Page 34 of Spade

I stepped past her. She followed, snapping at my heels like an angry ghost. I could smell her perfume—something metallic and sweet—before I heard the click of her purse on the table.

“Here’s the key you gave me.” She laid the key on the table. “I know this is bad timing.”

I chuckled. “You have no idea.”

I thought about Spade, her violence, the violence in the way we fucked against the wall.

The apartment was dark except for the kitchen light. I never used the overheads, just the single yellow bulb over the sink, which left the rest of the place in a murky half-light. The case files were still open on the table, manila folders fanned out, grainy printouts of crime scene photos in a little migration across the wood. She made a disgusted noise in her throat, the same as last time, and I moved to intercept her sightline.

“Don’t,” I said, barely louder than a thought.

She glared at me, eyes sharp as broken glass. “Who is she?”

I shut the folder. “No one.”

She smiled, all teeth, and I realized then how much I’d underestimated her patience. “You never even looked at me,” she said, stepping in close, voice dropping to a simmer.

I watched her, the way her lips curled up at the edge, the vein that ticked in her neck. “I don’t have anything to give you tonight, Cara.”

She didn’t move. “That’s not what it looks like from here.”

I should have told her to leave. I should have walked past her, locked myself in the bathroom, and sat on the toilet lid with the lights off until the world recalibrated. Instead, I reached out and took her wrist, the way you’d take a pen or a knife, and pulled her down the hall toward the bedroom. She didn’t resist. Not at first. Not until my grip got too tight, and then she made a little sound, surprised and sharp, but she kept pace anyway, heels digging into the carpet, coat sloughing off one shoulder.

The bedroom was exactly as I’d left it: bed unmade, top sheet in a knot near the footboard, nightstand covered in a mess of empty glasses and a single gun magazine. The curtains were cheap and thin, bleeding the city’s neon into a grid of blue and pink. She kicked off her shoes, shedding her coat and shirt in a single motion, like she’d been practicing for this confrontation in her head all day.

I shoved her against the wall, her teeth already sinking into my shoulder hard enough to draw blood. I didn’t flinch. My palm cracked across her ass once, twice, the sound sharp and wet in the dim room, then I spun her, bent her over the edge of the mattress, and yanked her skirt up past her hips. No preamble. I drove two fingers straight into her cunt, found her already slick and angry, and fucked them in deep while my other hand pinned her neck down.

“Spread,” I growled. She hesitated, so I slapped the inside of her thigh until the skin bloomed red. “Wider. This hole’s mine tonight. Say it.”

She hissed through her teeth but obeyed, knees sliding apart on the sheets. “This hole’s yours.”

“Louder. Like you mean it.”

“This hole’s yours,” she repeated, voice cracking when I added a third finger and twisted.

I pulled out, wiped her own slick across her asshole, and pressed the head of my cock there without warning. She bucked. I held her hips in both hands, thumbs digging bruises into the bone, and shoved forward until the ring gave and I sank halfway into her ass in one brutal thrust. She screamed into the mattress. I didn’t stop. I fucked her open in short, vicious strokes, each one deeper, until my balls slapped her cunt and her whole body jolted with every impact.

“Tell me what you are,” I said, voice low against her ear.

She shook her head. I reached under, found her clit, and pinched hard. “Say it.”

“I’m your filthy fucktoy,” she gasped.

“Again.”

“I’m your filthy fucktoy—fuck—your property to wreck.”

I pulled out, flipped her onto her back, and shoved my cock into her mouth before she could catch her breath. She gagged, eyes watering, but I held her head and fucked her throat until spit ran down her chin and onto her tits. When I finally let her up, she lunged for my mouth. I turned away, forehead pressed to the mattress beside her, teeth grinding so hard my jaw ached. The memory of Spade’s cold stare flashed behind my eyes—how nothing I did, not even the gun, had touched her. I needed to overwrite it. Needed to ruin something.

I dragged her to the center of the bed, tied her wrists to the headboard with my belt, and climbed between her legs. Her cunt was swollen, dripping. I slapped it twice, watched it clench, then drove back into her ass in one long stroke. She arched, cursing. I fucked her like I was trying to break the frame—hips snapping, sweat flying, the wet slap of skin loud and filthy. Every thrust punched a grunt out of her. I leaned down, bit the side of her breast hard enough to leave teeth marks, then licked the bruise.

“Whose ass is this?” I demanded.

“Yours,” she panted.

“Whose cunt?”

“Yours.”