Page 35 of Cold as Stone
“Good girl,” I whisper, kissing her. “Hold on to me.”
She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t argue. Just rests her head against my chest and nods.
I don’t move. Can’t. Because letting go of her now might actually kill me.
Then, softly, barely above a whisper, she says, “If you ever tell anyone I came in my overalls while dry humping you, I will murder you in your sleep.”
A surprised laugh punches out of me, sharp and unexpected. I lean back just enough to look at her, brushing a thumb under her chin until her eyes meet mine.
“Cross my heart,” I promise. “It’ll be our filthy little secret.”
Her smile is slow, lazy, satisfied. She leans up, presses a kiss to my jaw, and whispers, “Next time? Lose the paintbrush first. And maybe your pants.”
I groan, resting my forehead against hers. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
“Worth it,” she mutters.
And just like that, I know I’m already gone.
8
KYA
Iwake up with paint in my hair, sore thighs, and the deeply uncomfortable knowledge that I made actual sex noises while dry humping a man fully clothed against a freshly painted wall.
Good job, Sullivan. Really keeping it classy.
I groan and flop back on the couch, covering my face with my forearm. My overalls—now crumpled and stiff with a combination of sweat, paint, and poor decision-making—are balled up in the laundry basket. Lee’s hoodie—the one he wrapped around me before we left last night—still smells like him. I bury my face in it, inhaling deeply as if it’s some kind of sinful security blanket. Which is deranged, frankly. Not to mention I shouldn’t be this moony over a man that made me come so hard I nearly blacked out and then had the audacity to follow me home on his bike but refuse to come in. He kissed me at the door sweetly, though for a long fucking time, then gently told me to get some sleep.
The bastard.
To say I’m messy and emotionally constipated and apparently real into motorcycle club enforcers with tortured pasts is an understatement. Apparently, I’m gone for Lee Fucking Armstrong.
Damn it.
By the time I get to Devil’s—coffee in hand, hair vaguely tamed—Mercy’s already there, sorting liquor deliveries like the efficient menace she is.
She doesn’t even look up when she says, “You’re late.”
“I’m ten minutes early.”
“For you, that’s late.” She glances over and then straightens. “Whoa. Girl. Spill.”
I blink. “What?”
She snorts. “You’re got the face of someone who’s either had sex, committed a murder, or both.”
“I—what? No. I mean, definitely not a murder.”
Mercy arches a perfectly sculpted brow. “Uh huh. Which means you’ve had sex.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Kya, you’re wearing the same dreamy-dead-inside expression I get after three orgasms and a good pepperoni pizza.”
I open my mouth. Close it. Sip my coffee. “You’re deranged.”
“And you’re glowing.” She sets down the bottle of bourbon with a thunk and crosses her arms. “Spill it, Sullivan.”
