Page 37 of Pretty When He Bleeds

I stare at it, then back up at him. “The fuck is this?”

“A helmet,” he deadpans and I roll my eyes.

“No shit, but why are you giving it to me?”

Damon’s smirk returns, and a flicker of amusement glints in his eyes. “Because you’re coming with me.”

“Like hell, I am,” I snap, shoving myself to my feet despite the pain in my body.

He steps closer to me, still holding out the fucking thing. “Get on the bike, Roman.”

“Or what?” I challenge, my voice rising.

“Or I’ll throw you over my fucking shoulder and drag you there myself,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I glare at him, but I already fucking know I won’t win this. Especially not with the way he’s looking at me right now.

Fuck.

“Fine,” I mutter, snatching the helmet out of his hand. “But if you crash this thing, I’m killing you.”

Damon smirks, clearly pleased with himself, and walks back to his bike. I can do nothing but follow him, and even in my drunken state, I take in how perfect his ass looks in those jeans. He pulls on his own helmet, the matte black surface gleaming in the dim streetlight, and he straddles the bike with an ease that makes my mouth go dry.

Fuck me. No really, I want him to fuck me.

“Get on,” he says, his voice muffled by the helmet. “You’re riding bitch today.”

I hesitate, my gaze flicking between him and the bike. Every instinct is telling me that this is a bad idea—a fucking terrible idea—but my legs are already moving. I climb onto the bike behind him, my hands hovering awkwardly before I give in and grab his waist.

Goddamn, he is fuckingsolid.

“Hold on tight, Hotshot,” he says and I can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Just drive, asshole,” I mutter and tighten my grip on his waist just as the engine roars to life.

The ride is a blur of roaring wind, the vibration of the bike beneath me, and the heat of his body against mine. I don’t know where the fuck we’re going or what the hell I’m doing, but my arms stay locked around his waist.

When we finally pull up in an underground parking lot, my head’s still spinning. Damon kills the engine and the silence is deafening. I climb off the bike with shaky legs and pull the helmet off.

“Where the hell are we?” I snap.

“My apartment. You really didn’t think I’d take you home, did you?”

I ignore the shiver of anticipation that shoots up my spine when he grabs my wrist and pulls me toward the elevator door, dragging me along like I don’t weigh a damn thing. He chooses a floor number and, while we wait, I try not to freak out because he’s still holding my wrist.

That, and the fact he’s taking me to his fucking apartment.

When the doors open again, he drags me out and comes to a stop in front of a door at the end of the hall, which he unlocks before pulling me inside.

I turn around and my eyes widen. It’s a studio apartment and the space is very… Damon in terms of black and silver decor. It’s small but clean and has large windows where three easels are set up. The scent of turpentine lingers in the air and canvasses lean against the walls, some finished, some half-done—all of them chaotic and raw.

“Nice place,” I say sarcastically but he doesn’t take the bait.

Instead, he locks the door behind us and turns to face me, his green eyes blazing with so much possession that my fucking balls tighten.

“Take off your shirt.”

I blink. “What?”

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