by Meghan Quinn
I can relate to Stryder on a level I’m not sure many people can.
Taking my hand in his, he leads me through the sliding glass door and into the kitchen where Chad and Ryan are already serving up plates for themselves. Stryder loops his arm around my waist and pulls my back against his chest, his lips near my ear where he takes a few nibbles. I sigh into him.
I turn my head and keep my voice at a whisper when I say, “Kind of wish your bedroom wasn’t the living room right about now.” He bites down on my earlobe. “Scratch that. I wish we were at my place instead.” He chuckles in my ear, making goose bumps erupt all over my skin.
He places a kiss at the base of my neck and then moves past me, looking back for a second to send me a devastating wink. If torturing me is a technique he’s using to drive me crazy, it’s working.
“What are you guys doing tonight?” Ryan asks, biting down on an eggroll.
“Probably going to hang out on the balcony, play some cards,” I answer as Stryder hands me a plate.
“Such an old married couple. Chad and I are heading to my bedroom, the living room is all yours.”
Great. Can’t wait to hear what Ryan has planned for Chad. Last time, it sounded like they were in some kind of sexual wrestling match. So much grunting, and I’m pretty sure it was Chad making all the noise.
It was extremely awkward. Stryder and I ended up leaving and getting ice cream.
We fill our plates and go our separate ways, Ryan and Chad to the bedroom, Stryder and I to the balcony. We share a lounger and eat our food, every once in a while sneaking glances at each other.
It feels like I’m in high school, sharing a meal with my crush. Stryder isn’t shy about staring. When I catch him staring, he just shrugs his shoulders as if he can’t help himself. And then there are the special moments, like right now where he’s holding my hand as we’re sharing our meal. As I look into his eyes, all I can see is pure awe, like he’s surprised that I’m actually holding his hand.
It’s sweet and makes me feel important and cared for.
Hating that we spend so much time apart, I devise a little plan in my head. I think it’s time we get over this little bump in our relationship of not having sex, because I’m ready.
I am so freaking ready.
The most we’ve done since we started dating is kiss.
Kiss!
There haven’t even been any wandering hands. We had our one dry-humping session against my apartment door, which God, was amazing. I can still feel the thickness of his cock rubbing me in the best way possible. I’ve never come like that before, with just the friction of a man’s body. If he was able to make me come that hard with our clothes on, I’m desperate to find out what he can do when there’s no barrier between us.
I want so much more with him.
I tug on his hand and say, “What are you doing tomorrow night?”
He pops a piece of General Tso’s chicken into his mouth. “Uh, probably sucking in nail polish fumes while Ryan does her nails.” He scrunches his nose. “Is it weird that I know when she paints her nails?”
“Just a little.” I chuckle. “I was hoping maybe you could come over to the apartment tomorrow.” He raises his eyebrow at me so I quickly say, “Because the sink in the bathroom has been leaking, and it’s driving me nuts.”
First of all, I would like it to be known that I know how to fix a leaky faucet. I would also like it to be known that I know how to make it leaky when I have ulterior motives.
“Really? It wasn’t leaking on Sunday, was it?”
He’s too observant.
“No, just started yesterday. It drips in the night and is slowly eating away at my sanity. Would you be able to fix it? I have tools.”
He eyes me suspiciously and forks another piece of chicken in his mouth. “Why do I feel like I’m being played here?”
“You’re not. The sink is all drippy. Please, Stryder? Be my knight in shining armor?”
He leans over the side of the lounger and picks up his drink. Taking a sip, he eyes me over the glass and says, “You know I can’t say no to you.”
“Not true. You’ve said no plenty of times. Too many actually.”
He rolls his eyes. “Is it always about sex with you?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s about connecting with you on a deeper level.”
Still eyeing me, he sets his drink down and says, “So you wouldn’t mind if I didn’t bring an overnight bag with me, but instead came over to fix your faucet and then came back here for the night?”
Damn him! He can see right through me.
I swallow my pride, though, and don’t give into his prodding. “If that’s what you want to do, that’s fine with me.”
He sits back on the lounger and studies me. “Okay, I’ll come help my girl, but only if you make me dinner.”
“What do you want?”
A slow, lazy grin spreads across his face. And I’m meant to survive that smile without getting turned on? “I want meatloaf with that special sauce you put on top.”
I made meatloaf for him a few weeks ago, and he’s been begging for it again ever since. It’s not that I don’t like making it, it’s just that it takes forever to cook. But in this situation, forever is what I need, because I have plans to seduce Stryder tomorrow, and the more time I have, the better.
“Meatloaf it is. Come over after work.”
“Can’t wait.” He squeezes my hand and sets our plates to the side to pull me into his chest. Looks like cards might off the table tonight in favor of snuggling. I’m okay with that.
“You know, you don’t have to knock. You have a key.”
Stryder removes his cap and takes a step into my apartment. Hooking his finger under my chin, he lifts my lips to his and places a gentle kiss across my mouth. He doesn’t linger, doesn’t dive deep at all, just a sweet innocent kiss, and it rocks my freaking world.
He hangs his hat and takes off his jacket as well as his boots. Standing tall in his sand T-shirt and desert ABU pants, he smiles down at me, handsome as ever. “Hey you.”
“Hey,” I respond softly and pull him into a hug. The gentle scent of laundry detergent floats past me as I squeeze him tight. “Thank you for coming over.”
