He gave a low, dark laugh.
“We’re not going there.”
“Oh yeah, we are,” I informed him, poking his chest with a finger. “Because I’m done playing mind games with you—we’re hashing this out, here and now. Otherwise you’re taking me home. Or I can call someone and get a ride.”
Painter’s eyes narrowed, then his hand caught mine, holding it tight.
“You’re not calling anyone—I’ll take you home when I’m ready. And you think you want answers? How’s this for a fucking answer. I want this.”
He dragged my hand down his stomach toward the front of his pants. My pulse rate rose. Then he was pushing my hand down across the length of his cock, which was hard and ready. His hips lifted under my touch and his fingers squeezed around mine, gripping himself tight.
Need wrenched through me.
“What I want is to fuck you,” he said, his voice a harsh, intense whisper. “I want to fuck your *, I want to fuck your face, and I’ve given some serious thought to fucking your ass, too. I want to lock you up and play with you . . . Sometimes I think about owning you, and what I’d do if you tried to get away. Christ, you have no idea.”
He pushed my palm down hard across the top of his erection, hips twisting under my touch. His other hand reached down to catch my butt, digging in deep. My leg went up and over him, which was perfect because it brought my clit into contact with his thigh.
God, why were we wearing so many clothes?
“Oh crap,” I whispered, dropping my head against his shoulder as his fingers worked down between my ass cheeks, finding the crotch of my pants. Why hadn’t I kept my mouth shut? Wait, fuck that. Why the hell hadn’t I worn a skirt?
The whole time, he kept my fingers wrapped around his dick, jacking him slowly through the fabric while his fingers danced between my legs. His hands were big, strong, working me as the world started spinning. Then his hand slipped off mine, coming up to catch the back of my head, forcing me to meet his gaze.
“Here’s the ugly truth, though,” he whispered. “I’ll want all of that—all of you—for about a week. Then I’ll get busy or bored or whatever, and I’ll stop calling you. That’s how I am, Mel. I’m the guy who doesn’t call and I don’t even regret it, because I truly don’t give a shit who I hurt. Except for some fucked-up reason, I care about you. If some guy treated you the way I dream about every night, I’d kill him. I’m not into suicide, so that means we can’t go there. Got it?”
Our hands had stopped moving as he spoke, although his cock still pulsed under my hand. His fingers dug into my ass, holding me captive against his body even as I processed his words.
“You’d really do that to me?”
Painter’s mouth tightened.
“Yeah, Mel. I’d really do that to you. We’d have a few great days, maybe a week. Then I’d get bored and dump you, because that’s who I am. But you’re the only female friend I’ve ever had and I actually give a fuck about you, so I don’t want to hurt you like that. Is that such a terrible thing?”
My breath caught, torn between the rush of joy at hearing us called friends and utter, pissed-off disgust that he’d assume he had the power to break me. I opted to run with the angry disgust—far more empowering.
“You know what?” I said. “I get that we don’t have a long-term romantic relationship ahead of us . . . but don’t treat me like a child. I’m an adult and I can make my own decisions. If I get hurt, that’s on me, not you. You don’t have that kind of power, asshole.”