I shift in my seat, adjusting my throbbing dick. “From the waist up, you’d be all smiles and jokes. But down below, I’d be running my finger over your damp panties, rubbing that swollen little clit.”
I’m a dirty fucking bastard because I love the idea of doing that where anyone could catch us.
“Shit,” she whispers, as though she loves the idea too.
I close my eyes, swallowing hard. “I’d get that sweet button all plump and needy. And when you started to squirm…” A grunt breaks free. “That would be bad, Bren. I’d have to give your naughty clit a pinch.”
She whimpers, and I nearly jerk in my seat. I want to reach into my jeans and stroke my cock so bad, I have to clutch my knee to concentrate. “But I’d make it better, honey. I’d slip under those panties where you’re all slick and slippery. I’d stroke you nice and slow.”
“Rye…” It’s a breathy request. I feel it down my spine, in my balls.
“They’d think you weren’t looking my way because you hated me. That you were gritting your teeth because I pissed you off yet again.” Sweat trickles down my spine. “They’d never know I was playing with your sweet pussy.”
Brenna gasps. My abs clench tight.
From outside the room comes a burst of laughter. It pulls me back to the present, where the guys are just a glass wall away. I have to end this before I come in my damn pants.
I exhale in a hard rush. “Fuck, Berry. I’m all worked up here.”
“Your fault,” she croaks with a half-pained laugh.
“You asked for a fantasy. I gave you one.” I smile then, but it hurts. Everything hurts now, a sweet, hot ache that leaves me weak. “I have hundreds of them.”
“I don’t think I can handle more right now,” she says wryly.
My smile grows. “Then tell me one thing you want, and I’ll let you go.”
For now.
She waits a beat, and I’m almost convinced she’ll tell me no. But then she draws in a breath. “Okay. Okay…I tell people what to do all day long. Every day.”
“You’re saying you want to order me around in bed?” I’d be down with that. Frankly, I’m pretty sure I’d be down with anything she suggests.
“No,” she says tightly. “You’re not getting it. I don’t want to be in charge. I want to be taken care of, let someone else take the lead.”
A pulse goes through me, and I have to hold very still as an electric tingle sizzles over my skin. I hadn’t expected this. Not from Brenna. But she’s right; she’s always in charge, bossy, even. I imagined her the same in bed. The idea that she’d let me…
“You want me to take you in hand.”
It isn’t a question. More a statement of awe.
A gurgle sounds, and I picture her blushing raspberry red, the color clashing with her auburn hair. Why did we have this conversation on the phone? I want to be in front of her, watching the emotions playing over her face.
“To be clear,” she says in a near squeak, “I’m not into bondage or role-play.”
“Eh, that gets boring too.”
Another gurgle. But when she speaks, it’s back to her crisp, no-nonsense tone. “I’m not talking about some dominant-submissive thing. I just don’t want to lead. Or give instruction.”
“You want me to take you in hand,” I repeat in a low voice.
Another pause.
“Yes,” she whispers, shy and rattled.
She’s never shy or rattled. An unexpected feeling of protectiveness hits me. Now I’m glad I’m not in front of her, because I’d probably try to hug her, and Brenna would hate that. Instead, I keep my tone gentle but without any hint of tenderness that might make her more uncomfortable.
“I’ll take good care of you, Berry.”
It will be my extreme pleasure.
“Okay.” It’s barely a whisper, yet it licks my skin with searing heat.
Two more days.
I might not make it.
Chapter Nine
Brenna
Things to consider before agreeing to have sex with your once frenemy: remember that you offered to host the weekly dinner for him and all your friends—your extremely astute and nosey friends. Friends who will know in a heartbeat that there’s something going on between Rye and me if I show any outward emotion.
How I’m supposed to get through it without losing it, I still don’t know.
Also? I hate cooking. Which is why we’re having takeout.
“And how is Kenny on this fine evening?” Killian asks as he snags a container of pork dumplings.
Kenny mans the phone for my favorite Korean barbecue place. Given that I order from his fine establishment every week, we know each other well.
