“Huh?” I’m all breathy and a little bit pissed that I’m not halting traffic from screaming his name right now.

“I’m the boss of you, Bombshell.” He thrusts into me hard. Hard enough to hit the wall of my cervix and make me cry out in pain. “I’m the boss, aren’t I?” He thrusts again and this time is even more painful, but at the same time, I can feel the orgasm building again. “Answer me, dammit,” he says as he pulls out, leaving me empty and wanting.

“Yes, OK. You’re the boss, Mr. Shrike.” Just keep the f**k going!

He chuckles. “Good, baby. That’s perfect.” He eases back into me, softer this time. Slow, controlled back-and-forth movements that only make me ache for more.

“Harder, please,” I beg.

“Now,” he says through his heavy breath. “You’re gonna be a good girl and do what I say, right?” He punctuates each word with a thrust and retreat.

I just nod. Hell, I’ll agree to anything right now. I haven’t been f**ked since New Year’s and that one I can’t even remember. So it hardly counts.

“And what I want you to do is…” He leans into me, pushes himself as deep inside me as he can get and I swear, even though my eyes are open, everything goes black. My world is nothing but those little fuzzy stars you see just before you have the orgasm of a lifetime. His c**k pulses inside me and he tugs on my hair and moans along with his explosion. His c**k pulses over and over again inside me, his hot se**n shooting out.

I push back, on the verge of something truly spectacular…

And then he pulls out and backs off, no longer supporting my legs so they drop to the ground.

“What the f**k?” I ask as his come spills down my thigh and collects against my jeans.

He pulls my pants up and then his own.

I’m stunned. “I was just about to scream your name.”

Never—and I do mean never—has Spencer used sex against me. He’s never been one of those guys to withhold orgasm to make a point. Until now, apparently.

“I told you,” he says as he tucks his partially erect c**k back into his jeans. “I’m the motherfucking boss of you, Bombshell. And I am not f**king around this time.” He leans in, all the fun dirty talk forgotten. His orgasm forgotten. The flirty banter forgotten. “When I call that f**king phone, you f**king answer it!”

He’s not behaving normally and this sets me back a minute as I try to button and zip my jeans back up. “I never got any calls, Spencer. Calm down.”

He shoots me a nasty look. “You’re a shit liar, Veronica. I can tell every time. You crinkle your nose when you lie.”

“Do not. And what the f**k? Is this how you play now? You take what you want from me and once you’ve had your fill, you just leave me hanging? You’re a total ass**le. Especially after you said you never wanted to see me again. Only texts and phones.”

He stares hard at me for a moment, his breath still labored from the sex. “I never said that, Ronnie. I said we only need to communicate with texts and phone calls.”

I pick my purse up from the ground beside me, fish around and find my pack of e-cigs, and start puffing. Spencer drives me to puff. “What’s the difference?” I say through a thick stream of vapor. “And if that’s all you want from me, then why this… this… what the f**k was this f**k? I don’t even have a word for it, you ass**le!” I’m so upset with how this has turned out, I might cry right here, right now, in front of him.

“Ronnie, I need a place in town.” He says this like… like… like he didn’t just f**k me in an alley and leave me wanting like a worthless whore. “Your job this week is to find me a place to live in town.”

“What?” His words make my heart flutter and I have to place my hand against my chest to collect myself. “But… the farmhouse?” I’ve always pictured my life being lived out on that farm. Always. Since the day I met him three years ago, that’s been my happily ever after and now he wants to sell it. I turn away and place my head against the wall.

It’s over. My fantasy life with Spencer Shrike is over.

His strong hands grab my shoulders and turn me back around. “I’m not selling the farmhouse, Bombshell. Never. I just need a nice place to crash in town. That drive is killing me. So look around and find me something good. Set me up some appointments, and then text them to me.”

“Oh.” I’m hopeful again. “Do you want me to meet you there when you look?”

“No, babe. Just me.”

Now I’m deflated. See, this is why I need to avoid him at all costs. He deflates me. He sucks all my air out. He collapses me into nothingness. I look down at my feet and concentrate on not being sad.

“And the next time I call or text, you answer. OK?”

When I look up he’s already walking away and I’m feeling more used and dejected than ever.

“Spencer!” I call after him, desperate for one more interaction. “What’s the budget?”

“No budget, Bomb,” he calls out without turning back to me. “Just find me a nice place.”

And then he rounds the corner and he’s gone. And I’m left here, in this stupid alley overhang, looking like an idiot as the back door of the donut shop opens and I almost give Mr. Harrison a heart attack when he finds me there.

“Sorry,” I say as I quickly hop down the stairs, pick up my stray shoe and stuff it in my purse with the other one, and walk barefoot out into the rain.