I have my own horror movie playing on a loop in my head. But thanks for asking.
“No, I think I’ll get to bed,” I told him, smiling weakly. “Nice to meet your … friend? Brother? I don’t know what to call him.”
“Call him Puck,” he said, giving me a charming grin. “You might want to get used to him, too. I think Pic plans to have him stick with you for the next week or so. Security.”
Well. That was inconvenient. I decided I’d think about it tomorrow, because I’d burned through the last of my energy when I’d come home to find the living room full of young bikers I was pretty sure were capable of killing me without blinking.
Painter—apparently oblivious to my terrible tension—ambled toward the fridge and pulled out a beer.
I shook my head.
“No, I’m going to bed. Ready for this day to end in a big way.”
I lay sprawled in the center of Reese’s bed, staring up at his bedroom ceiling and trying not to cry. It was four in the morning. He’d texted me at two saying not to wait up for him, so I’d made the most of the opportunity, going through every drawer, every box, every inch of his bedroom looking for anything that might be valuable to the sadists down in California.
Not a goddamned thing.
Although I knew a lot more about Reese now. For example, I knew Heather had written him a beautiful letter saying good-bye right before she died. She told him to be happy. She said that when her girls got married, she wanted him to give each of them a diamond pendant, set in silver, from her. She called them “something new” for the big day.
She also told him she didn’t want him to grow old alone.
According to Em, I was the first woman he’d really let in since Heather died. “Guilty” just wasn’t strong enough to describe how that made me feel, given my current plan to betray him. At least I didn’t need to worry about him knowing I’d searched the room. I’d been incredibly careful, taking pictures of his things before moving them, so I could put them back exactly where they’d been before. Realistically, there wasn’t any more that I could do, but I couldn’t sleep, either.
I rolled over and turned off the light, wishing I were better at praying. Now would be a real good time for it …
Big hands slid under my shirt.
I sighed and shifted, confused. Reese caught my breasts and squeezed lightly. Then I felt his lips touch my stomach and I squirmed, heat pooling between my legs.
“Missed you last night,” he said, his voice low. I opened my eyes, but the room was still dark. Must be very early morning, right before dawn.
Then I remembered. Fuck. Oh, fuck. Jess was in danger, Amber was dead, and I had to screw over the first man who’d made me feel anything real in years. Maybe ever.
“Sleepy,” I murmured, which was true. It was also a great way to get out of conversation, because I hadn’t had a chance to figure out the proper etiquette one uses when destroying a man’s life. His fingers burrowed under the fly of my jeans, and then I felt him opening them. Wow. I hadn’t even gotten undressed last night.
I didn’t remember falling asleep at all.
My jeans opened and then he tugged at them, murmuring for me to lift my hips. I obeyed without thinking. He slid them down, along with my panties, and tossed my clothing across the room.
Then I felt his lips on my stomach again.
Instead of teasing me, this time they moved steadily downward, and then his hand caught at my inner thighs, pushing them apart. His tongue felt like fire on my skin and I shifted restlessly. A finger slid along the edges of my labia, pushing in just enough to collect some of the moisture growing there. He rubbed upward, finding my clit as it started to swell, circling it and teasing. I wiggled under him.
“Did I mention I missed you?” he whispered. “Probably a hundred bitches out there tonight, half of them ready and willing, but all I could think about was getting home to this.”
“Do you really have to call them bitches?” I asked, trying to focus. “Seems kind of ugly.”
“Just a figure of speech, doesn’t mean anything,” he said. Then I felt him shake his head, and he laughed. “No, guess you got me on that. We call ’em bitches because they aren’t that important.”
“Sharon seemed important enough to you,” I muttered, wondering if I was losing my mind. Why would a woman interrupt a man about to go down on her—or at least I assumed that’s what this was leading up to—to argue about what he calls someone else?
“You wanna talk semantics or get your clit sucked?”
“That second thing,” I said. His mouth opened on my stomach and he made a huge raspberry noise. I squealed because it tickled, and then he was tickling me with his hand, blowing raspberries on my stomach over and over until I screamed.
“Stop! You have to stop it!”
He stopped, sliding up to cover me with his body, holding my hands prisoner on either side of my head.
“Now give me a kiss and let me know you’re happy to see me,” he said. “You wanna talk about other women, we can do that tomorrow. Right now’s about you and me.”
I lifted my head and met his lips. Despite the tickling and playing, this wasn’t a teasing kiss. It was hard and fast, nipping and dueling until I felt faint from desire.
Or maybe that was lack of air?
He pulled away, and we both gasped.
“Now. What would you like me to do?”
“Um, you could …” I trailed off, squirming. I still wasn’t so great at the explicit talk in front of him. Why I felt so inhibited I couldn’t imagine. I’d always assumed that I’d have things figured out by my thirties. Not even close.
“What did you say? I don’t understand,” he asked. I couldn’t see his smirk in the darkness, but I knew it had to be there.
“You could go down on me,” I said, the sentence ending on a squeak. “I think I need more practice talking about sex. It feels really weird.”
“Yeah, sort of picked up on that,” he whispered into my ear, nuzzling at it. “Kinda hot when you get all embarrassed.”
“I’m not embarrassed,” I insisted. “I just don’t have a potty mouth.”
“Did you seriously just use the phrase ‘potty mouth’?”
I giggled. “I think I did.”
“Okay, let’s try this again. Tell me what you want me to do.”