Chapter 7 Lee #2
Her words hit me right in the chest.
“I think you should do whatever you need to grieve and move forward. If that’s burning this place to the ground or adding some paint to a wall, then do it.”
She nods, tears shimmering on her lashes. “I loved her. But I hated what she became. What she did to me, to herself. And now she’s gone and it’s… confusing. It’s grief, but it’s also relief. And that feels like betrayal, even if I know it isn’t.”
I don’t say anything. Just walk over and pull her gently into my arms. She comes willingly, folding into me like she’s been waiting to be held together.
“It’s not betrayal,” I say against her hair. “It’s the truth. And anyone who’s ever loved an addict knows exactly what you mean. You can mourn the mother you had and the mother you needed. Both are real. Both deserve space.”
She clings tighter for a beat before stepping back and wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Sorry. That got heavy.”
I pick up my brush, swiping it as I try to lighten the mood. “You want to know what I do?”
Her eyes flick toward me. “You mean you’re not paid to brood in corners and be intimidating to shady businessmen?”
“Nope. Try again.”
She taps a finger against her chin as if deep in thought. “Clown.”
“I do look great in a red nose. But no.”
“Lion tamer?”
“Feels like that sometimes with the prospects. Try again.”
She snaps her fingers. “Male gigolo.”
That startles a laugh out of me. Pulling my shirt up with one hand, I reveal my torso, watching as her gaze drops to my six pack. “Baby, no one can afford this deliciousness.”
She swallows, and I’m gratified to see a flush touch her cheeks. I drop the shirt, grinning when her gaze finally meets mine.
She swallows once before shrugging. “Okay, I give up. Tell me.”
“Security. I freelance—bodyguard work, property surveillance, sometimes transporting high-risk cargo.”
“That sounds intense.”
“It can be,” I admit. “But it pays well, I get to travel to interesting places, and it gives me the freedom I need to serve the club.”
“Freedom?” she echoes, her brow lifting.
“I don’t like being tied down. Not by a schedule, not by a boss, not by someone breathing down my neck about clocking in at nine sharp. I like doing the job, doing it well, and then riding away when it’s done.”
She nods slowly. “Sounds lonely.”
I meet her gaze. “Sometimes. But it also means I don’t let anyone down.”
That hangs there for a moment, heavier than I meant it. But she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.
She studies me a long beat, then drops a bomb. “You’ve never let me down.”
My chest clenches as we stare at each other, the moment holding its breath.
Then she clears her throat and says, “Okay, enough therapy. Help me finish this wall before I turn into an emotional pancake.”
“Deal,” I say, grateful and reluctant all at once. “Should we order pizza or can we raid the kitchen?”
“I suspect neither is an option at this time of night.”
“Damn.” I hip bump her. “Guess you’ll have to make it up to me later.”
She glances over and her smile widens. “You’ve got paint on your face,” she says, gesturing toward my cheek.
I swipe at it. “Better?”
“Worse.” She laughs, the sound soft and genuine. “Now you look like you’ve got some kind of weird green beard growing.”
“Speaking of faces with paint on them...” I flick my brush toward her, leaving a small green spatter across her cheek.
Her mouth drops open in exaggerated outrage. “You did not just do that.”
“Did what?” I ask innocently, doing it again.
Her eyes narrow, and I see the exact moment she decides retaliation is necessary. She dips her brush, a dangerous gleam in her eye.
“Don’t you dare,” I warn, taking a step back.
“Oh, I dare.” She flicks her brush, sending a spray of paint across my T-shirt.
And just like that, it’s war.
I lunge for the paint tray, and she squeals, darting away as I load up my brush. We chase each other around the narrow hallway, laughing and dodging paint splatters like kids. Her earlier tension is gone, replaced by a playfulness I haven’t seen since we were teenagers.
“You’re going to regret this!” she warns, brandishing her brush like a weapon.
“I already do,” I laugh, glancing down at my now-speckled jeans.
She makes a break for the main bar, and I catch her around the waist, spinning her around as she shrieks with laughter.
Her back hits the wall as I pin her in place, our faces inches apart. “Surrender?”
