Damn. DAMN.
Not sure, but I think I caught a glimpse of a unicorn. Could’ve just been the alcohol. Slowly I came back to myself. Painter was still kissing me, softer now although I knew he hadn’t come. Nope, that cock of his was still hard and ready for more. Then he pulled back and lowered me to the ground, breathing heavily. I swayed as I reached down between us, finding the denim-covered bulge between his legs and squeezing it.
“No,” he said, teeth gritted. “We need to get you home.”
His body didn’t agree, though, because his hips were pushing back against my hand, begging for more. I squeezed again, running my hand firmly up and down his considerable length, wondering what he’d taste like.
I decided to find out and dropped to my knees.
That seemed to set him off, because he grabbed my arms, jerking me up and shoving me away in one rough motion. I stumbled back and tripped over a tree root, weaving for an instant before falling on my ass into a clump of grass.
“You ever hear the phrase ‘No means no’?” he snarled, looking down at me with something as close to fear as I’d ever seen on his face. “Pretty sure I read that on a poster somewhere. I don’t want you like this, Mel.”
The fall hadn’t been enough to knock the wind out of me, but that one sentence sure as hell did. Shit. I’d attacked him and gotten off on it. He didn’t want me to do it and I’d done it anyway. There was a name for people who pull shit like that.
That wasn’t a protest you felt grinding against you, girl. That was a cock and it wanted inside in a bad way.
No. That didn’t matter, because whatever his body might say, his brain wasn’t on board. I’d been dropping down to give him a blow job and he didn’t even want it.
Fucking pathetic.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, feeling like I might throw up. God, why did I drink so much? It turned me into an idiot. Painter reached down, offering me his hand.
“C’mon, let’s go,” he said, his voice still strained. “Didn’t mean to knock you down. Christ, what a cluster.”
“S’okay,” I mumbled, wondering if I could just slink off somewhere. Sit and wallow in my own pathetic juices for a while before calling London and begging for a ride home. “I’m really sorry I kissed you.”
“I gotta get you out of here. Jesus. You need to stay the fuck away from me, Mel. I can’t handle this shit. Next time just come at me with a gun—it’ll be fuckin’ easier for both of us.”
? ? ?
What followed was an exercise in humiliation, blended with ghastly, drunken spins and topped off with utter exhilaration. Why? Because he decided to give me a ride home on his motorcycle. I’d forgotten how big and intimidating his black and gold Harley was. I mean, I’d seen it parked on the street last weekend during the move and knew it wasn’t some little dirt bike . . . but it still seemed bigger up close—somehow more real. Scary.
Sexy.
Why did it have to be sexy?
Painter threw his leg over the bike and sat down, gesturing for me to join him. I climbed up, sliding down into his butt as I tried to tuck my skirt in somehow. He caught my hands, wrapping them tight around his waist. Holy hell.
I spread my hands out, feeling the hard flex of his stomach muscles under his shirt as I rested my head against his back. His Reapers colors were flush against my face, and I smelled the leather of his vest.
How was it possible to be so embarrassed and turned on at the same time?
Then Painter gunned the Harley to life between my legs, and let me just state this for the record—anyone who tries to tell you that a motorcycle isn’t a phallic machine has obviously never been on one. Before the kiss, I’d have given anything to ride with him on his bike. Unfortunately tonight had fallen to shit and back—all I wanted was to crawl into my bed and pull the covers over my head.