I don’t know what to say except, “I know.”
Brenna
“I know,” he says to me. He knows. Does he? I’m not sure I know. I can’t think properly. His hard cock is halfway inside me. It feels so good, so present, that I clench around him.
Rye grits his teeth. Sweat has broken out over his skin—all that smooth, rippling inked skin. Good glory, but he’s magnificent without clothes on. Built like a tank but with long, graceful lines. I wanted to lick him all over and stroke him like a big cat for hours. But his cock is even better. Thick, straight, and ruddy with arousal. I made that cock weep for me. I’d felt its meaty girth on my tongue, at the back of my throat.
I might have lingered and made him come, sucked him down, but I felt so empty, I needed more.
“Baby,” he says now, voice dancing the line between pleading and demanding. He needs more too.
It’s almost too much, this connection. Sex is supposed to be fun, a release. Instead, I’m aching, so hot I can’t breathe properly. He’s spreading me wide, invading, making himself well and truly known. There’s no ignoring a cock like his, or that it’s him. It’s primal and inescapable. That I’m experiencing this with Rye does funny things to my head, makes the room around me blur. All I can feel is him. He’s all I can see.
My head lolls to the side as I sway, working myself on his dick. Rye groans deep, his jaw clenching. Nostrils flaring, he puts his big hands on my thighs and thrusts, sliding home.
“Oh, shit,” I rasp, filled. Utterly filled.
For a moment we stare at each other, our breaths ragged, him in me, me on him. My lids lower, a warm, buttery sensation fluttering deep in my belly. Then, as if we’d planned it, we begin to move. And it’s…
It isn’t supposed to be like this the first time. We’re supposed to be fumbling along, learning what the other likes by trial and error. He’s not supposed to be fucking up into me at the perfect angle, each thrust hitting that pleasure spot so few ever find. We’ve barely started and already I’m at the edge, my body pulsing.
The worst thing is, it’s not solely how he moves; it’s his scent—crisp apples, heady pheromone. It’s the rough, greedy sounds he makes. It’s his body—wide, sturdy shoulders, narrow hips, abs bunching—as he clutches the folds of my skirt with white-knuckled fists. Everything works for me; a perfect storm.
We’ve been moving as one but not letting our eyes meet. I’m afraid of what he might see if I do. Of what I might see. Triumph? Happiness? Lust? Or maybe nothing. I’d been a coward refusing to take my clothes off, insisting on taking control when I want to relinquish it. The truth should cool the moment, but it doesn’t. Whatever has happened between us over the years doesn’t erase the fact that this man turns my body on like no other.
He hits that spot again and pleasure punches through me so acute, so good, I whimper, my fingers digging into the rock-hard caps of his shoulders.
Rye lifts his head, and his gaze sears me. His hips work faster, harder, our skin slapping together in a quick rhythm. It’s too much. My head is spinning, my body liquid heat. I’m too hot. I hate that clothes are still on my body, keeping my skin from his. But I’m unwilling to let go. Not yet. I work myself on him, grinding my hips against his.
Rye’s lips part. “Fuck. Oh, fuck.”
He’s close. I can feel it in the urgency of his thrusts, in the way his breathing turns into light pants. He’s refraining from touching me. Because I told him I wanted to use his body without interference. Because I put that distance between us. But he’s looking at me with a plea in his eyes. He doesn’t want distance. He’s pulled taut as an over-tuned string.
My breath leaves in a rush. “Rye. Please.”
Permission.
His nostrils flare. His big, rough hand slides up my sweat-slicked thigh, his thumb finding my soaking clit, and then strums it. He plays my pussy with the effortless authority of the world-class bass player that he is. And all that twisted, hot need, all the pressure building up within me fractures.
My orgasm has edges, cutting in its pleasure. With a cry, I slump against him. “Rye.” My body jolts as another surge hits me. “Take over. Please.”
With a strangled groan, he flips me onto my back. Thickly muscled arms bracket my shoulders as he kisses me with something like desperation. Or maybe it’s me. I’m the one clinging to him, opening my mouth wider to taste more of him. Our kiss turns messy, and his lips slide to my neck, his breath coming in hot bursts. But then he lifts his head and looks down at my top.