“Never,” she declares, but her voice has lost its edge, going soft and breathy.
Time seems to slow. I’m suddenly acutely aware of every point of contact between us, my hands on her waist, her palms against my chest, the heat of her body through the thin fabric of her overalls. Her eyes, wide and golden in the dim light, drop to my mouth.
And something in me snaps.
Every moment since she walked back into Devil’s—every heated glance, every challenging word, every time I caught myself watching the sway of her hips or the curve of her smile—crashes through me like a wrecking ball.
The control I’ve been clinging to shatters, and I’m moving before I can think better of it.
My mouth finds hers in a kiss that’s nothing like the careful, measured way I’d imagined doing this.
It’s raw, primal. A claiming. My fingers tangle in her hair, tilting her head back as I devour her, months of pent-up want breaking free at once.
Her surprised gasp melts into a moan that vibrates through me, setting fire to my blood.
I press her harder against the wall, one hand sliding down to grip her hip, keeping her pinned against me. Her body is soft, yielding yet demanding as she arches into me, her hands fisting in my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll stop if she lets go.
God, she tastes amazing. Like whiskey and desire and everything I’ve been denying myself since she came back to town. I can’t get enough. I deepen the kiss, my tongue tangling with hers in a battle for control neither of us seems interested in winning.
It’s only when she makes a small, breathless sound that reality crashes back in. I tear my mouth from hers, breathing hard, horrified at how completely I just lost myself.
“Fuck,” I mutter, taking half a step back. “Kya, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
I run a hand through my hair, trying to gather my scattered thoughts. “That was… I shouldn’t have…”
She stares at me, her lips swollen from my kiss, her eyes wide and dark with desire. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful, or more terrifying in what it makes me feel.
“Tell me to stop,” I manage, giving her an out, giving us both a chance to pretend this never happened. “If you want me to stop, just say the word.”
Instead, she curls her fingers into my shirt and pulls me closer.
“Shut up,” she murmurs against my lips. “For once in your life, just shut up and kiss me, Lee.”
I do. God help me, I do.
This time it’s not a moment of lost control or a mistake. It’s a choice—deliberate, intentional. Her hands slide into my hair, holding me to her as the kiss deepens, grows hungrier. I press her against the wall, lifting her, and her legs wrap around my waist, bringing us impossibly closer.
The paint on our hands and clothes is probably smearing everywhere, but I couldn’t care less. All that matters is the heat of her mouth, the softness of her skin beneath my palms, the small sounds she makes when I trail kisses down her throat.
Her heat presses against me, separated only by two too-thin layers of clothing and a whole lot of bad decisions. I rock into her once—just to feel her. Her breath catches, her nails dig into my shoulders, and that’s it. I lose the last shred of restraint.
I grind into her slowly, deliberately, pinning her harder to the wall with each roll of my hips. Every time I move, she gasps like it’s a surprise, like she didn’t think this would feel this good. This right.
I feel the exact moment her control snaps. She arches into me, moaning my name like a broken prayer. I grip her thighs tighter, help her ride the tension, every breath from her lips pulling me deeper.
Kya grinds against me, desperate and deliciously demanding, her breasts pressing into my chest with each roll of her hips. The sounds she makes—needy, breathless, raw—drive me half mad. I dip my head, dragging my mouth across her collarbone, tasting sweat, paint, and Kya.
She gasps again, her body tightening in my arms. She’s close. I can feel it in the way her nails dig in, the frantic arch of her hips, the whispered fragments of my name spilling from her lips.
“That’s it,” I murmur, voice rough with hunger. “Let go for me, Kya. I’ve got you.”
She breaks against me, the climax tearing through her in waves I feel as much as see. Her whole body shakes, her breath hitching as she buries her face in my neck.
I hold her through it, every muscle in my body screaming to take this further, to let go and get lost in her the way I’ve wanted for years. But I don’t. I can’t.
Not like this. Not when she deserves more than a wall and a fuck-ton of regret in the morning.
Slowly, gently, I ease her down, her legs shaky as they touch the floor. She leans into me, still trembling, and I press my lips to her forehead, forcing my own ragged breathing to slow.
“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.