Solitude (Artistic Pricks Ink #3) by Cat Mason

Author:Cat Mason [Mason, Cat]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B015MFTTD6
Publisher: Cat Mason Books
Published: 2015-11-09T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Shelby

What the hell just happened?

I am surrounded by crazy people! Men: I’ll never fucking understand them…

A million thoughts and emotions race through my mind, making it impossible to think straight. Throwing my shoes to the floor, I stomp past Luke without giving him a second glace. Flipping every switch by the door, I fling open the screen the moment the lights kick on, illuminating the entire backyard. “Hold it right there, asshole!” I shout the minute my bare feet hit the dirt.

“Not doin’ this with you right now,” he replies not turning around.

“I’m tired, barefoot, and pissed off! I refuse to chase you twice in one day!”

“Never asked you to.” Mitch stops dead, just shy of reaching the tree line. Turning around, he takes a step toward me. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“Do what?” I ask, throwing up my arms and taking a few steps of my own. “Have a conversation? Not explode and run away from everything that is uncomfortable for you?”

“My entire life is uncomfortable,” he laughs, shaking his head.

“Well, welcome to reality, sweetheart. Life is a ride. Just because we don’t get a nice padded seat doesn’t give you an excuse to jump off the bike.”

“I’m still on the goddamn bike.” Closing the distance between us, he yanks me into his chest. His eyes blaze, making my heart beat faster. The heat of his fingers burn into my skin as he grips the back of my neck. His thumb brushes over my pulse point. My lips part, I am frozen again, unable to do anything other than wait on his next move. “I’m strapped in, headed straight for the wall, and there’s no escaping the crash. For either of us.”

His lips crush mine possessively. Catching my bottom lips between his teeth, he growls low in his throat. My stomach flips, every nerve ending on body greedily anticipates his touch. Gripping his biceps, I dig my nails in, hanging on to him as if my life depended on it. Turning us, Mitch presses my back to a tree, our bodies fitting together like some fucked up puzzle. Sliding his hand down my body, he tugs at the hem of my dress before urging my leg around his hip.

His body rocks into mine, igniting flames that burn through my blood stream like a match to gasoline. He does this to me. With every touch, Mitch starts a fire that only he can put out.

“We should stop,” I mumble against his lips, but my protest lacks conviction. “I’m mad at you.”

Everything about this is wrong. We should be talking about what happened the other night or what I walked in on in the kitchen just seconds ago. I know that, but I can’t think rationally when he is touching me. The moment he gets too close, I forget what I should be saying. Those little messages your conscience sends to your brain to stop you from doing stupid shit short circuit and never get processed.

Honestly, my conscience is probably sitting there with popcorn and a beer enjoying the show.

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