And he knows it.
And he’s using it to his advantage.
Sure, my tits are lethal, but they are no match for his tongue. Not even close.
“Too bad you can’t have any,” he says as he drags his tongue along the chocolate now.
“Yeah, a shame,” I answer.
He sucks on the pudding now, making a slurping sound that makes my nipples hard. I imagine it’s my clit he’s sucking on, my nipples he’s pinching between his fingers, and not that stupid pastry.
“Your face is flush. Anything bothering you?” he asks with a smirk.
I stare at him, my irritation ramping up. “You’re an ass.”
“I wasn’t the one who started this. You were.” He dips his fingers in his mouth where he sucks on them, making a pop noise when he drags them past his lips.
“Yeah . . . well . . .” My eyes fall to the éclair, then back up at him.
His eyes track mine.
I glance down again as he stands tall, realization hitting him.
“Don’t you dare,” he says right before I swipe an éclair off the cooling rack and bolt toward my room, squealing the whole time.
“Myla!” he shouts as he chases after me.
What a sight I’m sure we are. Me topless, sprinting for the shelter of my room, his apron flapping in the breeze as his ass hangs out the back, chasing after me, his powerful thighs closing the space between us.
“Ahhhhh,” I scream as I’m feet away from my room, so close, yet I’m snagged around the waist by one powerful arm and pulled back into a strong, apron-covered chest.
“Drop the éclair.”
“Never,” I proclaim before I attempt to stuff it in my mouth. A large palm covers my face before I have a chance, and instead, I shove the éclair right into the back of his hand.
“Damn you,” I mutter against his palm.
I drop the rest of the éclair to the floor and attempt to twist out of his grip as his arm skims the underside of my breasts.
“Let go of me, you buffoon.”
“How the hell am I a buffoon?” he asks as he moves me up against the wall so my chest is pressing against the cold surface. “You’re the one trying to steal pastries.”
“Because you made them on purpose just to be spiteful.”
He presses his large body against mine and leans his head forward as he speaks directly into my ear. “And what you did yesterday wasn’t spiteful?”
“That was setting ground rules. A common occurrence when having to share a dwelling with another human being.”
“What about removing your top? That’s not evening the playing field because I wasn’t wearing pants.”
“Who bakes with their ass out? That’s just unhygienic.”
“Why don’t you let me worry about me, and you worry about . . . you,” he says as his thumb grazes the side of my breast.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” I say.
“Don’t what?” he asks, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
“You realize how dysfunctional this is, right? You constantly attempting to turn me on?”
“Please, babe, I know you’re turned on. You were turned on the moment you saw my ass.”
Facts.
“Tell me, did it remind you of the time you had me on all fours on the couch, and you fucked me with a vibrator while sucking my cock?”
No, but it does now.
“Or the time you licked my taint for the first time?”
A spike of heat shoots up my spine.
“Or when you were in the pool that one time, and I was getting out, only for you to stop me so you could suck me off from behind?”
Yeah, that’s a core memory as well.
Clearing my throat, I answer, “Not quite. It reminds me of the time you were drunk in our backyard, tripped over a lounge chair, and face-planted in the grass, looking like a damn ostrich with his ass out.” Between you and me, it was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. Those meat cakes up in the air, his balls hanging out for me to see. The vibrator-sucking-his-cock night was fantasized by that moment.
“You’re such a liar.” He drags one hand across my stomach as his other hand glides along my side boob.
“I told you, don’t,” I say right before I spin around and come face to face with him. There’s his tempting, seductive eyes, the feel of his hardening cock pressing against me, and those lips that I know can do the most euphoric damage to my body.
“Why do you hate me?” he asks, his voice sounding like it’s full of gravel.
“Hate is a strong word.”
“You don’t love me,” he says. “If you loved me, you’d be willing to give me another chance.”
“I did give you another chance.” I place my hands on his chest, ready to push him away. “I gave you three chances actually, but you just didn’t listen.”
“I listen to you, Myla.”
“Do you?” I ask him with a tilt of my head. “Okay, so tell me, what classes have I been taking lately?”
His brow furrows. “Classes?” he asks. “You didn’t tell me about any classes.”
“Yes, I did,” I say. “I told you about them when you took me out to that fancy seafood restaurant in Malibu. Your response was, ‘do what makes you happy, babe,’ and then you turned back to your emails.” Hands still on his chest, I push him away and move toward my bedroom again.
“Myla, wait, I don’t . . . I don’t remember that.”
“That’s because you haven’t been present since you hung up your cleats,” I answer. My throat tightens, and before he can see me cry, I walk into my bedroom and shut the door behind me.
I have no idea where Nichole is. She probably met a guy at a coffee house, so I pull one of Ryot’s Bobbies T-shirts from the basket of clothes I folded for him, slip it over my head, and then bury myself in my pillow where I cry.
I cry in frustration.
I cry in anger.
I cry because even though Ryot is the man I’ve always dreamed of, somewhere along the way, he lost himself and became the man I’ve always dreaded.
Careless.
Absent.
Indifferent.
But the worst part is when I see small glimpses of the man I fell in love with. Little windows into the past Ryot when he calls me babe, when he’s playful with me, and when he’s vulnerable like just now. Those moments remind me of the man who took his time to woo me into one single date.
But he’s no longer that man.
He’s crude, cunning, and power-hungry. And I don’t like it.
After what feels like an hour of crying into my pillow, I lift as my door opens, praying it’s not Ryot coming to talk. I hold my breath, but thankfully, it’s just Nichole. She’s holding a plate of éclairs with a Post-it note stuck to the top.
I wipe at my eyes. “What’s that?” I ask.
“It was by the door,” she says. “I’m assuming it’s from your roommate upstairs.”
She hands me the plate, and I pluck the Post-it note off the top. In pen, all it says is, “I’m sorry.”
Shaking my head, I toss the note to the ground, place the éclairs on the nightstand, then lie back down on my pillow.