Free Torched: Afterburn (Iron Serpents Motorcycle Club Book 2) by Shay Mara

but not Liv-level cool. She was more of a guy’s girl who could handle her booze and didn’t mind getting dirty. She also didn’t come with the dumb fucking drama he hated.
    He bolted out from behind the van and circled around the shed, hoping to catch her from the other side. But seeing a ladder propped up against the wall, he got a better idea. He kicked off his boots, climbed up, and got on his knees. Trying not to make any noise, he crawled to the other end and looked down over the edge. He spotted her pressed up against the building with her head poking around the corner.
    Busted.
    Rising to his feet, he wondered just how bad his next move was going to hurt before doing it anyway. He jumped off the roof and landed a few yards behind her. Pain shot through his knees, but he managed to stay upright. Christ, either the booze was screwing with his senses or eight feet was a hell of a lot higher than he remembered.
    “Better get those hands up, darlin’,” he ordered, pointing his rifle at her back. “And don’t make any quick moves or I’ll have you covered in paint and we both know how much you hate losing.”
    She tossed her gun to the ground, raised her hands, and looked back over her shoulder. “You know I heard you coming, right? Hope you didn’t sprain a hip or something.”
    “You didn’t hear shit, I’m onto your head tricks,” he snapped. “Turn around.”
    She did as she was told and turned around with a big ass grin on her face. “Whatever makes you feel better… So, what’s your plan? A hostage situation?
    What the fuck was his plan again? He couldn’t remember, which probably had something to do with the fact that her shirt was unzipped down to her belly button. And she wasn’t wearing a bra. Shit, she’d totally fucking heard him.
    But goddamn, those tits. If the fabric would just spread open another inch on each side, her perky little nipples would be his tongue’s for the taking.
    Nope . He wasn’t getting distracted. He’d win this fucking round.
    “You tell me, baby,” he drawled. “Should I have mercy on you?”
    She laughed. “You don’t have a plan, do you?”
    “Fuck you, I know exactly what I’m doing,” he insisted, his eyes involuntarily drifting back down to her chest.
    Target fixation, that’s what this was. In motorcycle terms, it meant running into shit you were trying to avoid by staring at it. Look at where you wanna go, not at what’s in your way , Buddha would drill into his skull every day when Torch got his first bike.
    But it wasn’t a curb or a tree he was fixated on in this scenario.
    “You know what I love about playing paintball?” Liv asked.
    Did he? Probably not, the woman obviously had something up her sleeve. “What’s that?”
    Still grinning like she already had him by the nuts, she reached into her pocket for something he couldn’t see. She then spread her shirt open all the way and held a balled-up hand under her chin. “The paint balls . When you keep them close to your body, they get warm and easy to”—she squeezed—“pop.” Purple paint seeped out from between her fingers and oozed down over her tits.
    “Jesus Christ,” he groaned. He couldn’t move, he could barely breathe. He just stood there like a horny fucking deer in headlights and watched.
    Slowly strolling toward him, she pulled out another handful and did it again. Talk about fixating, he couldn’t peel his eyes away from what looked like a cascade of colorful cum dripping down her soft skin.
    His dick was hard, his willpower… not so much.
    Every time.
    Every. Fucking. Time.
    What was it about bitches pouring shit all over themselves? It didn’t matter whether it was water, baby oil, or apparently paint, there was something mesmerizing about any kind of liquid trickling down the peaks and valleys of a great pair of tits. And Christ, hers were spectacular.
    He grabbed her around the waist and growled. “You had this planned, didn’t you?”
    She cozied up to his