Reaper's Fall

“Yes,” I lied. If anyone called Torres, he’d confirm it. Of course, his payoff would have to go up—cost of doing business.

“I’m going to let you off with a warning. But I don’t want you riding farther tonight without lights.”

“Has to be a fuse,” I told her. “I’ve got some extras. If it’s all right with you, I can probably swap it out pretty fast.”

“Sounds good,” she said. “I’ll hold a light for you.”

Sure enough, the fuse had blown. Changing it out was easy enough, and ten minutes later I was on my way home again.

Back to Melanie.

MELANIE

The first light of dawn had filtered through the windows when I woke up. It took me a minute to figure out where I was—Painter’s bed. It smelled good. Like him. I smiled, rolling to the side as I stretched.

Reese had given me a ride last night, along with Kit, Em, Jess, and London. He’d been pissy as hell, although it was clear I wasn’t his target. Neither was Loni—he’d taken one look at her boobs in that wet shirt and all was forgiven. (Dancer was a genius.) He’d given me a ride to Painter’s place, unlocking it for me and making sure I was safe and settled before moving on to Jessica’s stop.

My clothes were soaked, so I’d changed into one of Painter’s shirts to sleep in. Because I’m a creeper, I’d grabbed a dirty one he’d had hanging on the back of the bathroom door. It smelled like him, which made me feel all warm and safe.

At least, that was my drunken logic last night.

Now I noticed that there were greasy, black streaks on my arms. They were all over the bed, too, and my stomach tightened into a knot.

Maybe the dirty shirt had been hanging up so it wouldn’t touch anything else . . . oopsie.

The bedroom door opened and I looked up to find Painter watching me. Crap, he had nasty bruises under both his eyes, and his nose looked a little off-kilter. Had he gotten in a fight?

“Are you okay?” I asked, forgetting about the greasy mess as I stood to walk over to him. He pulled me into his arms roughly and then his mouth covered mine, tongue plunging deep. It wasn’t a sweet, gentle kiss. Not at all—this was a branding, a reminder that even when we were apart I still belonged to him. Then his hands were on my ass and my legs were wrapping around his waist. He turned, shoving me into the wall as his hips ground into mine.

I’d never been so turned on so fast—clearly my body recognized him and wanted to make him welcome. Good thing, too, because he pulled his hips back just enough to loosen his fly, and then he was shoving deep inside, so hard and fast that it hovered between pleasure and pain. Then he bottomed out and I gasped, clutching at his shoulders for balance.

“Jesus, Mel,” he gasped, pulling his head back. “I like seein’ you in my place, wearing my shirt.”

I opened my mouth to apologize for the mess on the bed, but he swiveled his hips, grinding deep inside me and I forgot all about it. His hips swiveled again, pushing his pelvic bone hard against my clit, and I moaned. Oh God. How could a girl be expected to think under these circumstances?

After an eternity and no time at all, Painter started deepening his strokes, reaching new places inside me. Tension built, faster and harder than it ever had before. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was aware of the birds singing outside, of the smell of coffee, and the fact that I was a greasy mess from his shirt and soon he would be, too.

None of that mattered, though.

All that mattered was the fact that I was close—so close—to shattering into a million pieces. I caught the back of his head, pulling his mouth down to mine for another kiss. His tongue plunged deep again and my entire body clenched tight, hovering right on the edge.

Then he pulled back before filling me again, followed by a hard grind that threw me right over the edge. I stiffened and shuddered as waves of explosive release crashed through me.

Painter ripped out of me and then I felt the hot spurt of his come hitting my thighs.

We stayed that way for a minute, trying to catch our breath. Then he turned and carried me over to the mattress, lowering me down and covering me with his body. My legs still wrapped around his waist as he looked down, touching my cheek softly with one finger. Then he raised it, showing off a streak of dirty black.

“Mel?”

“Yeah?”

“Any particular reason you’re covered in motor oil?”

I bit my lip, offering a soft smile.

“Bachelorette party,” I whispered softly. “They really grease up those strippers, you know? Any particular reason you’ve got big, nasty bruises all over your face?”

“Bachelorette party,” he whispered back. “I get real pissy when I see my girl’s hand on another guy’s dick. So pissy I walked into a wall.”

“You know I didn’t touch that guy on purpose, right?” I asked. “I mean, he was really nasty.”

“Glad to hear it,” Painter growled, then kissed me hard. I forgot all about the strippers.

• • •

An hour later, I’d come two more times, once from him going down on me and once when he fucked me from behind, fingering my clit.

Now we were cuddled up together, bodies naked and covered in black oil streaks that didn’t seem to bother him a bit, so I decided I wouldn’t let them bother me, either. I traced my finger through the marks on his chest, seeing that one side had been darkened by a bruise.

“How was your trip?” I asked. He frowned.