I grab a few short ribs, licking the sweet-spicy sauce off my fingers. “I’m expecting a proposal of marriage any day now. Spoiler alert: I shall accept.”
Jax laughs and swipes a chicken wing out from under Whip’s fingers. “Marry the chef, Bren. That’s the most direct route to the food.”
“Maybe I will.” I accept the beer Scottie hands me. “I’ve always had a fantasy about marrying a chef. Good food for life. And our family dinners will become legend.”
Scottie takes the bottle from my hand and pours the beer into a glass with a reproachful look, as though drinking from a bottle is a crime. “As much as I love this takeout, I think I speak for all of us when I say I approve of your plan.”
“Or go for a pastry chef,” Sophie puts in, waving a rib around for emphasis. “Oh, that would be nice. Do it, Bren. Marry someone who will bake us cakes.”
“And bring me brioche in bed,” I add with a dreamy sigh.
Rye grunts. He’s got his eye on his food, but his broad shoulders are stiff. “Would never work.”
So far, I’ve been able to avoid looking his way. No one will think anything of us ignoring each other. We usually do. Unless we’re taking a swipe at each other. I didn’t think he’d take a shot at me now.
“Oh? And why is that?”
He shrugs, swallowing a drink from his own beer bottle—he’d swatted away Scottie’s efforts to get him a glass earlier. “Chefs save their cooking for the restaurant. Get them at home and they just want to shove whatever they can in their mouths and then sleep.”
His gaze flicks up and collides with mine. I feel it like a physical punch of heat. “You really think this hypothetical chef husband of yours will want to come off a shift and cook for all of us? I doubt it.”
“Rye isn’t wrong.” Stella’s red-gold curls bounce with a nod as she scoops a mound of kimchi. “The chefs I knew were like that.” She glances up and realizes that Rye and I are glaring at each other. “Of course, there are always exceptions.”
“You’re making it sound like I’d only get married to the guy to use him for his cooking,” I say to Rye.
He blinks, his expression placid. And annoying. “Isn’t that what you just implied?”
My back teeth meet with a click. “Do you honestly think we’re being serious here?”
“Sure you weren’t.” He snorts with a smile. “I can practically see the croissants dancing in your eyes.”
I eye a slice of eomuk on my plate. It would make such a nice juicy thwap hitting Rye’s forehead. “It’s called hyperbole, Rye. Maybe try it sometime.”
“Hyperbole, huh?” He rubs his chin like he’s trying to figure out what the word means, when I know perfectly well that he already does. An evil gleam lights his eyes. “You mean like, this barbecue sauce is so good, I want to lick it off—”
“All right,” Scottie cuts in. “If I have to hear your sex fantasies, Rye, I’m liable to lose my dinner. And that is not hyperbole.”
Rye chuckles and reaches for the carton of dumplings. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’m done.”
The guys start arguing over how far-reaching Kraftwerk’s influence was on modern sound, and I zone out, stewing in my annoyance. Rye is his usual cocky and easygoing self. Laughing in that boisterous way that has the corners
of his eyes crinkling and those little half-moon dimples forming on his cheeks.
Under the table, my hand fists the loose folds of my skirt. I feel duped. Yes, we’d agreed to keep this…arrangement a secret, but I hadn’t expected him to still antagonize me. It reminds me of all the times he made me feel like a fool. Worse, I feel vulnerable. After years of working to protect myself, the sensation twists in my stomach.
I suck in a breath and push back from the table. Rye’s laugh falters, and he glances my way, the motion so quick, I’d have missed it if I weren’t hyperaware of him. Damn it. I don’t want this awareness, this weakness.
“You okay, Bren?” Libby asks at my side.
“Of course,” I say with forced lightness. “Just getting some more beers for the table. Anyone want anything else to drink?”
I’m waved off. They’ve moved on to whether Off the Wall or Thriller was Michael Jackson’s greatest album.
“You’re completely wrong,” Rye practically shouts at Whip, his arms animated in his fervor. “Thriller is too slick and commercial. It was produced with hits in mind. Off the Wall was pure Michael. He got to truly play with his sound for the first time.”