“Off,” he rasps. “I need this off.”
“Yes.” I lift my arms, arch my back. I’m burning up. “Please. Please.”
He strips my top off with brisk efficiency but then pauses to stare. “Oh, hell,” he says thickly. “You’re beautiful. So much more than I ever…Shit, Bren.”
I like my breasts. I don’t need anyone to build me up. But the way he looks at me, his throat working as he swallows, like he needs a moment to soak me in, has my breath hitching. His big hand shakes as it glides up my side to engulf me in its rough-hewn warmth. Lightly, he trails the backs of his fingers over my nipples, playing with both of them as if he can’t help himself. A tender smile lifts his lips.
“Sweet little cupcakes,” he whispers, then ducks down to draw one swollen, tight nipple into his mouth. I groan at the sensation, arching up, and he sucks me deeper, tongue flickering as his other hand trails down my hip, getting caught up in the fabric of my skirt before finding the length of my thigh.
With strong, clever fingers, he massages me, running his hand down my leg to my calf.
“These legs,” he growls against my skin. “These gorgeous legs. Dreamed about these legs…”
His voice trails off on a groan before he hooks my knee over his shoulder. Spread wide for him. Rye gives my nipple one more sweet tug, then he starts to move again. Hard, forceful thrusts. Owning me.
Every weighty impact sets off sparks of heat and pleasure. Frantic, I circle my hips, lift up to meet his thrusts, my hands grabbing at his slippery shoulders, desperate for purchase. I need more. Harder. Deeper. More.
I’m not aware I’m saying it until he groans “fuck, yes” against my lips. He’s driving me into the bed, his hips snapping with relentless precision. And it’s so good. Too much. We’re no longer Brenna and Rye. There is only this pleasure, so big and full, I have to push into it until it takes me.
But he’s there, taking control, holding me down just like I need him to.
“Bren.” He’s begging, needing to know I’m pleased before he can find his release.
“Take it,” I pant. “Take it now.”
He complies, hand grasping my ass to gain purchase, that powerful body working for what it wants. We get a little messy, a little mean about it. My teeth sink into the meaty curve where his shoulder meets his neck, and he groans, curling himself over me as he breaks apart in my arms.
There is nothing—nothing—hotter than the sight of Rye Peterson coming. All those times being utterly turned on while watching him sweat on stage, thick muscles straining, lips parted as he throws his head back and loses himself to the music—they were just a prelude to this. Here, in this moment, he is beautiful, vulnerable, his body shuddering on a wordless cry.
It sets me off. My orgasm isn’t wild or mindless. It is relief, sweet and pure. It feels so good, so needed, a tear trickles from the corner of my eye.
With a grunt, Rye sags into me, his chest heaving. We’re so close, I feel his heart thudding against my breasts, each deep breath of air he draws in. Trembling fingers trace my brow, his parted lips touching my cheek. He’s too spent to kiss me; he simply breathes.
Weakly, I wait for the room to stop spinning. My heart is beating too fast. My heart. I don’t want to think about it or the way my hands keep straying to his broad back, needing to stroke his flushed skin. He’s holding me close, tucked against him, like I’m something precious. I’ve never been held this way. And I know at this moment it’s wh
at I’ve been truly craving.
Connection.
With Rye.
My chest hitches. Suddenly his comforting weight is too much, the air in the room too close. I want to push him off, get some space.
I don’t know if he feels me squirm or it occurs to him that we’re clinging to each other like survivors of a storm, but his body tenses and he moves away. His gaze slides over my shoulder before pushing back to meet mine. He gives me a smile. That stupid, “I don’t give a fuck about anything” smile that he fobs off on the world. Easygoing Rye is back.
“You want to use the bathroom first?” he asks. So casual. A sham, but, as much as I hate this old facade, I’m also grateful for it. I need an out, and I need it now.
“Sure.” I’m utterly naked except for the ridiculous skirt crumpled around my waist. Somehow that makes me feel even more exposed. My movements are stiff and ungainly as I stumble out of bed and into the bathroom.
