Exposed (VIP Book 4)

by Kristen Callihan

  Licking his lips, he meets my eyes. “I’m afraid.”

  Understanding flows over me. If he goes, it will be real. He might learn the worst. His entire life revolves around his hands.

  I lean into him and wrap my arms around his waist. He stiffens for a second but then, with a choked sound, ducks his head and rests his cheek against my temple. I hug him close, smoothing my hands up and down his back.

  My lips brush his chest. “You can’t go on like this. It’s tearing you up.”

  “I know,” he says after a moment. He trembles then seems to fight it.

  I kiss him again before stepping back. “Come on. Let’s get you out of those jeans and we’ll relax.”

  Rye narrows his eyes. “Don’t baby me, Bren. I can’t handle your pity.”

  I’m already pulling down his half-open zipper. “I’m not going to baby you. I’m going to wrap your hands in a heating pad, then I’m going to trim that damn scraggly beard. After that, I might sit on that massive dick of yours and ride it for my pleasure, but we’ll have to see if you’re still being a grumpy ass.”

  A reluctant smile lights his eyes and spreads over his face. “Massive, eh?”

  “Enormous, even. The best dick ever.”

  Rye snorts, but he lets me help him out of the wet jeans. “Well, when you put it like that.”

  It’s only when I have him back in my bathroom, one clenched fist wrapped up and warming, that he catches my free hand with his own. “Brenna.” He pauses, his gaze darting over my face with a pained intensity, as though he can’t find the right words. Or maybe he has and doesn’t know if he should utter them.

  Either way, I cup his cheek. Tenderness and a fierce need to protect him turn my voice thick. “I know.” I press a soft kiss to the bridge of his nose. “I know.”

  RYE

  Emotionally drained, I sit on the little bench in Brenna’s bathroom. My hands have been tucked into a pair of heated mitts that she uses for her mani-pedi days to get her skin soft—something I find unduly cute. But they work well. She’s wrapped me back up in a terry cloth robe that’s way too small, gaping at my chest and barely reaching my knees. I’d rather go naked, but she’d primly told me to put my dick away while she’s working because it distracts her.

  Frankly, I could use a good distraction. Brenna scraped me raw in a way only she can, pushing and prodding at my weakness until there’s nowhere to hide. As usual, I lashed out then tried to run. Only this time, she didn’t let me. This time, she put her hand on me, asked me to stay. This time, she showed me something I’d never seen before when we fought: her concern. Her care.

  Despite telling her I don’t need or want her pity, I don’t mind her care. Scratch that. I love her care. She does it so well—efficiently putting all her focus into my comfort in that no-nonsense way of hers that leaves no room for self-pity or doubt. And it works. I relax into her hands, letting her do as she pleases.

  I had no idea how much I needed to be touched without any endgame, to be handled like I matter beyond sex. I’m not fooling myself into believing anything has changed in our arrangement. But it’s enough to have me thinking things I shouldn’t.

  Weirdly, confessing to her doesn’t make me feel worse. It releases something within me, and with it, I feel lighter, as though maybe the world isn’t about to end, that I can face anything as long as she is there to help me pick up the pieces. Part of me wants to run from that, run far and fast. But I don’t. Because I’m not a fool. Being here with her as she fusses over me is worth it.

  I hold still as she rests a hand on my shoulder and leans in to peer at my face.

  “You want me to shave it all off?” she asks. “Or give you a nice trim?”

  Up close, I’m struck by her beauty. Brenna’s features aren’t conventionally pretty. Her beauty is austere, striking. It is the difference between Vivaldi’s “Spring” and “Winter.” The lilting notes of “Spring” lull you into peaceful compliance, whereas the vibrant tempo of “Winter” stirs the blood and reminds you what it means to be alive. That is Brenna: thrilling, lively, vital.

  Her nose is blunt, her face a narrow oval of smooth alabaster skin that glows with good health. Her lips aren’t overly full but are well-shaped and candy pink. But it’s her eyes, the color of fine whisky in firelight, framed by thick auburn lashes that take my breath away. Wide and clear, and I swear they see further into me than anyone else has. Or maybe it’s that I look at them and all rational thought fades. I could spend a lifetime staring into her eyes and it wouldn’t be enough.

