Traitor (Last to Leave Book 1)

by Nicole Blanchard

  Scowling at the canvas, I take the proffered paintbrush. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doin’ here.”

  “The first rule of art is there are no rules,” she says, sipping her wine, her head tilted as she studies me. The open neck of her flannel button-up gives flashes of creamy skin. “This is just for fun. I haven’t had fun with my work in so long. I miss it. Just play with me for a while, Ford. You don’t always have to be so serious. It’ll be good for you to let loose. I think you need it.”

  I slop the paint brush in a random pot of red. “I can think of other ways I’d rather let loose and play with you,” I say. Peyton chokes on her wine and I send her a grin, pointing my paint brush at her. “Careful there, young lady.”

  “Focus, Ford.” But she’s laughing so hard she can barely get the words out. “This is supposed to be your masterpiece.”

  “Right,” I say, and turn back to the canvas. I slop some of the red on its surface and angle my head. “My masterpiece.”

  Peyton dips her own brush in a pot of blue and drags it across the canvas much more artfully. She takes another sip of wine and adds more blue, then a hint of black. When she glances over and jerks her head to my own, I turn back and squint at the dripping mass of red. Sighing, I choose colors at random, not even really thinking about the process. The scent of paint and Peyton’s perfume surrounds me until they intertwine. I won’t ever be able to smell paint without thinking of her. Like the fumes, she’s soaking into my skin. Like the paint on my fingertips, she’s staining a part of me and no amount of scrubbing will ever get her out.

  My “art” is little more than a kindergartener’s efforts, but when I take a step back, I recognize the setting of the night we lost Tate. The night that’s so burned into my brain I’d recreated it without thinking. The blue-black shadows of the dunes. The deep maroon splashes of blood. The whites of his eyes. The sprinkle of stars in the infinite night.

  I turn my back on it and find Peyton studying her own creation intently. Downing the rest of my whiskey, I dump the brushes in the cleaning solution and move behind her as she works. Her body moves against mine and I don’t even think she notices until she leans against me, her back to my front and sighs a little.

  My hands go to her hips, pressing her more firmly against me, as I study what looks like a freeform landscape. It’s the lake. That night. The boat, the dock, the water. What had started as a fun little experiment had turned up two terrible moments, for both of us.

  Wanting, needing, to take that terrible moment away for her, I turn her around in my arms and study her face. Her lips tremble as she looks up at me. I reach past her, dip my finger in paint, then keep my eyes on hers as I finger-paint a line over her collarbone.

  She inhales sharply, then shivers from the coolness of the slick paint against her skin. Eyes bright, but not from the wine this time, she shifts, and her hands go to my waistband. Without words, she slides her hands up my abdomen, taking the hem of the Henley along with it. It goes up and over my head, then flutters to the ground somewhere behind me. Peyton dips her fingers in paint, then traces a line down the center of my chest to the top of my jeans.

  “This is the best paint-by-numbers ever,” she says throatily.

  I tug on her button-up and cami, paint smudging the material. “Take these off,” I order.

  The corner of her lips tilt up. She begins to unbutton it, slowly, torturously, then peels it off, leaving her in a skintight pair of jeans, feet bare, with only the thin material of her bra. I sweep her hair over her shoulder leaving streaks of paint in my wake and kiss the sweet curve of her neck. Her arms twine around my shoulders and I can feel the sticky tips of her fingers on my skin.

  I cup her jaw with both hands and take her mouth, needy, greedily, and she meets my efforts with matching enthusiasm. We crash into the wall next to the canvases and she tries to crawl up my body.

  “You feel so good,” she gasps, as I nibble at her throat.

  Her words bring me back to reality. I grasp her arms and push her back, trying to give myself some breathing room. “Wait.”

  She peers up at me, her lips beautifully red, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes trusting and sweet. “What’s wrong?”

  “You’re drunk. I should get you back to your room, let you get some sleep.”

  Peyton blinks once. Twice. “What?”

