by Amelia Wilde
I could die.
16
Ryder
I don’t know that I’ve been so torn in my life as I am at the moment Valentine opens the door and stands right there in shorts that are just long enough to qualify as decent and just short enough to make me want to tear them right off of her...and a black bra that looks like a sex wizard whipped it up out of some kind of special lace that makes me hard. Instantly.
Or maybe it’s the way it wraps under her gorgeous breasts, lifting them just so.
I think it might be one of those sexy approaches to dating that isn’t really dating until the moment I realize that Valentine doesn’t know she’s forgotten her shirt. And that moment is when she opens the door and steps toward me, all ready to head out to whatever shitty restaurant we’ll agree on in the car. If Lakewood even has restaurants, beyond the Short Stack. It must. Right?
But food is the last thing on my mind. Valentine looks fucking gorgeous. Her hair is shining, loose around her face, falling in liquid waves over her shoulders, and she’s done whatever makeup tricks women do that make her look like a sexy nighttime version of herself.
I almost fucking blow it.
I see her catching on, see her feeling the breeze against her skin while I’m trying to hint to her that she maybe forgot her shirt and, fuck, I wouldn’t mind if she just stripped off the rest of those clothes, too. Then, because I’m an idiot, and I’m a little struck by how good she looks right in this moment, in the summer evening sunlight, I spell it out for her.
Valentine’s face goes a rosy scarlet color and my cock twitches against the fabric of my boxers. I want her right now and damn the consequences. Damn the fact that I don’t have time to fall for a woman like Valentine. Damn the fact that I’m sure that if I take her, she’ll always have a hold on me.
She looks up at me, biting her lip.
I expect her to turn around, go back through the door, and shut it tightly behind her. I brace myself to coax her out of there because this is embarrassing as fuck and both of us know it. Something inside me twists. I don’t want to spend time convincing anyone to do anything. I’m out without Minnie for the first time in months, about to spend time with Valentine Carr, who looks like she walked out of my latest fantasies, and I don’t want to waste a moment of it—
“I don’t need a moment.”
“You don’t what?” The sight of her erases everything from my mind except the gentle line of her curves, and the way she’d look if she turned around and—
“I don’t need a moment to myself.” Well, I’ll be damned. Valentine cracks a smile that makes me believe she’s not totally mortified. Almost. “You can come in with me.”
“Oh, I don’t want to—” I raise my hands in front of me. To go inside Valentine’s cottage would be a colossal fucking mistake. I can’t afford to be distracted by her, behind solid walls, away from prying eyes, where we could—
“You’re not intruding,” she says, and grabs my hand, turning determinedly back into the house and tugging me along with her. “I’m inviting you.”
“That’s brave. What if I’m some kind of serial killer?”
We’ve stepped over the threshold, the storm door swinging shut behind us. Valentine drops my hand, but not before she gives it the faintest squeeze like she almost can’t bear to let go. She crosses her arms over her chest and rolls her eyes. “A serial killer who takes cupcakes to his daughter’s daycare? I don’t think so.”
I laugh. She can’t stop herself from falling all over me. It’s been a long time since I felt like this, and right then, something switches gears at my fucking core.
I can have whatever I want with Valentine. I’m leaving at the end of the summer anyway, and I want her. I want her so badly that I’m not going to let Angie ruin this for me. Not even the specter of Angie. Not a chance.
And Valentine is radiating heat. She hasn’t made a single move toward her bedroom, or wherever the mysteriously missing shirt is. She just stands in the living area we’ve stepped into, head held high, chin up.
“Sorry,” I say, finally. “What were we talking about?”
“You were just telling me how you’re definitely not a serial killer.”
“Yes. Yep. Not a serial killer.”
She cocks her head to the side. “Is something on your mind?” The confidence in her face flickers. “You know, we don’t have to do this if you have other plans. I know you have...” She pauses, searching for the words. “I know you have a lot to take care of.”
