I laughed.
“Yeah, I’ll do that. You’re on my bike going home, Mel. It’ll be just like old times.”
She flipped me off and Puck burst out laughing. I followed him into the hallway, leaning back against the wall, feeling strangely satisfied with myself.
“You get off on baiting her, don’t you?”
I shrugged, refusing to acknowledge the point, even if it was the truth. Hell, it was better than not getting off at all.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ONE MONTH AFTER IZZY’S FOURTH BIRTHDAY
JULY
MELANIE
“You’re so hot, Mel,” Greg whispered, running his hands down my ass. He pulled me tight into his body, swaying awkwardly to the music, and I wondered if he was really the player Sherri insisted he had to be.
All firefighters are players, she’d told me. So have fun with him, but don’t get your hopes up. You need someone stable. That new security guard keeps flirting with you . . .
I didn’t want to believe her, though. Me and Greg would be perfect for each other—like a storybook. He was also an EMT, and I’d seen him on and off at work for months now. Handsome, built . . . sort of rough and ready in a way that I didn’t like to admit totally turned me on, but it did. It so did.
He reminds you of Painter, my brain whispered insidiously.
Shut up, bitch! my vagina hissed back. He’s probably got a really nice dick.
You’re drunk. Stop being such a slut.
You’re a cock-blocker—we haven’t had sex in forever!
I blinked, realizing my brain was 100 percent right—I was definitely drunk, because why the hell else would I be imagining an argument with my vagina in the middle of a dance floor?
Pull your shit together, Mellie girl.
Greg had asked me out to the Ironhorse for a drink (which had turned into many drinks) and now it was nearly midnight. The music wasn’t great, but the crowd was into it and I was having a good time—a good enough time that I’d been giving serious thought to going home with him. Well, serious something. “Thought” might not be the best word, seeing as things had gotten pretty damned fuzzy after that last round of shots. But I was definitely turned on and it’d been a long time since I’d gotten laid. Not since the dentist . . . ugh. That’d been a mistake.
He was so . . . clean.
Greg nuzzled into my neck, then I felt something warm and sort of icky. Oh. My. God. Was he licking me? He was. He was licking me, like some sort of dog. Okay, so maybe going home with him wasn’t such a good idea.
All this was processing through my drunken head when suddenly Greg was gone. I nearly fell over as a hard arm wrapped around my waist, jerking me back into a tall, strong body that smelled like leather and just the faintest hint of linseed oil.
“Time to go now, Greg,” said a familiar voice. I blinked, trying to figure out what was happening. Greg stared at me, something like horror crossing his face.
“She’s yours?” he asked.
“Mother of my kid,” Painter replied, his voice hard. “You lookin’ to get laid, Greg? You want to fuck my Izzy’s mama? Let me guess—you want to do all kinds of dirty shit to my girl. How you think that’s gonna end for you?”
Greg’s eyes filled with terror, and then he was backing off so fast I’m surprised I didn’t hear a “meep meep” and a whooshing noise.
“Sorry, Painter. Meant no disrespect.”
Suddenly he was gone, abandoning me on the dance floor like an STD. I jerked away from Painter, rounding on him and jamming a finger into his chest.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?”
He looked down at me, his face grim.
“What’s the rule, Mel?”
“What?”
“We got one rule—what is it?”
“That you’re an asshole?”
“You stay out of my world,” he said. “I’ve backed away, given you your space. But you stay the fuck away from my world, and that means no bikers.”
“Greg’s not a biker.”
Painter cocked a brow. “He’s a hangaround with the Reapers. Or at least, he was. Now that I’ve seen his hands all over your ass, I got a feeling he won’t be hanging around anymore. Never liked the look of that fucker anyway.”
I blinked, trying to bring things into focus, both literally and figuratively. This would’ve been a whole lot easier if I hadn’t drunk so damned much booze. Shit.
“How was I supposed to know that?” I asked, frustrated by how much my words slurred. I couldn’t hold my own against this fucker if I couldn’t even talk right.
“You should’ve asked,” he said. “And now you’re gonna pay the penalty.”
I blinked, trying to process this, then faster than you could say, “I hate bikers,” Painter caught my hips and jerked me into his body. He’d touched me enough over the years that I was well aware the raging attraction between us had never died. Now it roared to life, clouding my thinking almost as much as the vodka. We started swaying to the music, me tucked into him as one of his hands rubbed slowly up and down my back. The other one caught my head, resting it against his chest.
That familiar ache swirled through my stomach, and while I should’ve been telling him to fuck off, I wasn’t entirely sure I’d be able to stay upright if I wasn’t holding on to him. If he’d said anything—if he’d even copped a feel—I might’ve summoned the willpower to stop him. Instead we just danced slowly.
I felt myself falling into him.
It was nice. Way, way too nice.