  “I don’t want to take advantage of you. You’ve been through a lot the past couple days.”

  Her hands come to my chest and she pushes until we switch positions. “If anyone is taking advantage, it’s gonna be me taking you. I’m not fragile, Ford. You aren’t going to break me.”

  Paint-smeared fingers glide down my biceps, then grip my hands and pin them to the wall. “Keep these here,” she says.

  I should stop her. Every rational voice in my head is screaming to stop her, but when she undoes the apron at my waist, then goes for my belt buckle, my mouth goes dry and I forget how to speak.

  She tugs my jeans down as she gets to her knees. I’m not fully hard, but it doesn’t stop her from taking me in her hand. “Fuck,” I gasp as her free hand fondles the heavy weight of my testicles and strokes my cock with the other.

  Remnants of paint streak across my skin, but I couldn’t care less. Her eyes flick up to me, and I have to wonder if she’s using me like a new medium, the artist and the subject. Needing to do something with my hands, I sift them through her hair, tugging on the strands and making her gasp in the back of her throat.

  When she strokes me until precum glistens at the tip, I take my cock in hand, covering hers, and say, “Suck me.”

  Her eyes brighten at the order and she looks at me under her lashes as she scoots forward, suddenly obedient. Lips parted, she holds utterly still as I paint her lips with precum. Her tongue darts out to lick away the liquid, the tip of it flicking against the flushed head of my dick.

  My fingers tighten in her hair. “Tease,” I admonish, and her lips curve in a smile before she wraps them around me, sucking hard.

  I throw my head back against the wall. “Fuck, Peyton.” On a keening whine, she sucks me deep, her tongue lashing against me, and her lips forming a tight seal. Unable to control myself, my hips thrust forward, and her eyes widen in surprise at the invasion, before her throat relaxes and she takes me as deep as she can, her eyes locked on mine until I screw mine shut. Feeling her and seeing her is too much. It’s been so long, and I want to make it last.

  Her hands work in perfect rhythm with her mouth, gliding and tugging until my legs go numb from pleasure.

  On a growl, I take my dick in one hand and bring her to her feet with the other. “Strip,” I tell her as I kick off my boots and tug my pants and underwear the rest of the way off, leaving me naked, my cock jutting out in front of me, her eyes glued to it as I stroke in anticipation.

  She glances around then, spotting the bed covered in another drop cloth, tugs me toward it and I follow, hesitations forgotten. Pausing to turn, she reaches back and undoes the catch to her bra and bares her breasts. Unable to restrain myself, I push her back on the bed, ignoring her yelp of surprise, and catch us both with a hand on the mattress to control our fall.

  As I busy myself tasting and nibbling on her nipples, she fidgets beneath me, alternating between clutching at my head and trying to work her jeans and panties down her legs.

  “Help me,” she demands when it proves to be too much. Her hands go back to my head and she pulls me close. “Don’t stop.”

  I chuckle against her skin. “Well, which is it?”

  “Ford, please,” she moans.

  With one hand, I plump one breast to my lips and lick at my leisure, and with the other, I still her bucking hips long enough to work her jeans down and off one leg. The remains dangle from the other because she locks her thighs around me like she doesn’t ever want me to leave. My cock pressed against the wetness between her legs convinces me there’s no other place I’d rather be.

  She tugs me back up to her mou
th as she makes greedy little noises in the back of her throat. I want to take my time, to get my mouth on her and make her come at least once before I take her, but she doesn’t give me the chance. Her hand steals down between us, then locks around my dick, bringing it to her opening.

  I break the kiss and exhale violently as her legs tighten and the head slips inside, and my vision goes white. “Fuck, wait a second.”

  “I want you inside me,” she says against my ear. “All the way. Please, Ford, I want to feel you.”

  My hips move involuntarily as I slip a little bit deeper with each thrust. “You feel so fuckin’ good.”

  She bares her throat and I lift her thighs with my hands, opening her wide and give her what we both want.

  By the end we’re both streaked in a kaleidoscope of color, and I can’t help but think of the stripes of colors as a brand.

