Reaper's Fall

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.

His dick pushed between my legs, one big hand guiding me as my hips slowly rubbed against his. The other hand was buried deep in my hair, holding me prisoner as his tongue dove deep inside. The pressure started to build, and all I could think about was how much I wanted the rest of him inside me, too.

Desperately.

“What the fuck is going on here!”

Jessica. That was Jessica’s voice. I froze. Here I was, making out in a bar with Painter, and Jessica had just caught us and . . . Oh God. I’d lost my fucking mind—there was no other possible explanation for what I’d just done. I tried to pull away but Painter held me tight. Then I heard Puck’s deep voice.

“Go to hell, Jess,” he said. “It’s none of your damned business what they’re doing.”

I managed to bring my hands up, pushing against Painter as hard as I could. His arms loosened, although he still didn’t let me up entirely. Looking at Jessica, I saw exactly how bad I’d fucked up written all over her face.

“Have you lost your mind?” she asked, eyes wide. “Both of you! So you get drunk and share a quick fuck . . . Where does that leave Izzy? What the hell’s wrong with you?”

Oh God. I was such a slut.

“Get the hell out of here, Jess,” Painter said, eyes narrowing. “It’s none of your business.”

Puck stood, shoving off the girl sitting on his lap as he stepped toward my best friend in a way that could only be described as menacing.

“No!” I said, pushing against Painter again, harder this time. He let me go reluctantly, people turning to stare at us. Oh shit. I was that girl—the one who caused scenes in bars.

Fucking alcohol. Hadn’t I learned a damned thing from watching my dad?

“Jessica’s right,” I said, standing up. I bumped into the table in the process, sending an impressive collection of drinks sloshing. “This is a huge mistake.”

“Let’s go,” Jess said, catching my arm. Painter surged up, catching me around the waist and pulling me back into him.

“Stop,” he said, his voice cracking like a shot. We all froze. “This is between me and Melanie, so none of you get a fucking vote. Mel, we need to talk. Somewhere quiet. Private. Puck, take care of my tab and I’ll catch you later. Sound good?”

“Sure,” Puck said. Jess opened her mouth to protest and then Banks stepped into her space, snaking an arm around her upper chest and pulling her into his body. It almost looked like a casual embrace, but when she pushed against him angrily he didn’t give an inch. A wolfish smile crossed Banks’s face as he leaned down, whispering something in her ear. I couldn’t hear what he said, but the expression on her face freaked me out—was that anticipation or fear?

Painter pushed me across the floor, big hands on my shoulders to guide me. Then we were passing through the door, out into the cool night air, music spilling out of the bar behind us.

“What the hell, Painter?” I managed to ask as he dragged me down the street, walking so fast I could barely keep up.

“We’re gonna talk this shit out.”

I stumbled over a curb. He steadied me, and I glared up at him.

“Your fucking long legs are going to get me killed,” I spat. “Slow down, asshole.”

Painter answered by swinging me up and over his shoulder. I shrieked, and across the street a group of drunk guys started hooting and laughing at us.

“Jesus, what’s wrong with you?” I shouted, not entirely sure if I was yelling at Painter or the guys. He could be a murderer for all they knew.

We reached his SUV, and he balanced me like a sack of potatoes as he dug out his keys. The lock chirped at us happily, and then he was opening the door and dropping me down on the passenger seat.

“Stay,” he said, reaching around to grab the seat belt, buckling me in. I scowled as he walked around to the driver’s side, trying to decide if I should make a run for it. It was late, though, and I needed a ride home.