportunity and find a dark corner near the back of the warehouse to feed my growing obsession. Sliding my phone from my pocket, I quickly tap out a code sequence, then watch as the screen flickers to life. The image is dim, but fortunately, the glow from the nightlight is enough to outline her restless form.
Am I a sociopathic stalker for breaking into Becca’s condo and installing cameras?
Yes.
Did I do it to cover my ass?
Also yes.
Do I jerk my dick raw while watchingherass?
Fuck yes.
As usual, Becca has the sheet tangled around her bare legs, her long hair splayed behind her on the pillow like a crown. There’s no audio, but I don’t need it. Not if tonight mirrors the past three. The visual will be enough.
As Becca fidgets, I slip behind two L-shaped pallets, providing at least eleven feet of elevated privacy.Perfect.Leaning against the concrete, I never take my eyes off the screen, one hand holding my phone steady while the other releases the button on my work pants. Right on cue, Becca flops onto her back and slides her hand down her flat stomach before slipping inside her panties.
I’ll admit, some twisted part of me hopes she’s so unsettled because subconsciously, she feels me watching her.
“Finger that pussy for me,” I groan, dragging my zipper down.