I take a step toward her, closing the distance between us. “Valentine.”
She sucks in a breath. “Yeah?”
“There is no way on earth I could be thinking of anything but you. You’re standing here in nothing but a bra and shorts, and you look so fucking gorgeous that it’s making me crazy.”
It’s Valentine who throws her arms around my neck, crashing into me so hard that our teeth click together. “Oh, fuck.” She starts to pull away. “I can’t believe that I—”
“It’s like this.” I pull her wrists gently behind my neck and slide one hand down the side of her waist. Her skin is so soft that I could do this for days, but I don’t have that kind of time. I do have time to press her up against the wall, right next to the little table with her purse on it, and raise my other hand to touch her face.
She gives a little sigh when I wrap my hand around her jawline and tilt her face up toward mine, lowering my head to bring our lips together without another collision.
Holy fuck, she tastes good. Sweet and minty, like her toothpaste, but there’s another taste there that’s all her. Valentine’s lips part to let my tongue into her mouth and she moans into mine, just a little, just a tiny bit out of control.
I kiss her like I’ve never kissed anyone.
It’s a long time before we come up for air.
But when we do, she pushes me back, gasping, cheeks pink, eyes shining.
“Was that okay?”
“Okay?” She practically screeches the word and then claps her hand over her mouth. “That was unbelievable. I…” Valentine shakes her head. “I have no words.”
Is this happening right now? Are we about to go back to her bedroom so I can have my way with her?
But before I can open my mouth, she continues. “I have no words, except...” Then her expression turns sincere. “That I’m hungry.”
“Hungry?”
“Starving.”
I step close and whisper the words into her ear. “For love?”
She turns her head and whispers back. “For tacos.” Then she whirls away, heading for what I assume is her bedroom. “Let’s do that first, and then we can talk about love.”
17
Valentine
Kissing Ryder is like being right in the center of a two-person fireworks show that begins somewhere in my chest and explodes out all the way to my fingertips. He is not an amateur. No. Not in the least. The sure, almost rough way he kisses me, pressing me back against the wall, the wood cool on my skin, has me soaked. There are no two ways about it.
My entire body aches to brace against him, my arms on his hard shoulders, and throw my legs around his waist. But there’s a warning in the back of my mind that just won’t let me do it. It’s all happening so fast, and the heat between us is so intense, that it takes my breath away. He’s dangerous, Ryder—he’s not a safe bet. And I want that. I want that so much, that risky pleasure.
But I’m still wounded, and you know what they say about staying out of the kitchen.
When we come up for air I want to dive right back under, but instead, I throw my guard up, just a little bit.
Tacos.
Somehow I manage to string together several words relating to tacos and then sashay away from him toward my bedroom. All of me is trembling. I don’t look back, but I think he must be watching me go.
He is watching me go, and there’s a taut moment of silence.
Then he laughs.
It’s not a cr
uel laugh like Conrad’s. It’s hot and surprised, astonished even, and there’s a delight in the sound that I wasn’t expecting at all. I’m melting into a puddle of sheer desire, but to submerge myself right now wouldn’t be...it wouldn’t be...
I move through the door to my bedroom, snatch up the halter top from the bedspread, and put it on while Ryder is still laughing. “I get it, I get it,” he calls, his voice moving down the hallway. “You want a real date.”
I poke my head back out the door. “Just because I didn’t have a shirt on doesn’t mean I’m a loose woman.” Not that I care what people do. Sex on the first date? With Ryder, it might be a foregone conclusion. Just not sex within the first hour of the first date.
“I never thought you were.” His grin is so wicked that I almost cover my face with my hands so that he can’t see how much it turns me on. “So, where’s this Mexican place?”
“It’s a little bit of a drive,” I admit. Lakewood doesn’t technically have a Mexican restaurant. You have to drive to the next town over to get something other than the homegrown American menus that are all over Main Street. There’s a certain charm to independent restaurants, but that’s not what I want right now.