Whip snorts long and loud. “I can’t believe you, who’s endlessly fiddling with sound, are dinging an album for being too perfectly produced.”
I walk out of the dining room before I’m subjected to any more. Someday, I’d love to go a week without hearing a word or note of music.
Once I’m in the hall, I sigh with relief. Unlike some of the open-concept apartments my friends live in, my condo is prewar with classically separated rooms. I actually love that feature because it means I can escape into my kitchen and rest against the counter for a quiet moment without everyone seeing me. I take a few calming breaths, determined not to think about Rye anymore.
That’s when he walks in.
He stands inside the kitchen, his big body filling the doorway, his blue eyes narrowed on me. My frazzled nerves jump and twitch, and I clench the side of the marble countertop to steady myself.
“What’s wrong?” His deep voice stays low so no one will hear us.
A laugh rasps my throat, but I don’t find this funny. “Are you serious now, Mr. Hyperbole?”
With a quick glance toward the dining room, he moves farther into the kitchen, his gait stiff and halting like he’s trying to restrain himself. I take a breath as he comes within touching distance. He makes a furtive motion, reaching for me but stopping short with a growl of frustration.
“That upset you?” He sounds truly surprised and a little distressed.
I want to push him away. And I want to arch my back so the tips of my breasts are that much closer to the hard expanse of his chest. Shit. I’m so messed up. I hold perfectly still. “Was that really necessary?” I hiss. “Arguing with me about something utterly ridiculous yet again?”
“Of course it was necessary,” he hisses back, clearly wanting to raise his voice but trying not to. “I have to act the way I always do with you. Because otherwise they’ll see.” He flings his arm in the direction of the dining room, color rising over his cheeks. “They’ll all know how much I want you. That I’m fucking aching to touch you.”
My breath leaves in a whoosh, and his comes out in a pant.
“They’ll see right through me,” he whispers hotly. “I couldn’t let them know that, Bren. Not if we want to keep us a secret.”
“There is no us.”
His eyes flash. “Bullshit.”
We’re both breathing too hard, sparks snapping and flying between us. It heats my blood. My nipples draw tight and tender. Rye’s attention flicks to them. He lets out a harsh breath, and I draw one in.
I don’t know who moves first. I don’t care. He’s stepping up to me, and I’m rising to my toes, my hands clutching his big shoulders to hold on. His mouth is hot, desperate, and oh, so good. Rye cups my cheeks as he angles my head to kiss me deeper. The soft stubble of his beard tickles the sensitive edges of my lips and sends licks of pleasure up the backs of my knees, between my shaking thighs.
I slide my tongue over his, and he whimpers. The helpless, needy sound goes straight to my core. It lights me up, and I arch my back, pressing into the warm wall of his firm chest.
With a grunt, he grabs my ass and hauls me onto the countertop. His mouth never leaves mine as he shoves my thighs apart and steps in between them. Instantly, I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, needing his warmth, his strength.
“Fuck,” he rasps against my mouth. “You taste so good.”
I’m not ashamed to admit I mewl in agreement. My hands are in his hair, gripping the short strands. We’re eating at each other’s mouths. It’s messy, frantic. I don’t want it to end.
Hot palms slip under my skirt and slide up my thighs. I shiver, and his mouth descends to a sweet spot on my neck. “Need to feel you, Bren. Just once.”
The tips of his fingers dance along the edge of my panties. I spread my legs wider, tilt my hips up to give him more room. A tremor goes through Rye at my compliance. It turns into a moan when he slides a finger under the silk and touches my swollen sex.
I jolt against that questing finger. My head is floating away, my belly clenching with delicious heat. I’m on the edge of coming and he’s barely touched me. His breath is hot and fast against my neck as he explores me with steady strokes. Weakly, I rest my cheek on his wide shoulder, unable to do anything other than feel.
Dimly, I hear our friends laughing in the other room, the rise and fall of conversation. That I’m hidden away with Rye, his hand in my panties, his mouth sucking my neck, heightens everything. This lust has sharp edges, a painful bite that makes me quake.
