I bit my lip, offering a soft smile.
“Bachelorette party,” I whispered softly. “They really grease up those strippers, you know? Any particular reason you’ve got big, nasty bruises all over your face?”
“Bachelorette party,” he whispered back. “I get real pissy when I see my girl’s hand on another guy’s dick. So pissy I walked into a wall.”
“You know I didn’t touch that guy on purpose, right?” I asked. “I mean, he was really nasty.”
“Glad to hear it,” Painter growled, then kissed me hard. I forgot all about the strippers.
? ? ?
An hour later, I’d come two more times, once from him going down on me and once when he fucked me from behind, fingering my clit.
Now we were cuddled up together, bodies naked and covered in black oil streaks that didn’t seem to bother him a bit, so I decided I wouldn’t let them bother me, either. I traced my finger through the marks on his chest, seeing that one side had been darkened by a bruise.
“How was your trip?” I asked. He frowned.
“I can’t talk about club business, Mel.”
I rolled my eyes. “Like I care about the details? I just wanted to know how you’re doing and whether things went well, despite these marks all over you. You know, because I care?”
His face softened.
“Sorry. I guess it went okay, but it still sucked because I wasn’t here with you. The bruises are from a stupid little fight, didn’t mean a thing, so don’t worry about it. I did get pulled over by a cop in Washington, though. Turn signal wasn’t working right.”
“That’s no good,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “Was it an expensive ticket?”
“Yes and no,” he said, leaning over to kiss my neck. “I got off with a warning—just a popped fuse and I was able to fix it right on the spot. But technically it’s a parole violation. I’ve got an understanding with my PO, but he’ll probably have to ding me just to cover his own ass. Maybe a few days in the county jail. No big deal.”
His tongue flicked out, tracing my collarbone, but I pushed him back—we needed to talk about this jail business.
“How can he just lock you up again?”
Painter sighed, then rolled off me to look at the ceiling. I turned on my side, watching him carefully.
“The judge ordered up to thirty days of discretionary jail time in case I get out of line,” he said, his voice careful. “My PO can use it whenever he wants. But they can’t send me back to prison without a parole board hearing. Jail’s just a smack on the wrist.”
I stared at him, stunned.
“You think going to jail is a wrist slap?”
“Compared to finishing out my term? It’s nothing. I still got two years of my prison sentence left, Mel.”
The words hit me like a blow.
“Two years?” I whispered. “They could send you back for two years?”
“Babe, I could get murdered by ninjas, too,” he said with a laugh. “Doesn’t mean it’s going to happen. The club has a lot of influence with the probation department here in town—my conditions are seriously loose. I’m not supposed to leave the state, but it’s up to the PO when or how I get punished for that. We’ve got him in our pockets. Trust me, it’ll be fine.”
I stared at him, wondering what was going on in that head of his, because none of this was making sense to me.
“So the only thing standing between you and prison is one guy? What if you piss him off? Is it really worth the risk to be traveling when you’ve got that hanging over your head?”
He winced, reaching up to rub his chin. There was one hell of a scruff developing there and for an instant I felt my attention wander. I wanted to touch it. Maybe rub my face against it . . . Suck it up, Mel. This isn’t playtime.
“This is all new to me,” he said, reaching up with one hand to cup my cheek. “I’ve never really worried about risking myself before.”
“You never worried about going to jail?”