“That’s terrible,” Ryder says as I make my way back down the hall, picking up my purse again. “Having to sit next to you while I drive us to the tacos you’re demanding? I don’t know how I’ll stand it.” For as tense as he seemed in the Short Stack, he’s doing a shitty job pulling off authentic sarcasm. My heart beats faster.
“It’s the price you’ll have to pay.” I pull the door closed behind us, not bothering to lock it. This is Lakewood, after all.
“Terrible,” he repeats.
Then he reaches out, taking my hand in his.
I look at Ryder over the basket of tortilla chips, hot from under the warming lights. Watching him scoop them into the basket is somehow sexy. Maybe it’s just the way his muscles flex in the glow of those lights, but I can hardly stop myself from reaching out and raking my nails over his just-exposed bicep.
“We’re on borrowed time,” he says, popping a chip into his mouth. Jesus, even watching him eat tortilla chips is sexy.
“We are.” I nod sagely. “We all are. It’s true.”
He laughs. “Not like that. I only have a sitter for a couple of hours, and we spent...” Ryder glances around at the clock shaped like a sombrero off to the side of our booth. “Fifteen minutes driving here.”
“Oh, shit. Right. I...forgot about that.” Could I say anything more cringeworthy than referring to his daughter as that?
Ryder’s shoulders tense, just a little, but he seems to consciously relax them. “It’s an easy thing to forget when you’re in the presence of greatness.”
He’s willing to give me a pass this time. “It must be hard for you to remember anything right now.” I reach for a chip and then dip it into the mild salsa.
“Oh, no. I’m not like that.” His eyes are so blue it’s hard to look at him, but I can’t look away. “All of this is being burned into my memory.”
As he says the words, I bite down hard, the chip crunching deliciously in my mouth.
The next moment is when the heat from the salsa blasts over my tongue. It’s so hot that I gasp, which only fans the flames. “Oh, my shit,” I shout around the mouthful. I can’t swallow it—it’s that intensely hot, but I can’t spit it out on the table. What the hell is this salsa? It’s not the garden salsa that I thought I was biting into.
Ryder leans forward, half out of his seat. “Are you okay? What’s going on? Are you allergic to something?”
What do I do? WhatdoIdo?
I reach for my water glass, then for a napkin, then just fan uselessly at my mouth. “The salsa—”
Behind Ryder, in the distance, I see our waitress turn, register how ridiculous I look, and start to hurry over. No. The last thing I need is a bigger audience.
I grab up the water glass and force myself to take a big sip, washing down the remnants of chip and salsa. It does nothing to quench the heat. The only option is to take another chip and shove it into my mouth. It’s salty as hell, but at least it’s not salsa. My eyes are watering.
“I am so sorry,” our waitress—her nametag reads Jennifer—says as she rushes up to the table. She can’t be much older than seventeen, if that. “I must have taken that from the wrong...” She trails off and watches me take a second chip, then a third, chewing them as fast as I possibly can. “I’m so sorry.” She lifts the offending salsa from the table but then has nowhere to put it, so she just stands there holding it in her hand.
“It’s all right,” Ryder says, standing up from his seat and throwing his arm out like this waitress might attack us both. “I’ve got this.”
I swallow the chips as he moves purposefully around the table, sliding into the booth next to me and wrapping me up in one strong arm. Oh my God. Then he’s lifting my chin with two fingers, not unlike he’s about to do mouth-to-mouth, and covers my mouth with his. Only it’s not like mouth-to-mouth. It’s another kiss as charged as the one back at the cottage.
He kisses me so deeply that the waitress blushes, then spins on her heel and makes a beeline for the kitchen. I only see it because I’m desperate to know if everyone in this restaurant is staring at us, and then I’m lost again, swept away by the feel of his lips against mine.
Ryder pulls back abruptly, his eyes...not quite concerned. “Is that better?” His tone is urgent, but there’s something else there, too.
