But instead of rolling his eyes and saying he was worried for the male population of Club Folle, Ryder showed up incensed and swept me away before I passed out and somebody took advantage of that.
Last thing I remember is vomiting in the alley. A few patchy moments of rubbing myself all over Ryder like a cat in heat.
Oh, Lordy. I rubbed all over him. I remember that vividly now.
I mean, his arm’s wrapped around me, we’re spooning in his bed, though there’s his chivalry again: he’s sleeping on top of the blankets that my body is practically swaddled in. He can’t mind that I was treating him like my personal dance pole that much, can he?
Wracking my brain, I try to piece together the night. I remember jumping him like a kitten on catnip. I scaled him and scratched my way through his surprisingly silky hair. I remember kisses that weren’t kisses but decadent tastes of each other’s necks, throats, faces. They felt more sexual and intimate than any kind of physicality I’ve ever experienced.
I remember when that bliss faded from my skin, how his hips stilled against mine, his strong hand tightened around my waist. It didn’t go any further than that. I don’t remember, but I know, because I was a puking, twerking, drunk-as-a-skunk mess and Ryder Bergman might be a surly son of a bitch, but he’s also a gentleman.
Three cheers for that. Because let me tell you, last night, I would have kissed him stupid with my vomit breath and happily jammed on that lumberjack’s log if he’d have let me.
An involuntary groan leaves Ryder. It might have something to do with the fact that I’ve been unconsciously shimmying myself, like a little tree-abiding forest creature, against the piece of wood that extends rather prominently from his sweatpants toward me.
That groan brings another part of the night to my memory. His laugh. I made him laugh and it was beautiful.
Ryder’s hand flexes as it meets my waist. One eye cracks open, greeting me with grass green irises and thick lashes. It’s followed by a slow, sexy smile. I’m hopeful it’s here to stay but I’m not counting on it. He’s dazedly half-awake, in that pliant, relaxed place I was a few weeks ago, in my sexy lumberjack-about-to-fell-a-tree dream.
He gropes overhead, never breaking eye contact with me. On a soft sigh through his nose, he swipes open his phone and types, spinning it so I can read the notebook.
You snore.
I smack his shoulder as embarrassment reddens my cheeks. I’m aware of this, but like hell am I admitting it. “Do not.”
He nods, mouthing, Do.
Our eyes hold, and because I’m a self-sabotaging, punishing hothead, I shove down the blankets and lean closer to him. Ryder’s grip never leaves my waist, and the heat of his palm seeps through my dress. His hand flattens on my back and pulls me even closer, making Ryder hiss under his breath when I press my pelvis to his. I watch his jaw clench, his eyes scrunch shut before they open again.
Gently, he uses his arm underneath my neck to pull me until I’m tucked into him. My head is on his shoulder, in a cloud of cedar and spruce nirvana. I stare up at the notepad as he types furiously.
What’s been going on? The past few weeks you’ve been…different. Why were you dressed like that, out at a club?
I glance up at him, brushing my fingers against his now rather bushy beard. How do I explain what I’ve been doing without laying all my cards on the table? Without telling him I know about the hearing aid, and I wanted to get back at him. That I got carried away in my vengeance—we both did—and now I don’t even recognize where we are anymore. I can’t admit any of that, because that would leave me exposed and insanely vulnerable. So, like the big wuss that I am, I change the subject.
“Sleeping next to this thing felt like having a cuddling threesome with a forest creature—”
Ryder sputters. A hoarse cough of a laugh leaves him.
“Not that I’d know! About threesomes, that is…” My cheeks darken. I’m beet red. I stop talking before more nonsense falls out of my mouth. Burrowing deeper in his arms, I hide my face and soak up every tiny noise of amusement that leaves him.
Ryder’s laughter finally fades on a breathy sigh. He uses a thumb to wipe a tear out of the corner of his eye. Then, he types again, arms extending so that the phone is held over my head. It gives me a very exclusive look at all the burly muscles and tendons that make up the lumberjack’s arms.
You don’t like the beard?
I peer up, seeing he doesn’t have the hearing aid on, and tip my face so he can read my lips. “I’m…” Combing my fingers through that soft blond hair, I tease the pad of my pointer along his lips. “Curious. If it tickles. What’s beneath it…”
His eyes grow darker, his breath faster. Unexpectedly, he sets his teeth on either side of my finger and dances his tongue against the tip.
Something like unghh leaves me as I shamelessly rub myself against him. Ryder’s eyes drift shut. And we’re zero to one hundred in three seconds flat. He’s panting, I’m rocking against him, and now my wet finger’s trailing down his throat, down, down the V-neck of his shirt, until I pull it aside and swipe the damp, chilly tip around his nipple.
Somewhere between a groan and a gasp bursts from his mouth, more faint sounds that I soak up hungrily. We lock eyes, sharing a long, unbroken study of each other, jagged, shared bursts of air as we move. His hand slides down my back and cups my butt, easily hiking my leg over his hip.
We pick up right where I’m pretty sure we left off last night, and it’s dizzying. My toes curl. My back arches. I’m so close, I don’t even want to breathe. But then the door bursts open, making me shriek.
Becks stands ten feet away in tighty-whities and it’s burned into my retinas. I’m still shrieking as Ryder spins off the bed, whipping the comforter over me so that I’m covered in one smooth motion. His echoing double clap and a few gestures that clearly don’t mean nice things shoo Becks out. I watch with an unresolved heaviness between my thighs as he strolls out of the room, black sweatpants low on his hips, that white V-neck clinging to every long, defined muscle of his back and arms.
Falling back onto the bed, I huff a desperate sigh. I’m right on the edge, torturously close. One sweep of my finger and I’d tumble. I could come so easily.
But I want so much more than an orgasm at my fingertips, fueled by the sight of a beautiful man. I want Ryder to send me over. For it to happen when it’s more than just two bodies getting off on each other. That’s a problem, that I want to have not just part of Ryder Bergman. I don’t do that. I don’t want more from someone. I don’t set myself up for heartbreak and disappointment. I take what I want, I shield my heart, and I move right along. Ryder seems to operate just as guardedly.
What is wrong me with? I sigh shakily and chock it up to hormones. Lust. Hate-crazed sexual attraction. My hand splays across my belly. I don’t move. I lie still until the torturous pulse between my thighs subsides and I’m thinking straight again. My heart locks tight, the key turns with a click that rings in my ears.
Safe and secure, once more.
While Ryder’s still out in the hallway, ripping Becks a new asshole, I use my finger and Ry’s toothpaste to brush my teeth. Next, I swipe one of his hair ties to pull back my insane hair—seriously, how did he even look at me this morning?—before I realize that this red dress needs to be burned into the shameful annals of hooker dress history.