Page 67 of Painted Scars
“Especially with you.”
Something sharp lodges behind my breast. I laugh softly to cover the bruise. Why did I think now that we’re partners in crime that he won’t stay unreadable or in control? That’s how you survive, and I take a page out of his book. Stay guarded.
I breathe through the pain to study him while he pours the sauce over the cooked chicken breast, sprinkles cheese over the top, and slides the dish into the oven for ten minutes.
Shirt plain gray, jeans dark, boots worn in and not polished, and that damn helmet serving as a wall between us. No band tees, no slogans, no cologne, no traceable identity. Cotton and caution. Even after admitting we share a common enemy and we’re on the same side, he remains anonymous. Why am I squinting through layers of reflective polycarbonate to see the man underneath when he doesn’t want to be seen? It keeps me guarded. I want a name, face… something real.
Trying to uncover more of this broody mystery, I trail his tattoos, decoding their rebellious symbolism, which I doubt belongs to some motorcycle club, as he doesn’t bear their branding. His left arm reads like a battle cry with an eagle mid-scream, dagger clutched, a compass pointing home, a burning skill, a fallen feather, and a mace dripping blood. War stories in ink. A beautiful woman with a single tear and a black rose tucked behind her ear. Grief. Love. Maybe both. The kind of ink that makes a girl forget how to breathe.
“Like what you see, Glitter Bomb?” His tone is smug and amused, a flicker of tension beneath it, daring me to look deeper.
Back to flirting, I see. I press down the ache and decide that if this is all I get—these sweet little moments with my grumpy stalker—then I’ll enjoy them while they last. Burn with the sparks.
“You know I do.” I snuggle up behind him and trail my palms over his pecs, stomach, and his ink, noting the distinct lack of piercings in his nipples, freely on display on his Instagram videos. “Where’s the piercings, Pierced & Possessive?” I pinch them as a warning not to lie.
He shifts uncomfortably, a man caught in a spotlight. “One of us is pierced. The one who thirst traps.”
I freeze at his truth grenade, palms pressed to his chest. The man who broke into my life, my bed, hell, my head, is finally showing a piece of himself, a puzzle made of glass to fit together.
“How many are behind the account?” I pinch his nipple again, harder.
“Three,” he admits, stiffly, reluctantly giving away a secret. “One for the brains. Me for the blood pressure from the unhinged bastard flexing his abs.”
“Ooohhh a harem!” I get carried away with my imagination. Three sets of hands. Three dark men in masks. All grumpy? I’m already writing the plot for my novel.
He turns to cup my face. “No. You’re allmine.”
His claim lands like a hot and unyielding brand, and some reckless part of me thrills at it.
“Hmm. You check off the possessive.” I brush my fingers through his visor steam and draw a love heart, hoping to get a glimpse of the man behind the mask. Damn this reflective polycarbonate for ruining my fantasy!
He huffs out something resembling a laugh, humor and heat behind it. “Possessive looks good on me, huh?”
Exactly the kind of trouble I shouldn’t crave.
“When do I get to see the rest of you to determine how you stack up against the book boyfriend checklist?” I attempt to draw a dick on his visor to represent his Big Dick Energy.
He clamps on my wrist and laughs warmer. “When you’re averygood girl.”
“I have been good!” I protest, stepping back dramatically. “I’m making art for you.”
His visor tips towards me, and I swear he’s smirking beneath it. “Be a good girl and give this to PJ3. He’s eyeing me like he’sready to eat me.” He shifts a stack of sliced chicken breast that he left cooling on the chopping board.
“Take two. You didn’t say it right.” I wag a finger at him.
Another throaty chuckle threatens to ruin me. “Shut the fuck up and feed my canine buddy like a good girl. Was that enough of a dominant growl for you?”
“Yes, sir,” I purr back. “It wet my panties.”
He shakes his head like I exhaust him. It’s fun to push him to his limits.
I grab the dog’s bowl and scoop the food into it with a knife. “Look, Joshie. Grumpy Daddy cooked you chicken. Mmm.” I add the last part in to tempt the fussy little guy and drop his bowl on the feeding mat by the door.
Josh stares up at me, demanding I follow procedure.
I fall to my knees and scratch his back. “Good boy. Eat it all up.”
His head dives into the food and gobbles it up. Yep. My dog has a praise kink. I contemplate making Grumpy Daddy do this and capturing it on camera for giggles. If he lets me film him. Hashtag goals.