  Now they’re crinkling at the corners, the space between them furrowed in concern.

  “Rye?”

  Right. I’m staring. I clear my throat. “What do you prefer?”

  God, she smells good. Fresh from the bath, spicy-sweet like some exotic flower laced with fruit. Stupid, I know. But I can’t describe it any other way. It’s just fucking good. A drug. I draw in more of her scent as she bites the inside of her lower lip and contemplates.

  “You want me to pick?”

  “Well, yeah.” My mouth quirks. “I’m the one going down on you on the regular, so…”

  I freaking love the way she blushes berry red. It rushes up from her neck and washes over her entire face. I know she hates it, so I bite back a smile.

  “You just had to get that out there, didn’t you?” she says, lips twitching.

  I also know she likes to be teased.

  “Honey, if you’d let me, I’d create a full internet ad campaign about that.”

  Brenna’s deft fingers run through my beard, sending shivers along my spine. She huffs out a laugh. “How would it go? ‘My name is Rye Peterson, and I’m intimately familiar with Brenna James’s lady parts’?”

  “Lady parts?” I scoff. “More like, ‘And I’m the lucky bastard who gets to lick, suck, and fuck Brenna James’s delicious peachy pussy.’”

  She’s the color of a raspberry now. “Oh my God.” Another husky laugh. “You’re terrible.”

  Waggling my brows, I grin. “You love it.”

  “You’re also deluded.”

  “Not about this. I bet you’re wet right now.”

  “Not even a little.” A spark of humor lights her eyes, daring me to prove her wrong.

  “Liar. You’re so wet. You need me to make it better.”

  “Rye.” She laughs.

  “Come on, let me see.” I reach for her, but the wires of the heating mitts won’t let me get far, and she gently bats my hands back down to my lap.

  “Behave. I have work to do.”

  I keep my hands where they are, but it doesn’t stop me from nuzzling her neck. She snickers, but then tilts her head ever so slightly to give me more access. I get a lick in before she dodges away, and with a reproving look, opens one of her makeup table drawers.

  “Since you’ve given me a choice, we’re keeping the beard.” Over her shoulder, she shoots me a saucy look. “I like how it feels on my skin when you lick and suck my pussy.”

  I groan long and deep and reach for her again.

  Laughing, she evades me. “None of that.”

  “Evil, Bren. Evil.”

  She pulls out a pink electric shaver. It looks a lot like a beard trimmer. But, you know, pink.

  “Why do you have that?” I ask idly, as she selects an attachment.

  “To trim my lady bits,” she says with sauce. “Now, let’s make that raggedy beard nice and tidy—”

  “Hold up. You’re telling me that’s your pussy trimmer?”

  “Rye! God, you’re crude.”

  “Bren, we’ve established you’re just as crude.”

  “Hardly.”

  “Answer the question.”

  She sets a hand on her hip and glares. “I already told you what it was. And I’m not calling it a pussy trimmer, if that’s what you’re after.”

  “No, no…” My voice is strangled. “I’m just clarifying.”

  Her eyes narrow. “You’re not going to get all weird
about this, are you? I promise, I clean it well after every use.”

  “I’m not going to get weird. I just have a really good visual imagination. And I’m hard as steel right now.”

  Her gaze darts down, and she sucks in a breath. Like I said, the robe she gave me is too small. My dick stands at eager attention, jutting out between the flaps of the terry cloth. Brenna’s gaze turns hazy, and she licks her lips. My horny dick jumps as if trying to flag her down.

  “Put that thing away,” she murmurs, her breathing uneven.

  Something I absolutely love about Brenna? She’s a fiend for my cock. She loves playing with it, sucking it…I’d marry her for that alone. I don’t think she’d appreciate that particular motivating factor. But I do. The memories of all the times she’s toyed with my body surge to the surface, and I get so hot, I swear I’m a little light-headed.

  Grinning wide, I lean back, parting my thighs. Just enough to let the robe slip farther open. “Putting it away is going to be a problem, Berry. It’s too hard.”

