Over the past few days, I’ve been thinking about Matt a lot. What the hell would he make of this situation right now? Would he be wondering why the hell I haven’t put any clothes on yet? A bolt of hot embarrassment washes through me, putting out the whiskey fire. Handing the bottle back, I get to my feet. “I should get dressed.”
“Why bother? We’ll be going to bed soon, anyway, right?” The way he says that—going to be bed soon—is full of innuendo. I hear his meaning clear as day: we’ll be going to bed together soon, anyway.
“What are you doing, Rebel? A second ago you were freaking out about a shooting that your motorcycle club is being framed for, and now all you seem to care about is flirting with me.” I tighten the towel around me, suddenly aware that there’s very little material between my naked body and his hands. “Shouldn’t you be thinking of a way to exonerate yourself and your club?”
Rebel shrugs. He gently takes the whiskey from me with one hand. With the other hand, he slowly traces his fingertips across the bridge of my foot, making me jump. I’d take a step back, but the bed is right behind me, blocking my way. Rebel softly runs up hand up over my foot and loops his fingers around my ankle. His thumb moves in small, careful circles over the swell of bone there, a soft, barely there contact that sends shivers of burning heat sparking upward, firing all over my body. “I think better when I’m distracted,” he says, his voice a low rumble in his chest.
I stagger sideways, almost losing my footing. “I’m not gonna be some cheap distraction for you, asshole. I’m not just some hole you can stick your dick into ’cause I’m here and it’s convenient.”
“And what if I told you I wanted to have sex with you because I like you? Would that make a difference?”
“You don’t like me.”
“Of course I do.”
I turn my back on him, heat welling everywhere all over my body. “Did you bring something else for me to wear, or should I just put my jeans and T-shirt back on again?”
Rebel slowly gets to his feet, his chest brushing against my bare shoulder blades as he steps in between the two beds and unzips the bag he brought with him. I have to hold my breath. He rustles around in the bag and then throws something over my shoulder: another oversized T-shirt. I hold it up, and this time it doesn’t say, It Ain’t Gonna Suck Itself. It says, Widow Makers MC, New Mexico and underneath, Club President. I spin around, holding it up in the air. “I can’t wear this.”
Rebel smirks, pulling his own plain black shirt over his head. He starts speaking somewhere between fully clothed and half-naked, his face hidden by his shirt, but I know he’s laughing. I can hear it in his voice. “And why not?”
“Because…because I don’t want anything to do with your club. I sure as hell don’t want your damn logo plastered all over me while I’m sleeping. I won’t willingly give you the free advertising.”
Rebel looks around, holding up his hands. “Who you advertising to, sugar? Ain’t no one here but you and me. Besides, that’s not how we roll, anyway. You see anyone outside our compound walls wearing that patch, you tell me straight up. That’s against club policy.”
“Cade.”
“What?”
“Cade was wearing a hoody with this on the back of it the day I met him. In that alleyway in Seattle.”
Rebel starts pulling the drawers open on the nightstand, searching for something. “That was different,” he says. “That was an exceptional situation.”
“Why?”
“Because he was acting on my behalf. He was there looking for my uncle. And he knew what he was gonna have to do if he found Ryan dead. He was going to have to declare war. Gotta be wearing official colors to do that.” He lifts out a large notepad in the bottom drawer, apparently having found what he was looking for. He points it at me, lifting one eyebrow. “Now put on the damn shirt.”
“Urgh, fine!” I wrestle the shirt over my head, doing my best not to drop the towel as I do so. It feels like he’s won, somehow, which is pathetic. We haven’t bet anything. He and I are not at war, not really. But wearing his club shirt makes me feel like I’m his property, and that doesn’t feel good. The material comes down to my mid-thigh, plenty long enough to preserve my modesty, but I still feel vulnerable all the same.
Rebel’s looking mighty pleased with himself when I turn around. “Do not look at me like that,” I tell him.
“Like what?”
“Like you want to fucking eat me.”
“And what if I do?”
“Just…stop!” I throw my wet towel at him, aiming for his smug, smug face. He catches it out of the air and tosses it onto the ground by the door.
“You’re not helping matters,” he says, his head tilted to one side. “You’re really sexy when you’re angry.”
I lift up my right hand and flip him off. "There. You think that’s sexy?"
"Yeah. I do actually." He smiles even wider. I think he's going to come for me, then. I imagine how it would play out: him prowling forward, sharp eyes pinning me to the spot. Him reaching up underneath the T-shirt he's given me to wear. His fingers searching for the most sensitive of places between my legs. My hands pushing him away, but my body craving more. This is fucked.