Reaper's Fall

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.

The music changed, another slow song. Painter surrounded me. No matter what else had happened between us through the years, this never changed—the burning need I felt for him, the desire to rub myself against him and spread my legs and . . . Oh God. It hurt. It actually hurt, I wanted him so bad. I should be pulling away, but instead I burrowed my nose deeper into his chest, taking in his incredible scent, my nipples tightening.

One of his hands slid lower, catching my butt, squeezing obscenely. His cock hardened against my stomach, the slow sway of his hips growing more aggressive. We’d gone from swaying to grinding and my body loved every second of it.

Clearly, it’d been too long since I’d gotten laid.

“Jesus, Mel,” he whispered, leaning down to nuzzle my neck. The heat of his breath, the softness of his lips contrasting with the hardness of his body . . . It was almost more than I could take. The ache between my thighs was growing, turning into an active need beyond my ability to contain.

This was a very bad idea.

I didn’t even notice when he started walking me toward a dimly lit table in the back of the bar. Puck was there, along with Banks and a couple of girls I didn’t recognize. Painter grabbed the chair in the corner against the wall, pulling me down into his lap, catching my mouth with his before I could even imagine protesting.

This kiss wasn’t hurried.

It wasn’t hot and desperate and dangerous, just a slow fire building until I completely forgot about everyone around us. When he shifted my hips to straddle his across the chair, I didn’t care who might be watching. I was too drunk, and not just on the booze.