  “Rye…” She’s attempting to sound stern, but it doesn’t work, given that she’s still eyeing my hard-on like it’s candy.

  She has no idea how much her lust turns me on. She couldn’t, or she wouldn’t torture me so much with it. Or maybe she would. Brenna loves to tease as much as I do. I nudge my hips, lifting my dick a bit higher, my knee rocking with hypnotic slowness. Taunting her, even though my heart is threatening to pound right out of my chest.

  “You gonna help me out here, Bren?”

  Her lips part, her pink tongue darting out. My cock actually pulses. I swallow a groan. The trimmers hit the counter with a clatter. As though moving through water, Brenna sinks to her knees before me, her clever hand going to the tie of the robe. Cool air hits my hot skin.

  Gaze rapt on my dick, she slides a hand up my thigh and gently strokes my hip. Then her free hand, cool and slim, wraps around my aching flesh. She gives it a tug.

  “God, Rye, just look at you.” Damn if I don’t feel her gaze moving over my body with something close to awe. It trips my heart, makes my mouth dry. She licks her lips, greedy, her voice husky. “You’re so…”

  I don’t get the rest. The wet pull of her mouth is on me a second later, and I’m lost.

  I’m so fucking lost.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Brenna

  “Spend the day with me,” he’d asked.

  Never mind he asked with his mouth between my legs, his newly trimmed beard rubbing oh so gently against my swollen flesh. When I could only answer yes.

  And yes.

  And, oh, fuck, yes.

  I hadn’t thought to ask where, how. It hadn’t mattered.

  So here I am, walking up the steps into the Metropolitan Museum of Art with Rye Peterson at my side. He takes my hand in his. And I don’t pull away. His clasp is gentle, the skin on his palm callused and worn. His beautiful, fragile hand.

  “This wasn’t exactly what I thought you had in mind when you asked me to spend the day with you,” I say as we collect our tickets.

  Rye stops and carefully presses a little sticker that shows we’ve paid for entry onto my silk blouse just below the collar. His fingers trail over my shoulder before dropping away. Wry humor glints in his denim-blue eyes. “You thought we’d stay in bed fucking, didn’t you?”

  A woman glances our way, clearly overhearing, and I step closer to Rye.

  “Hush. This is a tourist spot. People will listen here.”

  His lips quirk. “And you don’t want them to know of our special lovin’?”

  Narrowing my eyes, I poke his firm abs with my finger. “I’m about to give you a special ass kicking, buttercup.”

  He grins outright, and his arm snakes around my waist to pull me up against him. “Kinky, Berry.” His lips brush over mine. “Stop thinking about sex, we’re here to see art.”

  The nerve. “I’m thinking—”

  He cuts me off with another light kiss then tugs me along beside him. “I know what you’re thinking. And you can use my body later. For now, we’re getting our culture on.”

  Torn between grumbling and laughing, I follow him into the Egyptian wing. The museum has just opened, so it’s fairly empty, which is something of a relief. The last time I was here, it was filled with so many people, I nearly lost it. I’m fine with crowds, but I’ve never seen the point of viewing art when you have to vie for even a small peek of it.

  Rye takes my hand again. It’s different, being here with him, as though we’re on a date. Which is…not what we’re supposed to be doing. He was right, I’d expected him to want a day of sex. I’d been prepared for that. I’m not prepared for this, or what doing this even means. But I don’t want to think. I just want to be.

  We take our time, stopping to peer at tiny scarabs or ancient papyrus scrolls mounted on the walls. The few people we pass barely glance our way. It always amazes me how rarely Rye gets recognized in public. Jax and Killian almost instantly get mobbed, but Rye has a way of blending in, which is amazing given that he’s six foot three inches of tightly muscled perfection. I can only conclude it’s the ease with which he moves through the world. The man cuts through space like a hot knife into cold pudding. That smooth flow draws me in and has me relaxing my usually crisp stride.

  “I love this place,” Rye murmurs as we stroll past a massive basalt sarcophagus. “I know it can be packed with tourists, and that’s annoying, but when I was younger and my parents were fighting, I’d come here and get lost for hours. Just soak in the art and breathe.”

  My arm brushes against his as I move closer to him. “I did too.”

