He puts his forearm against the wall at the side of my head and picks up my hair, running it through his fingers. “That painting,” he says.
It’s like a glass of cold water has tipped over my head at the reminder. My instinct is to push him away, but Rebel anticipates it in a way I never would have expected. He kisses me.
Not a rough claiming or clashing of tongue and teeth. He really kisses me. The kind of kiss that feels like it’s not only your mouth being taken, but your whole body.
I never knew he was capable of these slow, teasing strokes of his tongue. Nothing else touching, just our mouths. My entire body shivers into it, relaxing in a way that feels both foreign and familiar at the same time.
Of course, it wouldn’t be a kiss from Rebel if he didn’t bite my bottom lip. Not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to sting and make my back arch and moan into his mouth.
“Fuck,” he groans and lowers his forehead to my shoulder.
Resisting the urge to smell his hair is hard, but I somehow manage. My hands have found their way to his waist, more in a way of anchoring me than anything else.
“What are you doing?” I ask the completely obvious question.
“Raven didn’t understand, but I did. I saw your face when you looked at that painting,” he lifts his head so our faces are only inches apart.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I lift my chin, it was in challenge, but I know what’s coming.
“It represents your parents.”
It’s not a question. I’m stunned he even figured it out. Not many people do, which is down to no one at UCLA knowing my history.
Moving away from the security of the family who took me in, a lot of memories of my parents reared their heads. A desire to find out if she is still alive overtook me, and I drew endless portraits of her, or how I remembered her.
Uncle Joe listened to my wishes when I asked him to remove all reminders of them. To this day, I haven’t seen a photograph of her.
Not that I need to. Uncle Joe confirmed that when he saw me. A lot of those paintings were like self-portraits. Most of them are lost now. Either destroyed by me or left in some storage room at the university, unclaimed and unwanted.
That entire period in my life was part of the reason I bonded with Eloise. She understood my pain when she saw my work. Obviously, that was all bullshit and part of her sick games of wanting to know everything about me, so she could stalk me and ultimately try to hurt me.
“Kinsley.”
His voice breaks through the fog of memories, and I blink his face back into focus. He doesn’t say anything else, he holds my eyes and my body captive.
A door slamming behind us has him break our stare. He shifts his body to keep me hidden from whoever it is. They pass by but don’t speak. As soon as they’re gone, he takes my hand and leads me to a door with a keypad.
I’m not numb to the onslaught of memories, but I am allowing him to lead me.
We go through the clubhouse, some men look up as we head for the main door. We’re moving too fast for anyone to say anything, I don’t think Rebel would acknowledge them if they did.
I’m grateful that it’s these strangers watching and not Raven. I don’t want her to think she has done anything wrong. This is all on me.
The icy wind slaps me when we get outside. Great, looks like another storm is building. That means I’ll be putting the mural on hold again. When we reach his bike, Rebel takes out a helmet and steps up to me.
“Have you ridden before?”
It took a lot for him to ask that question, but I will not shy away or hide my past. He already knows I’ve been around another MC before. And I know what it means to have a woman ride on the back of your bike.
“Once.”
“So you know what to do,” he clips out.
I take the helmet and smirk, finding some amusement in the situation. I hold it at my thigh.
“It was with one of my friends from college. He rode because it’s easier than driving a car in LA.”
He doesn’t try very hard not to hide that made him happy, but he’s Rebel so…
