Chapter Seventeen #2
Vanka had been quiet, but as Nan continued her pushy style of questioning with the waitstaff—prying into everything from ice cream ingredients to helping their waiter decide on a college major—Vanka loosened up.
Spiker’s only issue with the last few hours was that Vanka had dropped his hand when they left the park, and hadn’t touched him since. Then again, maybe he needed to consider that annoyance a revelation. The urge to publicly claim her changed everything.
Their bond as teammates and partners wasn’t enough. The nighttime thoughts that kept him from sleep seemed too basic. He needed more of Vanka than he knew how to describe. Touching her seemed like the only way he could begin to explain.
“I’m exhausted,” Nan announced. “And you two need to find a room—to talk.”
Vanka stared at the stars and muttered something about murder under her breath.
Nan waved the threats aside. “Just ignore me. I have my eye out for a fifth husband. What kind of advice can I give?”
Spiker wasn’t sure how much of what Nan said was one hundred percent, grade-A bullshit or the god-honest truth. Either way, he enjoyed it. He said good night to Nan and stepped away to allow Vanka and Nan a quiet moment.
He’d expected there to be death threats and hugs. Instead, they ducked their heads down for a serious conversation, and after a minute, he pulled out his phone and scrolled, keeping them in the corner of his eye. Finally, they hugged, Vanka waved, and Nan hailed a cab like a true New Yorker.
Vanka threaded through passersby and drew close to his side. Spiker put his phone away, and they lingered, their first moment of privacy since they’d walked into the library. He had several things to say, but how he should say them hadn’t solidified.
“We have time to walk,” Vanka offered. “It’ll put us home around eleven.”
She mentioned home as though her place was where Spiker was supposed to be.
Contentment settled over him, and as they headed toward Penn Station, he ignored that her house wasn’t his home.
He had a house. One that he loved—ongoing renovations or not.
But had he ever called it his home? He’d called the place his lake house, or rarely, his home base—a place to live during a stay of operations.
A home base was very different from a home.
They paused at a crosswalk. Spiker took her hand and interlaced their fingers. Vanka didn’t let go. He squeezed. She didn’t elbow him in the ribs or threaten to end his life, though she kept her chin up and her eyes straight ahead as though marching for the queen’s inspection.
He slowed, but she didn’t, tugging on his arm to keep him at her soldier’s pace. “Vanka.”
“Yes,” she said, a nothing-to-see-here octave higher.
They could’ve walked through Times Square, with every electronic billboard telegraphing her name, and she wouldn’t have slowed down. Still, she hadn’t let go of his hand. That was okay, he’d take what she offered and wait until they were alone. Then what? He had no clue.
Hey, guess what? I have a thing for you.
Laughter rumbled inside his chest. That kind of line would earn an eye roll or slap. Maybe both, deservedly so.
We fight well. We work well. Maybe we should see what else we do well—
Nope. That wouldn’t have been to his advantage either, and didn’t exactly nail the sentiment he wanted to convey. The problem was, he didn’t know what that sentiment was other than that suddenly, because of her, everything in the whole damn world had changed.
They arrived at Penn Station. He let go of her hand to buy their tickets, and when he returned, she stayed close, leaning into him as if they were supposed to stay connected.
He turned her to face him. Their bodies remained together. Her hand rested on his side, above his waist, palm barely grazing his shirt as though touching the fabric would be too bold.
Penn Station on a Saturday night wasn’t the humming, busy place he knew it could be.
But they weren’t alone, and Spiker still had no idea what he wanted to say.
She remained close, her chin tucked as though she were lost in thought.
He looked down and watched her, knowing that Vanka had more than him to figure out.
This was how she’d question, test, and search for what could be.
Nothing about her touch was meant to tease.
That didn’t matter. He could hardly breathe.
Her barely-there caress kicked his pulse into high gear. The assessing way she leaned her weight against his made the blood rush in his shoulders and neck, in his chest, and if he weren’t careful, everywhere else as well.
The speakers called out the next train arrivals. A bullpen’s worth of people shifted toward the escalators. When their departure was called, Vanka and Spiker reluctantly parted, moving with the throng to the station’s lower level and following the directions to find their DC-bound train.