I raise a hand to my lips, breathing hard. “You’re laughing at me.”
“Absolutely not.” He can’t even keep the smile off of his face. He’s biting his lip, like that’s going to hide that grin.
“You are laughing at me.” My tongue is on fire—still—but I’m smiling back at him in spite of myself.
“I’ve never seen anyone react that way to salsa.” He shakes his head solemnly. “It was bad enough that I wasn’t sure you were going to make it.” How is it this is sexy, that he’s teasing me? How is it somehow fine that he kissed me like that, even if it’s supposed to be a joke?
“It wasn’t normal salsa!” I shout, and heads turn at the nearby tables. “That was mango habanero salsa. It’s a special here.” I lower my voice and hiss the last phrase at him. “It’s unbelievably hot.”
Ryder lets go of me and crosses his arms over his chest. “Hotter than me?”
I cross my own arms. “What’s your game, Ryder Harrison? Do you always need this many compliments?” I’m in awe of myself, just a little, for being able to get these sentences together with my scorched tongue.
“Oh, no,” he says, his voice catching at my core. “I need a lot more than that.”
18
Ryder
“How could you possibly need more than that?” Valentine swallows again, breathing slowly. I don’t know what was in that salsa, but I want some. But not as much as I want another excuse to kiss her. I know we’re doing this all wrong—I should be staying away from her, or at least taking this at a glacial pace—but I can’t help myself. The way her eyes are dancing in the dim light of this Mexican restaurant is pulling me in.
“A man has needs.”
She rolls her eyes. It’s a joke, and I’m glad she’s taking it as one because I’m not buying her tacos so she’ll have sex with me. I’m buying her tacos, and I think she wants to have sex with me, too—at least, that’s how it feels when her luscious lips move against mine. And they are damn luscious. So luscious that it almost makes me forget that this is a huge risk I’m taking.
Almost, but not quite.
Jennifer the Waitress reappears with a tray heaping with food, still apologizing. “I’m so sorry about that salsa,” she says.
I tear myself away from Valentine and go back to my own seat across the booth. “I’m not sorry.” When I say it, I look at Valentine. She smiles, glancing down at her lap for a split second before Jennifer slides her plate in front of her. Within thirty seconds, we’
re alone again, and Valentine’s expression has turned serious.
“I don’t know why,” she says, her tone thoughtful, “but I like you.”
“I don’t know why I like you, either. Maybe it’s your incredible waitressing skills. You would never have brought the wrong salsa.”
“Oh, hell no,” says Valentine. “I’d never even touch that stuff. Although...that would probably get me fired from this place.” She shrugs. “But that’s okay. My job at the Short Stack was meant to be.” She says the last few words with just a hint of sarcasm.
“Why isn’t it meant to be?”
She pulls a tiny Mexican flag out of one of her tacos. “Are you sure you really want to get into the deep stuff right now?”
Under any other circumstances, I’d already be out the door of this restaurant and fifteen miles away. I haven’t bothered to have a real conversation with anyone since what happened with Angie. I sigh a little bit, and Valentine smiles. She must already be anticipating another joke. Me, the guy with the light sense of humor—is that who I am now? “I don’t mind if I’m getting deep into you.”
It’s probably the truest thing I’ve ever said because I’m still painfully hard from kissing Valentine, tasting the sweetness of her lips. I’d like to taste the rest of her, too. She blushes. “Deep into my feelings, you mean?”
“Yes. Your feelings.” I don’t want to come off like a total asshole. “I mean, your feelings are really important to talk about.”
Valentine shakes her head. “It’s okay that you just want to get into my pants.” Then she leans forward, blushing before she even says the words. “I’m willing to admit that I want you in my pants.”
I laugh out loud. “You’re a constant surprise.”
“Why? Other women don’t say that kind of thing to you?”
“Not normally. And not—”
Valentine primps her hair. “Not women who look like me? All innocent and waitress-y?”