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I cover it with attitude because attitude is cheaper than emotional damage. “You’re getting slow in your old age.”
His stare goes flat.
“Oh, you fucked up now.”
I laugh, and then Bitter stands with me still wrapped around him.
I squeal and grab his shoulders. “Bitter!”
He carries me the few steps to the bed like I weigh nothing and drops me onto the mattress hard enough to bounce. Not hurt. Dropped. My pulse rockets.
He stays standing between my knees, cut still on, boots still on, beard dark, eyes darker, looking exactly like every bad decision Mama would have warned me about if she were still here to warn me.
I have never wanted a bad decision more.
Bitter looks down at me. “Still laughing?”
“A little.”
He reaches for the hem of my shirt, then stops. One eyebrow rises.
That is all the question I need.
“Yes.”
The shirt disappears.
My bra takes longer because apparently the Grave Prowlers enforcer can handle rival bikers, weapons, bodies, and criminal conspiracies but not one stubborn clasp.
I laugh into my hand.
“Say one fucking word.”
“You’re supposed to be experienced.”
“I am experienced.”
“With bras?”
“With getting women out of them.”
“That seems like the relevant skill.”
“I’m distracted.”
“By what?”
He finally gets the clasp loose, pulls the bra away, and stares.
“Those.”
Every smart reply I have dies.
His hands cover my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples until my back arches. His expression changes when they tighten beneath his touch.
“Fuck, Sweet.”
The way he says my name makes me feel more naked than being naked. Then his mouth closes over one nipple, and I grab his hair.