  “What? Really?”

  “Yeah. I’d come here on Saturdays. Even filled with people, it was better than being at home.” I shrug. “And…shit, this is going to sound stupid.”

  “I highly doubt that.”

  “It reminded me of staying with Killian.”

  Rye’s brow furrows, and I know I’m doing a terrible job of explaining. Honestly, I don’t even know why I’m telling him this. I hate this particular vulnerability of mine. But I know he won’t judge, and sometimes having someone bear witness to your weaknesses makes them easier to manage. I never truly understood the power of that until Rye broke down and admitted his fears about his hands to me. I thought he might break apart, but he leaned on me instead, as though I gave him strength. And he’d gone light with it. Playful and happy once again.

  I’d given that to him. Just by listening.

  “You’ve seen how Killian’s parents live, right?” I say, easier now. “Beautiful homes filled with light and art. I had a bit of that here.”

  Rye’s expression clears. “I get it.”

  “I loved staying with Killian. And with my aunt and uncle. They treated me like…” A small laugh escapes. “I was going to say family, but I am family, so that isn’t exactly surprising.”

  The blunt tip of Rye’s thumb caresses my knuckles. “They treated you like a daughter.”

  A heavy, familiar weight settles on my chest, but this time, it’s easier to let it go. “Yeah.”

  He doesn’t say anything but leads me into the Sackler Wing, a soaring modern space with its iconic slanted grid window wall overlooking Central Park. Sunlight streams in, and blue sky meets the tree line, now colored with the golds, reds, and oranges of autumn.

  The airy gallery houses the Temple of Dendur, two large Egyptian structures which sit on a limestone floor, surrounded on three sides by a wide reflecting pool. Save for a guard, it’s quiet and empty—a true rarity.

  “It feels as though we’re in a church,” I whisper, a sense of reverence falling over me.

  “I suppose we are, in a way.” Rye’s hand settles on the small of my back as we walk into the larger temple building, flanked by two thick, fluted columns.

  Standing by Rye’s side, I study the hieroglyphs someone carved into the stone over a millennia ago then pause with a jolt. “1821? Someone carved graffiti.”

 
Rye leans in, his eyes narrowing. “Son of a bitch, they did. It’s all over the place. I can’t believe I never noticed it before.”

  “Maybe because it’s usually crammed with people breathing down your neck in here?”

  He huffs out a laugh. “Probably. Damn, look at that. One of them was from New York. Dude must have thought he’d left a piece of himself in Egypt for all time. Now it’s here.” Rye shrugs. “He’ll live on in infamy, that’s for sure. I guess that’s one way to be immortal.”

  “How does it feel? Knowing that you’re going to live on like that too?”

  His brow wings up as he turns my way. “In infamy?”

  “Rye.” I nudge him with a laugh. “No. You. Your music. It’s going to live on far after you do.”

  He steps into my space, running his fingers along my waist as though he can’t help himself. His voice lowers to a husky rumble. “I don’t know. Sometimes, I think about it, and I feel…empty.”

  “Empty?” My hands slide over his chest to cup the back of his neck.

  He leans into the touch, ducking his head so his cheek brushes mine. “Yeah. Empty. It will hit me that someone might listen to my music when I’m dead and gone, and I feel so fucking empty. Because I know my life will be over, and I wonder if I will ever…” He trails off, swallowing hard.

  My fingers toy with the short, silky strands of his hair. “Ever what?”

  A gust of breath tickles my neck. “Ever fill it with something more than just music.”

  We’re holding on to each other. Hugging. I’m not even sure how that happened or if I should step away. I close my eyes and sink into it instead. The steady beat of his heart thumps against my chest. His big hand slides along my spine, stroking me.

  I could stay like this forever, but I can’t ignore what he said. I lean back to meet his gaze. His is troubled. Setting my hand on his cheek, I speak with quiet conviction. “You’re more than just your music, Ryland. You always were.”

  A small jolt goes through him, and his nostrils flare on an indrawn breath. The way he looks at me, with wide, pained eyes, has my heart skittering. Those blue eyes fill with something else, something deep and tender. His hand slips under my hair to my neck. “Bren. What you do to me…”