As soon as I close the door, I lean against it and draw a deep breath. Tears threaten, and I bite back a bitter laugh. My fears have come to fruition. He touched me, and I melted. I fell apart, and he put me back together. Only now, I’m a needy, fragile version of myself.
I want to regret making myself vulnerable. I do. My logical brain does, anyway. My body is screaming for more. It’s demanding I get back out there and climb Rye’s strong body like a jungle gym.
With shaking hands, I wash off as best I can. I’m not about to take a shower now. I have to get rid of Rye first. Thankfully, my robe is in the bathroom. I slip into its thick, silk-lined protection and tie it tight.
Rye sits at the edge of the bed, the sheets pulled over his lap. The sight of his big, strong body, colorful with ink along his upper chest and arms, makes my knees a little weak. The feel of him still pulses along my skin. I have a suspicion it will remain long after I shower.
He looks up, his denim eyes uncertain and strained at the corners. “I don’t know if I should stay or go. We never discussed how many…” He trails off with an audible swallow.
How many times we would fuck each other dizzy.
My body wants that again. It wants to take off this suffocating robe and crawl right back into his arms. It’s fairly humming for his touch. This is what I told him I wanted. Not just a quick hookup but something deeper.
Connection.
Be careful of what you wish for, Bren.
Rye gives me no clue what he’d prefer. He’s gone quiet, his body language placid. For all I know, he’s dying to bolt. I wouldn’t blame him one bit. And since I’d rather die than ask him to stay when he wants to go, I say the only thing I can.
“You wore me out.” True. And also, not even a little.
A slow smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “That blow you away, Berry?”
He says it just the same way he did when we were kids after a concert, all confident swagger and drawling arrogance. But there’s a glint of nostalgia in his eyes, a flicker of dry humor like he knows I need something to lighten the moment. And it’s irresistible.
A bubble of true laughter leaves me.
“Yeah, Ryland,” I say with a grin. “That blew me the fuck away.”
“Fuck yeah, it did.” His smile grows, and I can’t help but return it. We grin at each other like robbers after a successful heist. But I don’t move. And neither does he.
Shit. I don’t know what to do here, which is a first for me. Normally, I know immediately if I want a lover to stay or go. But this is Rye. He has a knack for twisting me up and making me want what I shouldn’t.
Rye solves the problem by standing. The sheet slips free, and he’s…God. It’s unfair how good he looks naked. He holds my gaze, his big dick swaying between his thickly muscled thighs as he walks toward me. My breath grows short as he draws near.
He smells of sex and heat and promise. The pulse at the base of his neck visibly beats, but he simply leans down and gives me a soft kiss before pulling away. “I’ll head out in a minute, okay?”
It’s definitely a question. I can object if I want to.
I can’t meet his eyes. “Okay.”
His only reaction is to brush another kiss over my forehead before heading into the bathroom.
It isn’t the most awkward post-sex exchange I’ve had. But it’s the most uncomfortable. Because a voice inside me is screaming that I’ve made a huge mistake.
Chapter Twelve
Rye
I am changed. I feel it in my bones, in the way the world around me suddenly looks different. Edges are sharper, colors are deeper, smells are stronger. I am aware of the way my body moves through the air, of every ache and twinge gained from losing myself in her. Everything is different.
In the words of “Amazing Grace”: “I once was lost, but now am found. Was blind, but now I see.”
Yes, I’ve taken to quoting hymns in my head. That’s what Brenna has done to me. It’s terrifying. But I’m strangely happy about being terrified.
In short, I’m one messed-up dude.
Laughing, I head for Madison Square Park, where I’m meeting Scottie and Jax at Shake Shack. If they notice my mood, they don’t say a word while we wait in line. True, Scottie keeps giving me disapproving looks, but Scottie’s go-to expression is disapproving, so I don’t think twice about it.
I’m setting my strawberry shake down on the table just at the edge of the park area when Scottie launches his attack.
“You’ve gone and slept with Brenna, haven’t you?”
