Reaper's Fall (Reapers MC, #5)(32)

His eyes bored into mine, cold and hard. Even the hand around my back tightened, like he was bracing for action.

“But you’re careful, right?” I asked. Painter nodded.

“Yeah, of course I’m careful,” he said. “But I’m also one of the younger full-patch members, and I don’t have a family or anything. When there’s shit that needs doing, I volunteer. All the brothers do, but some of us got less to lose than others.”

I closed my eyes against the painful clenching deep inside of me, laying my head back down so I wouldn’t have to look at him.

“You mean the guys with old ladies?” I asked, already knowing what the answer had to be.

“Old ladies, families . . . The guys with kids do their part, no question. But I’m not gonna stand back and watch while a brother with that kind of responsibility takes risks he doesn’t need to. And a lot of the guys do work that’s important—they’d never * out of anything, but we can’t just replace them if something happens. Horse is a f*ckin’ genius with money, and Ruger can build anything. We need those skills. It’s my job to protect the club, and part of that’s protecting the brothers who keep the club alive.”

“That’s crazy,” I said. “What about your life? Doesn’t that matter?”

“The club is my life, Mel.”

Gee, brainwashed much? His hand rubbed me soothingly as he spoke, which sucked because I wanted to hit him or yell at him or at the very least give him a stern lecture, although I don’t know what it would be about. Maybe the top five reasons jail sucks?

But I guess he already knew that a lot better than I did.

Instead I settled into his form, forcing myself not to think about what he’d said—there were plenty of other things to focus on. The warm night air. The frogs. The way his hand felt, still rubbing up and down my back, soothing and distracting. Then his fingers caught on the bottom of my tank top, sliding it up just a couple inches until I felt his skin bare against mine. My stomach twisted.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked, feeling almost desperate.

“Doing what?”

“Touching me. You’re sending some seriously mixed signals for a guy who’s not interested.”

He froze, the hand on his chest reaching to catch mine.

“I never said I wasn’t interested,” he replied, his voice quiet with a hint of strain. “I said you deserved better.”

“God, you’re so f*cking frustrating,” I said, pushing myself up to glare at him. “You ignored me when you got out, you made me come last night, and now you’re sticking your hand up my shirt while you’re telling me I deserve better. Have you ever considered seeing a shrink? Because I think you could use one.”

He gave a low chuckle, his hand sliding my shirt back down across the small of my back.

“No, but earlier tonight someone else told me I should talk to a professional.”

“Well maybe you should,” I huffed, glaring at him. “Because you’re playing games and that’s not very nice.”

“I’ve never pretended to be nice,” he said, his voice hardening. “And I’ve never promised you anything, Mel. Remember that. Nobody made you come riding with me tonight—not like I held a gun to your head. What the f*ck do you want from me?”

“The truth,” I snapped. “Let’s start with that. What the hell do you want from me?”

He gave a low, dark laugh.

“We’re not going there.”

“Oh yeah, we are,” I informed him, poking his chest with a finger. “Because I’m done playing mind games with you—we’re hashing this out, here and now. Otherwise you’re taking me home. Or I can call someone and get a ride.”

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 f*cking 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 f*ck you,” he said, his voice a harsh, intense whisper. “I want to f*ck your *, I want to f*ck your face, and I’ve given some serious thought to f*cking 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, f*ck 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.