Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 133511 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 534(@250wpm)___ 445(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133511 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 534(@250wpm)___ 445(@300wpm)
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.
If I got very, very lucky, maybe this whole thing would turn out to be a crazy nightmare.
The ride passed in a blur. One second we were pulling out of the Armory and the next we’d stopped in front of my house. I was off the bike and headed up the walk in an instant, praying that Jessica had left a Fudgsicle for me because I needed one. Purely medicinal.
“Mel,” he called from behind me.
“Thanks for the ride,” I answered, refusing to look at him or slow down.
“Mel!” he said, raising his voice in command. Reluctantly I stopped and turned to look back at him, almost falling on my ass again. I didn’t like being drunk, I decided. Nothing was working right and it’d stopped being fun.
“What?”
“You need to text London and Kit,” he said, his voice almost kind. “Let them know you’re okay. Tell them I brought you home.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling sheepish because it hadn’t even occurred to me. (Definitely no more getting super drunk—I just wasn’t very good at it.) I pulled out my phone and saw several missed texts. Crap. The first was from London, about forty-five minutes ago.
LONDON: Have fun but be careful, Mel. Taz is cute . . . he’s also a player.
Then fifteen minutes later.
LONDON: I didn’t see where you went—you okay?
And finally . . .
LONDON: I’m worried about you, Mel. Please text and let me know you’re all right.
Ugh. I had to be the worst not-quite-daughter ever. Right after that was a message from Kit.
KIT: Londons freaking out and someone said you went off with Taz be careful xx
Crap crap crap . . .
ME: Sorry I got tired and decided to come home. Caught a ride with painter and its all good. See you later and thanks for the invite
I looked back toward the street, where Painter was still sitting on his bike, watching me. I gave him a perky little finger wave—why did you do that? You look like a total dork for doing that! Ugh—then walked up to the door, pulling out my key. I stood there, considering, then turned and walked back across the lawn to him before I could chicken out because we still had unfinished business.
Painter cocked his head, questioning.
“Thank you very much for letting me borrow your car while you were in prison,” I said carefully, holding his gaze. “It was really nice of you and it helped me a lot.”
“You’re welcome,” he replied, some strange emotion stealing across his face. Nodding, I turned and walked back up to the door, pulling out my key again. I heard the bike roar to life behind me as I stepped inside.
Jessica had been right about one thing. Going out to the Armory had been a big mistake.
CHAPTER FOUR
I found Jess on the couch, working on her laptop and eating a red licorice whip. Her hair was still in the disturbing amoeba-growth-shaped bun and she’d balanced a can of Red Bull on the faded couch arm next to her. Music played in the background, her usual mix of upbeat dance and boy bands. As much as I loved Jess, her playlists made me want to gouge my ears out of my head.
When she saw me, her eyes got wide and she pointed accusingly.
“You got laid, you little whore!”
“Excuse me?” I asked, totally confused. God, I must be even drunker than I thought.
“You. Got. Laid,” she repeated, stabbing her finger in my direction for emphasis. “All your lipstick’s worn off. You met some guy and sucked his dick, didn’t you? Did he go down on you, too? I’m assuming he got you off—there’s that sparkle in your eyes . . .”
“No, I didn’t suck anyone’s dick. I mean, we—”
Then I stopped, swallowing. Wait, what? Why were we having this conversation? More important, did I want to tell her what’d happened with Painter? I blinked slowly, trying to figure out what to say when Jess burst out laughing.