I’d made it clear to her that I couldn’t tell her exactly what was going on, but at least I knew she would keep Jayme occupied. It bought me precious time. Which was good, because Painter had turned up the radio and left it playing at an obnoxious volume for two hours as he drove through the pitch-black. I was tempted to bait him back in to a conversation. My mind was ripe with clever retorts about the duct tape and his threat to hurt me, the perfect distraction from my worries, but the music was too loud for me to utter a single one of them. Not a thug, my ass. But if I was being honest with myself, I had to admit that I felt bad for goading him on, for mocking him about a lap dance. Even if I had done it to save myself. His skin felt good, pressed against mine. His collarbone under my fingers was sexy as hell. My heartbeat quickened as I thought about placing my fingers anywhere near it. And the heat of his lips over mine had been almost unbearable. My need to say something finally got the better of me.