  But not on her.

  On me.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Peyton

  It’s a sad, sad day when you wake up in bed after a night of glorious sex and realize it was a terrible mistake. I slap a hand over my eyes to ward off the blinding sunlight, but not before I get a glimpse of the naked man in bed beside me.

  The incredibly muscular, naked man in bed beside me.

  Seriously, I didn’t know a guy could have so many muscles.

  I brave the sunlight and lose a good ten minutes staring at the plump curve of his ass. Despite the headache pounding behind my eyes and the self-doubt roaring between my ears, I wonder if I shouldn’t rouse him for another round, just for posterity’s sake. Based on the soreness in my own body, and the satisfied throb between my legs, he was entirely worth the inevitable morning-after awkwardness.

  As I’m debating if I should smother myself with the pillow or risk inching out from underneath his grasp, Ford lets out a groan and the arm that’s slung over my waist shifts off, freeing me. Carefully, so as not to wake him, I slip off the side and stumble to my feet. Clothes are scattered haphazardly over the floor. I can only find my flannel button up, so I slip my arms into it and begin to investigate the top floor in search of a bathroom. I seem to remember one at some point, but the memories are hazy. Triple X-rated, but hazy.

  Once I’m in the hallway off the main space, I let out a sigh and say to myself, “What the hell did you get yourself into, Peyton?”

  The open-concept living area where Ford and I had painted the night before leads down to a hallway with several closed doors, including the one I’d escaped, where Ford still snores softly. I peer into each closed door and find rooms in various states of disrepair until finally coming to a bathroom at the end of the hall. I test the water, the toilet, and give a small prayer of thanks that they’re still working like the kitchen sink the night before.

  My reflection stares back at me accusingly in the mirror over the sink the second I flip the switch. I hadn’t meant to let anything like last night happen. I sink onto the toilet and bury my face in my hands. Too much wine. Too much wine and not enough self-control. I don’t know how to face him. Even thinking about it has me shaking. It could be the worn-out muscles in my thighs protesting as I flush and get back to my feet, but the twisting sensation in my belly isn’t a result of the alcoholic overindulgence.

  After washing my hands, I peer down the hallway, but there’s not a peep coming from the bed. Must be quite the heavy sleeper. As I tiptoe past the doorway, I wonder how long I should let him snooze before I corner him for a very adult conversation. Not that I didn’t enjoy our late-night aerobics, but I have no plans on scheduling a repeat. We needed to let lose some steam, that was all.

  I retrieve the rest of my clothes without waking him and decide to take a shower. Hopefully by then, Ford will be awake and as eager to put this night behind us as I am. He certainly doesn’t seem like the commitment type, and we both know I’m only staying in town long enough to figure out what happened to the woman on the lake, and then I’m gone.

  In order to save time, I straighten up all of my supplies while Ford is still asleep and stuff them into grocery store bags I find under the kitchen sink. With my clothes in hand, I silently inch my way toward the bathroom for that shower. I’m halfway down the hall when I hear the telltale sound of the toilet flush a few feet away.

  Damn, the guy is quiet. I didn’t even hear him get out of bed. He’s not a small guy. You’d think he’d give a girl a warning. A squeaky floorboard or something, but no. As I learned last night, he’s got magnificent control of his muscular frame.

  Even though I’m no stranger to the one-night stand, my heart does a little shimmy and my stomach threatens to reject the remains of dinner still sloshing around inside it. After all, the sex was really good. If I had time to have a personal life, he’d be at the top of the list for an around-the-clock lover. He sure has the stamina for it.

  With that in mind, I lean against the wall until the bathroom door opens, and holy shit does he look better in full daylight. I’m into fitness, but this guy practically has abs on his abs, and damn if his shoulders don’t make me want to climb right on him and go for another ride.

  “Mornin’,” Ford says, as he scratches his head. He stifles a yawn, then grins. Warmth stirs in my belly, and I forget the reasons why I should be pushing him toward the nearest exit. “Sorry, had a late night.”