Harsh lights illuminated the platforms. Locomotive grime mixed into the hot, heavy air. They walked past the first train cars, which were slowly filling, until they reached the last ones, dimly lit and sparsely occupied.
They boarded and, as before, chose seats far from anyone else. Vanka slipped into the window seat and pulled up the armrest. Spiker sat down. As always, she pressed her back against his arm and gazed out the window.
Spiker closed his eyes and waited for their tickets to be scanned. The process was quick. Few people were bound for Washington, DC, this late on a weekend.
The train rumbled out of the station. The platform lights faded away. Blackness overtook the train as they rolled through the tunnel.
Vanka shifted away from the window and leaned her cheek on his chest. The rail noise couldn’t hide the way his heart pounded, and for the millionth time that day, he couldn’t breathe.
Spiker placed his chin on the top of her head and whispered her name. Her hair smelled like shampoo. He closed his eyes as her hand rested against his stomach.
Her hand tensed against his stomach, fingers curling, nails digging into his flesh. Vanka knotted his shirt into the palm of her hand and tipped her chin up, giving him everything he needed: simple, unquestionable permission to kiss her.
“I’m having a very hard time”—his lips pressed against her silky hair—“controlling myself around you.”
Vanka whispered, “Welcome to the club.”
Spiker was asking for a leap of faith. Vanka had never questioned him before.
There was nothing she wanted more than to feel his lips and taste passion.
They’d kissed more times than she could recall, but this would be a real first, the only one that mattered.
Just as long as she gave herself over to this paradigm-shifting trust fall.
They hadn’t discussed the risk of fallout. There was no backup plan, no way to resurrect what had been up until this point. “Everything will change.”
“I’m good with that,” he said.
That terrified her—and she didn’t give a damn.
Her body hummed, electric and alive, as though every molecule of her being threatened to explode into a hundred million specks of light. The pads of his fingers smoothed over her cheek like a velvet breath. Vanka trembled, her heart begging that he never stop.
“You’ve gotta give me the go.” The warmth of his lips caressed hers before their mouths touched. She had no choice but to shut her eyes. This was a maddening, dizzying moment before a fall, and she was completely drunk on him.
“Kiss me.”
Their lips touched. Instantaneous, primal need ignited an avalanche of lightning within her chest. They had been a smoldering storm, and the brush of their lips released its fury.
His arms surrounded her, pressing her against him as though they could never be close enough.
His tongue danced and delved, spinning her higher and higher, giving Vanka a wicked taste of what could be.
Her uncertainty about what should pass between them was now impossible for her to fathom. This man was everything. They were exactly where they needed to be.
He licked and nipped, promising an intensity she couldn’t comprehend. Spiker’s large hands grasped her hips and possessively lifted her onto his lap. She straddled him, rubbing against his long, thick erection, and he held her in place as if to demand, Do you see what you do to me?
The metal-on-metal squeal of brakes jerked, and the loudspeaker announced their arrival in Philadelphia.
The train slowed. She and Spiker slowed. Vanka stared into his steely eyes. Parking lot lights illuminated their passenger car. Their breaths still raced. Spiker didn’t release his grip on her waist. He held her gaze as their pulses returned to normal and the train stopped.
The whoosh of opening doors didn’t temper the fire in his eyes. He slid her to his side and, without a word, promised that their moment was not over.
Two people boarded the train. Vanka settled in her seat and leaned into him. The train lurched forward, swaying until it hit a steady roll.
An employee entered their car, calling, “Tickets.” He stopped long enough to punch the cards for travelers, then passed by Vanka’s and Spiker’s row, barely pausing long enough to read their destination and continue on.
Vanka giggled. She couldn’t help it. If anyone gave them half a glance, they would look like teenagers busted in the backseat of a car. She stole a glance at Spiker. His smile was as dopey as hers felt. “Well, that was nice.”
Spiker laughed. “Yeah, nice. So long as nice means, oh my God, why are you still wearing clothes?”
Vanka laughed. This was easy and fun, and there was no hiding the smile he brought to her face. Worries of awkward and weird moments disappeared. Spiker put his arm around her shoulder and kissed the top of her head. Vanka couldn’t wait for them to be home.