Page 97 of Painted Scars
He shoves my knee. “You’re lucky I like you.”
Warmth curls in my chest at the quiet truth behind his joke. I imagine this is our life—games, laughter, teasing, praise kink,Celine Dion ballads, and not a single Roman breathing down our necks.
“How much?” It comes out before I can stop it.
He lifts off me and pulls me onto his lap. “Enough to kill for you and reward you with touch her and die trope.” He lifts his helmet high enough to lightly kiss and suck my neck.
I crush him to me and fumble for a reply. “I’m awarding you an honorary degree in Romanceology for all that study.”
He spanks my backside. “About time.”
“Board games are over, Glitter Bomb.” He climbs off the floor with me in his arms. “The games upstairs commence.”
My fight with him being in my home and life is lost. I’m not just letting him stay, I’m making room for him in my life.
CHAPTER 27 - KATE
No rest for the wicked. Back to Order research it is after two months of bringing the book merch business up to speed.
Grumpy Daddy picks me up at the ungodly hour of 7AM. It’s minus thirty, my eyelids are half-glued shut, and I’m struggling to find my sunshine amid all the clouds. He gets bonus points for the string of filthy texts last night that has my brain simmering and keeping my body going. And because we’re off for a weekend away in Shadow Lake’s namesake, and he better bring the lake house ravaging or I’m asking for a refund on my semi-moral stalker.
“Get your ass over here, Glitter Bomb,” he calls from his bike, the devil in riding gear, patting his thigh and tempting me into disgrace.
I followed his instructions and rugged up in cold-weather clothing. I burrow deeper into my puffy winter coat, trying to banish the icy wind gnawing at my neck. The thought of a three-plus-hour trip on the back of a motorcycle is enough to make me want to crawl back into bed and send him a strongly worded breakup text, followed by several heart, eggplant, and fire emojis.
I groan and step forward, focusing on the only incentive—snuggling up against his warm, solid back, my own personal shield.
Daddy swings off his bike, hooks his fingers in my bag strap, and lifts it effortlessly from my shoulder. “Someone’s grumpy this morning.”
Oh, the irony of the professional grump calling me out.
“I haven’t had my tea yet,” I mutter, watching his perfect ass flex under his pants as he straps my belongings to the luggage rack on the back of his bike.
My period is due early next week, and PMS is the one time of the month I’m licensed to breathe fire and glare at anyone who dares speak to me before I’ve had caffeine. Basically, channel my best Harper. My body knows it’s coming. Sore boobs, my uterus quietly sharpening knives in the background, and chocolate cravings.
He doesn’t know that yet. We haven’t hadthetalk. I don’t know how to broach the subject of mood swings, bloating, and primal urges to stab someone for the last chocolate truffle. That may scare him away. For now, he can keep thinking I’m a sunshine gremlin.
I run my hand along the planes of his bike, enjoying the contraction of his muscles under the tight Kevlar-lined jacket.
“Bring tea and sausage muffins for breakfast missions with my girl,” he teases. “No glitter without breakfast. Them’s the rules.”
My girl.
Weeks ago, he told me he was in. No more dancing around it. It warmed parts of me that I let go cold. The same parts that glow softly now.
Daddy pulls me in for a hug, wrapping me in his heat and scent. “How about we get some on the way?”
“You regain one Lachlan Kane point for that.” I rest my forehead against his strong chest.
He tilts his head so I can see my reflection in his visor. “You’re breathing fire if I only get one point.”
Condensation puffs out of my mouth when I laugh.
He hands me the spare helmet and straps it snug under my chin with careful fingers. It’s these practical and protective gestures that undo me more than dirty talk or sex ever can.
I jump onto the bike with him, locking my knees around his hips. He gives me a thumbs up, which in biker code, means good. He peels away from the curb, and the roar of his engine wakes the sleepy suburb if it’s not already awake. Wind claws at my neck and hands and circles my exposed back. I cling tighter to Daddy when heat radiates off his body, soaking into my front.
First stop, breakfast. By the time we satisfy my blood sugar levels and caffeinate me, I’m less murdery, and smiling more.