He pushes his thick, long finger into me. Deep. Demanding. Perfect. I stifle my scream against the damp hollow of his neck as the orgasm rolls and shudders through me, not ending but building, rising all over again.
“Fuck, yes,” he whispers, fucking me with his finger. He knows exactly how to do it, how I like it—a little rough, a little hard, but oh, so thorough. The muscles in his forearm shift and flex with every thrust and pull. “Give it to me, Bren.”
Panting, I fist his shirt and strain against him. It’s too good. I’m liquid lust now, melting for him.
“You’re beautiful.” His voice has gone rough yet soft. “So fucking beautiful.”
I break with a jolt and a whimper. He stays with me, holding me close as I let out a sigh. Weak and spent, I lean against him in a boneless heap. Sweat slicks my skin. My heart thuds hard against my ribs. A fine shaking takes hold of my limbs, and I can only cling to Rye and wait for the world to stop spinning.
He places a tender kiss on the crook of my neck—the final note of his perfect solo. My eyes flutter closed.
“Oy!” Jax shouts from somewhere in the apartment. “Did you get lost in that kitchen, Bren?”
The sound of his voice zaps through Rye and me like an electric shock.
“Shit.” I shove Rye away, the fear of getting caught giving me strength, then call out to Jax. “I’m coming!”
That earns me a strangled but weak laugh from Rye. I almost laugh at the irony too, but I’m busy pushing down my skirt. Rye fumbles back a step then runs his hands through his hair. He looks wrecked. With his hair now standing on end, he also looks a bit wild.
We stare at each other in shock. I expected pleasure from Rye. But not this. Not to utterly lose my mind the second he touched me. I let him finger-fuck me to orgasm in my kitchen. Rye Peterson had his hand in my panties and his tongue in my mouth. It’s utterly bizarre. And yet it felt so very right. I wonder if he’s as dazed and confused as I am.
Rye swallows hard. “Your ponytail is falling out.”
With shaking hands, I fix my hair. “You’re all mussed up too.”
We avoid each other’s gaze as we tidy ourselves.
“You go out first,” he says, his voice still rough and cracked.
“Why?” I hop down from the counter.
My legs wobble like rubber.
He huffs out a half laugh and gestures to the fat bulge behind his jeans. “I need a moment.”
Heat swarms my cheeks, but it’s not from embarrassment. I want to free that cock and stroke it. Give him the same pleasure he gave me. From the dark look in his eyes, I’m guessing he reads my expression well.
“Go,” he says unsteadily. “Before I forget why hiding this is a good idea.”
Damn it, he’s right. I hurry to the fridge and grab a few beers. I’m almost out of the kitchen when his voice stops me. “Tonight, Brenna.”
Glancing back, I find him watching me with hot eyes. This big, beautiful man who has the power to both rock my world and destroy my peace of mind.
“Tonight,” he says again. “I’m yours.”
For the first time in my life, not only am I tempted to run toward my ruin, I’m anticipating it.
Chapter Ten
Rye
Hell is a dinner party that never ends. I’m convinced my friends are lingering to fuck with me. I nearly ping a chicken bone at Killian when he pulls out a couple of bottles of wine he brought along and opens one. I don’t give a flying pig fuck about his Cabernet Rothschild or whatever the hell it’s called.
Scottie, on the other hand, is in raptures. And now everyone has to have a glass.
Killian frowns when I wave him off. “You don’t want any?”
Considering I’m about ten seconds away from tossing the bottle out the window? “No.”
“But it’s a 1982 Château Mouton Rothschild,” Stella says. “It’s one of the best vintages in the world…Oh, my God, I just said that, didn’t I?” She covers her mouth, her blue eyes wide with shock.
Jax laughs, slinging an arm around her shoulders to cuddle her close. Lucky bastard. Able to touch his woman whenever he wants. “What’s with the horror, Button?”
Her nose wrinkles, but she leans into him with happy ease. “I’ve gone from getting excited about affording a six-pack at the corner mart to gushing over wine that costs, what?”
“About a thousand dollars,” Killian says with a wag of his brow. “Are you more horrified now?”
Exposed (VIP Book 4) Page 10