Painter’s eyes narrowed, then his hand caught mine, holding it tight.

“You’re not calling anyone—I’ll take you home when I’m ready. And you think you want answers? How’s this for a fucking answer. I want this.”

He dragged my hand down his stomach toward the front of his pants. My pulse rate rose. Then he was pushing my hand down across the length of his cock, which was hard and ready. His hips lifted under my touch and his fingers squeezed around mine, gripping himself tight.

Need wrenched through me.

“What I want is to fuck you,” he said, his voice a harsh, intense whisper. “I want to fuck your pussy, I want to fuck your face, and I’ve given some serious thought to fucking your ass, too. I want to lock you up and play with you . . . Sometimes I think about owning you, and what I’d do if you tried to get away. Christ, you have no idea.”

He pushed my palm down hard across the top of his erection, hips twisting under my touch. His other hand reached down to catch my butt, digging in deep. My leg went up and over him, which was perfect because it brought my clit into contact with his thigh.

God, why were we wearing so many clothes?

“Oh crap,” I whispered, dropping my head against his shoulder as his fingers worked down between my ass cheeks, finding the crotch of my pants. Why hadn’t I kept my mouth shut? Wait, fuck that. Why the hell hadn’t I worn a skirt?

The whole time, he kept my fingers wrapped around his dick, jacking him slowly through the fabric while his fingers danced between my legs. His hands were big, strong, working me as the world started spinning. Then his hand slipped off mine, coming up to catch the back of my head, forcing me to meet his gaze.

“Here’s the ugly truth, though,” he whispered. “I’ll want all of that—all of you—for about a week. Then I’ll get busy or bored or whatever, and I’ll stop calling you. That’s how I am, Mel. I’m the guy who doesn’t call and I don’t even regret it, because I truly don’t give a shit who I hurt. Except for some fucked-up reason, I care about you. If some guy treated you the way I dream about every night, I’d kill him. I’m not into suicide, so that means we can’t go there. Got it?”

Our hands had stopped moving as he spoke, although his cock still pulsed under my hand. His fingers dug into my ass, holding me captive against his body even as I processed his words.

“You’d really do that to me?”

Painter’s mouth tightened.

“Yeah, Mel. I’d really do that to you. We’d have a few great days, maybe a week. Then I’d get bored and dump you, because that’s who I am. But you’re the only female friend I’ve ever had and I actually give a fuck about you, so I don’t want to hurt you like that. Is that such a terrible thing?”

My breath caught, torn between the rush of joy at hearing us called friends and utter, pissed-off disgust that he’d assume he had the power to break me. I opted to run with the angry disgust—far more empowering.

“You know what?” I said. “I get that we don’t have a long-term romantic relationship ahead of us . . . but don’t treat me like a child. I’m an adult and I can make my own decisions. If I get hurt, that’s on me, not you. You don’t have that kind of power, asshole.”

Painter’s eyes widened, and a slow smile crept across his mouth, utterly confusing me.

“God, you’re amazing,” he said, loosening his grip on my hair. “I need you, Mel. I need you way too much as a friend to risk it. I know I’ve done a truly shitty job trying to communicate with you about this, but if you had any idea how important you are to me . . . Christ, you’re one of the few things that kept me sane inside. Thinking about you, getting your letters. We gotta find a way, babe. We can’t do this.”

“I hate men,” I muttered, rolling off him and onto my back, glaring at the sky. How could one guy be so evil and so sweet at the same time? Because he was sweet. I swear, my heart was melting even while I wanted to strangle him.

I wasn’t ready to forgive him, though. Not yet.

“And take your fucking arm out from under my head. Cuddling is for closers.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

PAINTER

The ride back to town took forever, every minute torture because Mel was wrapped tight around my body, totally fuckable and completely off-limits.

Sometimes I wished I didn’t know myself so well. It would be easy to lie, to pretend that she’d be different from the others. But she wouldn’t be, and hating myself for who I was wouldn’t change the endgame here. If I wanted her in my life longer than a few weeks, I couldn’t fuck her. This was my reality.

By the time we reached town, I was still utterly resolved to keep my hands off her . . . but Taz was at her place, and I didn’t trust that asshole for shit. That’s why I took her back to my apartment instead . . . and you can shut right the fuck up about that.

I already know I’m a douche.

•   •   •

“Figured you wouldn’t want to be alone tonight,” I said, cutting the engine. Mel slowly unpeeled herself from my body, sliding off the bike. I waited for her to protest, maybe tear into me because I hadn’t taken her home. Instead she surprised me with a tentative smile. Guess she’d had enough thinking time on the ride back to get over her snit.

“Thanks. I wasn’t looking forward to dealing with Jess and Taz crawling all over each other. I don’t know about him, but she’s a screamer.”

The words fell between us like a brick, because I would know, wouldn’t I? Except I didn’t, because Jess’s mouth had been full the entire time we’d . . . Oh fuck. This wasn’t good.

“Look—”

“I know—”

I coughed as Mel gave a nervous laugh, looking anywhere but at me.

“Let’s get it out there, once and for all,” I said, deciding it was inevitable. I swung my leg off the Harley and started toward the garage’s side door, reaching for my keys.

“Get what ‘out there’?” she asked. I turned to look at her, raising a brow. It was hard to tell in the dim glow of the porch light, but I think she was embarrassed. Whatever. We had enough shit to figure out already, we didn’t need London’s niece coming between us, too.

“You know—me and Jess. I’ll tell you what happened, because you’re obviously wondering. Didn’t she tell you the details?”

“Um, not really,” she admitted, frowning. I opened the door, reaching for the cord next to it to turn on the lights. I found the switch and the room flooded from the six work lights I’d hung along the ceiling. “I know part of it, but I’m not sure that I want to know the rest. It’s kind of—oh, wow . . .”

She stepped inside, looking around my studio space. Lining the walls were narrow workbenches, one side covered with motorcycle parts and the other with my art supplies. There was the mural I’d started for the Armory there, but I’d forgotten about another half-done painting I’d leaned against the wall. I’d been working on it when I got arrested. It wasn’t in the greatest condition (the girls had done their best, but they hadn’t known how to handle it), and I was trying to decide whether to toss it or not.

Now I watched as Mel walked over to study it, eyes wide. I came up behind her and she glanced back at me.

“You’re good.”

I laughed. “Don’t sound so surprised. I do this shit for a living, you know.”

She gave a rueful smile.

“Sorry. I guess I thought you painted flames on bikes and stuff like that, but this is real art. How did you learn how to do it?”

“I picked things up here and there,” I said. “Although for the record, depending on the design, what you see on motorcycles is real art, too. Not just anyone can do that.”