Pink shake flies over my arm and shirt as my hand reflexively squeezes tight and destroys the cup. “Shit!”
Blandly, Scottie hands me a pack of wet wipes he keeps in his briefcase.
I grab them and mop up the mess before tossing my empty shake cup into the trash. “You did that on purpose.”
One, imperious brow lifts. “Made you mess yourself? If only I had such power.”
Grunting, I sit on an empty chair. “I’m not ruling it out. And quit talking shit. Someone might hear and think you’re serious.” Thankfully, the park is fairly empty today. Even so, I have to shut this line of conversation down. Fast.
Unfortunately, Scottie just stares with that gimlet eye he’s perfected over the years. “You’re evading. It won’t work. Did you have to screw Brenna?”
Anger swarms in my gut and tightens my muscles. He makes what Brenna and I did last night sound cheap, sordid. As it is, I’m having a tough time ignoring how we parted. She’d clearly wanted me out before the sweat we’d worked up had even dried. It hurt, but I didn’t say a word to make her even more uncomfortable. There was no point. Either she wanted me there, or she didn’t. It was her choice. Not mine.
I can only hope that she’ll eventually want me for more. Scottie’s reproachful expression drives home that everyone appears to be hoping for the opposite.
“Enough.” I glance at the line where I know Jax is waiting for his shake. I don’t see him, which means he could be lurking anywhere. “Do not say another word.”
“I’m not going to tell Jax.”
“Tell me what?” Jax asks, popping out of nowhere like Houdini and making me jump. “That Rye and Brenna are bumping uglies?”
I glare at Scottie. “Seriously?”
The man nearly rolls his eyes. “Don’t look at me. I didn’t tell him. I prefer to keep all your secrets to myself. Much easier to manipulate you sods that way.”
Jax frowns. “That’s creepy, Scottie.” He turns to me as he takes a seat. “He didn’t tell. Give me a little credit. I can read you guys like a headline. It was obvious you two are doing the bump and grind. The Humpty Dance. Netflix and chillin’. Etcetera, etcetera.”
“You sound like an Urban Dictionary page,” I mutter.
“Fine. You are fucking. Is that better?” He grins wide.
“No. And we’re not having this conversation.”
“Yes, we are,” Scottie interjects. “Because it’s galactically stupid what you’re doing.”
“Oh, well
if it’s galactically…” I roll my eyes and steal Jax’s shake. Chocolate. Good but no strawberry, damn it. “Listen, you two are imagining things. Brenna and I are not bumping uglies.”
“Yes, you are.” Jax takes his shake back. “It’s completely obvious. Every time she blushes and ignores you, every time you grind your jaw and ignore her, you just make it more so.”
“We always ignore each other.”
“Not like this. You two fairly hum with sexual tension.”
“God help me,” I plead to the sky. “Seriously, if you get me out of this nightmare, I’ll be a good boy from now on.”
Jax snorts. “No god would accept that bargain, Ryland. Best you ask the guy downstairs.”
I flip him the finger. Even though he’s probably right.
“Jax’s poetic phrasing aside,” Scottie says. “It’s clear something is going on between you two.”
“Plus,” Jax says. “And this is just a suggestion. If you don’t want anyone to know, you probably shouldn’t suck face in the kitchen during family dinner night.”
Blood drains from my head and rushes to my toes. “Shit. You saw that?”
“That horror is burned on my brain now, thank you very much. Hell, I should get an Oscar for backing out and pretending I saw nothing.”
I scrub my hands over my face, the urge to jump up and run riding high. But they’d only hunt me down later. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” I lower my hands and glare around the table. “She will kill me if she knows we’ve even talked about this. Do you get that?”
Scottie makes a sound of affirmation. Jax, however, squirms like he’s just realized this. Dumbass.
“More to the point,” I go on. “She’ll be horrified and humiliated.” The truth chafes. But I don’t blame her. This conversation is horrifying me too much as it is.
Then something else occurs to me, and I go ice-cold. “Shit, does anyone else know?” Whip knows, of course. But he’s nice enough not to say the words out loud, which kind of makes it still a secret. The others, though… “Does Killian know?”
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