Ryder’s eyes don’t leave mine as he tips the bottle back and takes a long drink. It’s the sexiest thing a man’s ever done in front of me.
I take his hand, and pull him with me, toward the sofa. With his crazy wingspan, he snatches the peanut butter cups and brings them, too. He sets down the goodies as I drop onto the sofa, then Ryder straightens, eyes on me, unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves and slowly rolling them up. It’s hardly a striptease but it’s turned my nipples to drill bits beneath my hoodie. My panties are soaked. The urge to get naked is overwhelming.
With one long step past me, Ryder falls onto the corner of the sofa. Toeing off his boots, he spreads his legs and pats his chest.
My eyes are not that high up on his anatomy. I’ve never seen Ryder sit like that, and now I know that not only does he tuck it right, but Ryder is packing a flipping tailpipe in his pants.
A throat clear interrupts me. It’s deep and gravelly. Goose bumps scatter on my skin and send an involuntary jolt through my limbs. When I finally peel my eyes up, Ryder lifts one eyebrow. He looks like he’s working very hard not to laugh at me.
“There are so many puns I could make about your log jammer, Lumberjack, but you brought me booze and peanut butter cups, so I’m going to take the high road.”
He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. Thank you, he signs.
I crawl in between the space of his legs and lay my back to his front. The peanut butter cups land with a thwack on my lap, as Ryder brings the whiskey in his large hand to balance on one knee. With a sigh, I let my head fall against his chest. It’s like sinking into a hot bath, that moment of bliss when the water’s just high enough, the temperature just right. I take the whiskey from him, throw back another swig, then set it in his grip once more. Ryder corks it, one-handed. A long, slow exhale leaves him, and when I glance up, he’s staring down at me.
Good? he signs.
I nod. “So good. I need more frenemies if this is how they roll.”
That makes his head tip back with a faint chuckle. Watching him, I slide my palm along his thigh. His breath hitches.
Emotion hits me square in the chest. It feels like the time my bike clipped the gutter and hurtled me over the handlebars. I’m breathless. Dazed. I feel that high of relief after a near-death experience, as I sit in his arms. Letting Ryder touch me, comfort me, I’m not terrified my heart’s going to break because of it.
What is this?
Eyes still on me, Ryder pulls out his phone. A moment later, my pocket buzzes.
You should be proud, Sunshine. You were perfect out there.
I stare down at it, then back up to Ryder as I swallow more tears. “Thank you.”
Ryder’s fingers drift up my arm until they rest at the base of my throat. His hands are ballplayer big. He could crush my windpipe in a heartbeat if he wanted. He could snap my neck without even breaking a sweat. I’m vulnerable, curled up against his body. With my despairing, distrustful attitude of men, I should be freaking out.
But as his thumb whispers over my windpipe, as it traces the hollow of my throat, I know with complete certainty I have never been safer than I am with Ryder Bergman.
He shifts and lowers his head, until our foreheads touch. The whiskey bottle drops with a liquid clunk on the sofa, freeing both hands to roam my body, up to my cheeks.
Our eyes hold and I refuse to blink. I search Ryder’s gaze as his thumbs stroke my cheeks, as his legs tighten around me. My body turns, so I can slide my hand along his torso and earn his stuttered breath. Over his pecs, traveling his throat, my fingers test the soft, thick hair of his beard. It tickled last time like I expected it would. What I hadn’t expected was to like it so much.
Now, I’m prepared.
Ryder’s mouth lowers to mine, a hair’s breadth away. I know what he’s doing. He’s waiting for me. He’s going to let me make the first move. Just like I made him last time.
Fair and square.
I slip my fingers through his silky hair, curling around the nape of his neck, and pull him to me. Those soft lips that I wish I could see, I feel, taste, and bite.
Our kiss is languid—a bookstore word for luxuriously slow, decadently savored. It’s torture of the best variety. Ryder’s groan fills my mouth, the clearest sound besides his laugh that he’s ever given me. His fingers tighten in my curls, as I lean into him. His mouth opens, his tongue finding mine with soft, teasing strokes. I fist his hair and tug him closer. His hands tip my head, controlling the kiss, and I’m at the mercy of his touch, as his tongue spears my mouth. I hear the gasps that leave me, the pleading noises I’m making.
I make to turn fully, with every plan of straddling his lap, ripping open his buckle and taking this home, but Ryder stops my movements and pins me against him. One solid arm spans my collarbones as he leans over me, his kisses softening, the gradual taper of a windstorm to a gentle breeze.
I reach for his neck again in demand for more. I’m hungry for his kisses. I’m greedy. I want him, and I don’t care if it makes everything weird tomorrow. Ryder resists my first tug, but I pull him stubbornly toward me. Giving in, he drags me closer as our kiss deepens. One arm anchored across my chest, Ryder drifts his free hand down my ribs, over my stomach. It’s a gentling, comforting gesture, but I want so much more. I wrap my hand over his and guide it downward.
His eyes meet mine as I slip his hand beneath my shirt and whimper. I tell him so he knows.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
Ryder’s eyes darken. His fingers drift lazily along the waistband of my sweats. Teasingly slow, they slip beneath the elastic, right over my panties. My thighs clench involuntarily, but Ryder grasps my leg, pulling it wide. My stance is splayed, my thigh stretched over him, pinned between his powerful body and the couch. It leaves me thrown open, motionless, as his fingers graze my panties. I’m despicably wet and Ryder groans when he feels the effect of his touch.
Breath bursts from my lungs, double-time gasps as one calloused finger rubs along damp fabric and finds my clit, then lower, everywhere that I’m aching and empty, begging for more.
“Hmm.” It’s the faintest noise that rumbles in his throat, but it turns me molten hot.
Ryder’s touch is measured, exploratory. He watches me, what makes me shiver, what makes my breath stick in my throat before it rushes out and I’m saying it again.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
I kiss him as his touch drifts to the edge of my panties until warm skin finally meets warm skin. Both of our mouths fall open, as one long finger, then two, curl inside me, and his thumb swipes across my clit. Gentle, teasing flicks.
I can’t believe it’s happening. I mean, in some dim corner of my mind, my brain’s saying Duh, Willa. You dry-humped through bedsheets and nearly came like a train. He more or less told you he knew what it took to make you come. What did you expect?
I’ve never orgasmed with a man before. And now I believe Ryder. It wasn’t me. It was them. Other guys did it wrong. They were wrong. They weren’t Ryder, so used to reading me for each tic and vulnerability, that observing my every move is second nature to him. They didn’t tease me as if time was something they had no regard for, as if their pleasure was the last thing they were focused on. They didn’t pause and wait for the slightest shift of my hips so I could chase that feeling, so I could climb and climb and—