  My own responding smile feels decidedly feline, in spite of my earlier determination to get as far away from him as fast as possible. “Yes, you did.” I consider the way his unbuttoned jeans droop around his hips, decide to hell with it, and then I say, “Want a shower?”

  Ford’s grin darkens, and a hand shoots out, quick as a snake, to capture my waist and jerk me against his hard body. My eyes zero in on the ink on his chest that I didn’t notice the night before. I have an urgent need to trace it with my tongue…along with other parts of his body. It seems one taste of him wasn’t enough.

  One more, I decide. One more and then we’ll forget it all.

  I crowd him, angling us both back to the bathroom, my shirt slipping off my shoulders as we go. His lips find the sensitive skin there, and I flick back the curtain and turn on the water as his hands palm my ass.

  Screw reality, it can wait another hour…or two.

  My body comes alive under his touch in a way that it hasn’t in far too long. I moan against his lips and clutch at the material of his shirt to pull him closer. His body crashes into mine and I fall back against my car. He cages me there, his arms cradling my spine as though to protect it from any discomfort. But it doesn’t matter. I can’t feel anything but the pleasure his touch inspires.

  We made it out of the shower alive, barely, and he insisted he walk me to my car. The second we rounded the corner to the parking lot, he has me trapped.

  “God,” he says against my lips, then continues whispering against my throat, “I can’t get enough of you. I thought I could, last night, but I was wrong. When I saw you this morning, all I could think about was touching you again, tasting you, taking you. You’re driving me crazy, Peyton.”

  “We have to stop,” I whisper back into the ether. The words dissolve into the darkness, almost like I never said them. I’m not sure if I’m afraid they’re real or that I’ve only spoken them in my head.

  “Don’t say that now,” he answers in a strangled voice. His heart thumps wildly under my palms and his tongue darts out to lick his lips, his touch lingering on my body. “If it weren’t for Lexie, I’d drag you back inside and not let you go until tomorrow morning.”

  I strain against him, fears and doubts forgotten, and drag his mouth back to mine. “I have to go,” I say against his lips. “I’ve got to meet Alice figure out my new work schedule.”

  He chuckles and his hand trails down to cup my butt and press me against his hardness. Heat spikes through me and I moan. How is this guy human? “You sure about that?” he asks.

  “Maybe not.”

  Then I get frustrated with talking and strain against him, cupping his face with
both of my hands until the kiss turns needy and violent, all tongues and teeth knocking together, and urgency. I could kiss him forever and very nearly do until he breaks away, taking his hands from where they’ve been kneading my ass and placing them on the car on either side of me. The sound of his low groans fill my ears as we both try to regain control.

  “When can I see you again?” he asks, but he doesn’t touch me. Which is probably for the best. A few seconds more and I would have begged him to take me right there in front of God and everyone.

  “Um,” I say, trying to marshal my thoughts into some semblance of order. “That probably isn’t a good idea.”

  He presses his forehead against my shoulder and dares to skim his hands up and down my back. “Are you fucking kidding me? It’s the best idea I’ve had in years.”

  That steals a laugh from me, and he lifts his head long enough to give me a devastating grin. If my knees weren’t already weak, that smile would have done it. I lift a hand to his cheek and kiss him one last time. All at once, the way he makes me want to sigh in contentment also makes me want to run. The comfort is both seductive and terrifying.

  With a shaky sigh, I say, “This was nice, but you and I both know it isn’t smart for it to become a thing.”

  Hands still caressing my back, he puffs out a sigh. “Yeah, I know. But it was sure fun.”

  “Maybe,” I say, my voice wistful, “Maybe if things were different, but I’ve got a lot going on personally, and I’m not in a place for a relationship. Besides, there’s a lot I still don’t know about you, and if I’m being honest—great sex aside—there’s something about you that sort of scares me.”

  “Fair enough. But you can call me anytime, yeah? Since you’re staying for a while, just because we can’t do the relationship deal doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.”