Page 56 of Played
As I stuff the empty plastic bags into a bigger plastic bag under the sink, I’m planning the food that will accompany my weeklyLOTRbinge when my cell rings. I frown. The ring is generic, so it’s no one from my family. And if it’s not one of them or Jared, I have no desireto talk to anyone. Especially if it’s going to be a request to take my ass out of the house.
I walk past the counter, eyeing the phone like it’s about to swing on me. When it stops ringing, I take that as a sign that it couldn’t have been that important—but then it starts up again.
Damn.
Telemarketers aren’t usually this tenacious. They just leave a useless voicemail to call them back—uh, that’s a hell no—and move on to the next sucker that’ll answer. Peering down at the screen, I jerk to a halt, and my heart thumps in my chest like a heavyweight champion intent on taking one of my ribs out.
That Asshole.
There’s only one person with that name in my phone.
Solomon.
Why is he on my phone? I’m not going to lie. Part of the reason I couldn’t sleep was wondering if he would call. I mean, I went to the game, we had that “moment” before his game, and then I saw his son afterward, along with his in-laws, who I’m pretty sure view me as an untrustworthy home-wrecker. Which should sound silly as hell. But nope, I refuse to ignore my intuition. I don’t need the Mirror of Galadriel to know Nathaniel and Caroline Talley saw me as an interloper and didn’t like that I was familiar with their grandson or son-in-law. Or that they most likely aired their feelings to Solomon.
So am I surprised he didn’t call last night to even see if I liked the game? Nope.
But am I just a little hurt? Yep.
Hurt and petty enough to hit End Call so his ass knows I see the call and don’t want to talk to him? Oh, most definitely.
At least that’s my plan. On the fourth ring, I growl “Dammit” and hit the answer button. Because the need to hear the low sex-at-midnight voice just edges out my need to be trifling.
Shit. If Solomon ever discovers the effect he has on me, I’m fucked.
And not in the wet-ass, quivering-pussy kind of way either.
“Hello.”
“Adina.”
A beat of silence passes between us. I don’t know what he’s thinking—I can’t tell when I’m in front of him, since those pretty green eyes and prettier face give nothing away, and I for damn sure can’t tell over the phone.
On my end, though, I’m absorbing the impact of his voice wrapped around my name. I close my eyes, thankful that he’s not in front of me. Because I can’t hide the shiver that ripples through me.
“You called me, remember?” I point out. And if my voice is a little snappy, well ... sexual frustration is a bitch.
“Ay, ma. That mouth gon’ write a check your ass can’t cash.”
Who can’t?
Stop being so fucking thirsty,I order my nipples and sex. No damn shame at all.
“I’m sorry. If you called just to issue threats, I got a toilet to wash. A drain to unclog of hair. Paint to watch dry. So if that’s all ...”
A raspy,menacingchuckle echoes in my ear, the dark sound shooting fire through my veins. I close my eyes, clench my teeth, fighting to trap the moan that’s determined to make a jailbreak.
“Hang up on me if you want to,” he says. “I’ma just take that as an invitation to pull up. And Dina, I don’t hand out threats. Just IOUs and promises.”
Well. Damn.
This man’s mouth is so reckless andrude. I can’t stand it.
Then why are my legs in danger of parting like the Red Sea?
Huge-ass sigh.
“What do you want, Solomon?”