He places a kiss on the top of my head. “Of course.” He takes in a deep breath. “No meatloaf tonight?”
“I’m just about to put it in the oven.” I give him one more squeeze and saunter toward the kitchen, catching his perusal of my outfit as I walk away. When I get to the kitchen, I ask, “Do you like my dress?”
He scratches the side of his smooth jaw, the smallest of five o’clock shadows visible. He lets his facial hair grow out on the weekends. I love it. He looks dark and sinister with the thick, course stubble gracing his jaw.
Clearing his throat, he says, “You look beautiful, Rory. You always do.”
I blush and put the meatloaf in the oven, his gaze unwavering as he stands in the entryway observing me. When I shut the oven, I turn toward him and say, “Are you just going to stand there and stare at me, or are you going to fix the sink?”
He rocks on his heels, hands in pockets. “I’m going to fucking stare.” He bites on his bottom lip, his eyes a laser of heat scanning my body.
I knew this dress was going to do the trick. A low-cut sundress, it provides Stryder a good dose of my cleavage. It’s phase one of getting Stryder to finally give in. I know he wants to. I’ve felt that he’s wanted to give in many times during our little make-out sessions, but I’m over it. It’s time we went all in. I am ready to do that with him.
I nod to the bathroom. “Tools are in the bathroom. Get to work.”
Sighing, he scratches the back of his head and takes off toward the bathroom, his shoulders tense and an irritated look on his face. Smiling to myself, I wash the dishes.
Drive him to the brink of no longer being able to hold back, that’s my plan.
We need this, this final push, because even though I feel incredibly
close to Stryder—without a doubt, he’s my best friend—there is a big roadblock standing in the way of us truly being together.
While Stryder fixes the sink I made drip this afternoon, I fiddle around in the kitchen, getting everything else ready to start cooking once the meatloaf is almost done. It takes Stryder all but five minutes to fix the sink and once he does, he comes strolling into the kitchen area, a huge smile on his face.
“All fixed for you, little lady.”
I set aside my knife and turn toward him, my back to the counter. “Thank you.”
Hands in his pockets, he nods toward the couch and says, “Want to hang out while the meatloaf cooks?”
“Would love to.” Quickly I wipe my hands and then head on over to the couch where Stryder is already sitting. Instead of taking the seat next to him, I sit on his lap and lean against the arm of the couch. The hand that isn’t stretched across the back of the couch, playing with my hair, grips my knee as he looks at me lovingly.
“How was your day?” he asks, playfully tugging on a strand of my hair. I love when he does that. It’s gentle and sweet, reminding me that he always needs to have his hands on me.
“It was good. Only had two classes this morning, no massage appointments, relaxed a bit, thought of you.”
“Me?” He draws circles on my knee with his thumb. “What did you think about?”
This is it. Make your move.
Clearing my throat, I say, “I thought about how happy I’ve been for a while now with you in my life. How much I like you.” My eyes are tilted down as I say the words, too shy to admit it to his face.
He tilts my chin up, those eyes of his searing into me. “I don’t think I can come close to describing how happy you make me, Rory.” His voice is soft and heartfelt, pulling me in.
Shifting on his lap, I straddle him and grip his cheeks. I pause and search his eyes right before I lean forward and press a kiss against his lips.
At first I keep it soft. Little nips, warming him up, until I swipe my tongue along the seal of his lips, searching for entrance.
He doesn’t hold out on me, opening his mouth just as his hands slide up my thighs, just barely under the fabric of my sundress. He groans against my lips when my hands slide to his chest where I press against the thickness of his pecs.
So strong.
So stable.
My rock.
I wiggle my hips on his lap, feeling his excitement start to grow. Diving my tongue into his mouth, I lower my hands a few more inches, my fingers grazing over his hardened nipples. His body is like stone, thanks to the countless hours in the gym, or on the floor doing pushups. Constantly. At first, he tried to hide them in the morning when he started staying here. But I figured it out after I got out of the shower, his face red, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. Now he does them without hiding, and I just sit back and watch the amazing flex in his back work up and down.
Mouths still connected, I shift back on his lap and move my hands to the belt of his pants. Sucking in a sharp bout of air, he grips my hands, halting them in their pursuit.
“Rory,” he breathes out, his voice labored.
“What?” I try to move again but he doesn’t let me, pinning me in place.
“What are you doing?”
Do I have to spell it out for him? “What do you think I’m doing?”
“Rory . . . “
Frustrated, I let out a sharp grunt and then move to the cushion, my body turned toward him, my mind igniting with irritation, frustration, and a whole lot of anger. “Why, Stryder? Why won’t you have sex with me?”
“We’re taking things slow.” He drags a hand down his face.
Taking things slow, yeah, I didn’t decide that. Wanting to get to the bottom of this, I decide to push his buttons. “Is it because you can’t bear the thought of seeing me naked? Am I that repulsive to you?”
His eyes narrow in on me, like lasers, anger piercing his pupils. “You know that’s not the truth, Rory.”
“Yeah? Seems like it. Every time I try to get more intimate with you, you’re always turning me away. Unless there is another reason, it’s the only thing I can come up with.” Getting really angry, I stand and grip the hem of my dress and pull it up and over my head, leaving me in nothing but my matching red lace bra and underwear.
“Jesus Christ,” Stryder mutters, dragging both his hands over his face this time. “Rory, what the hell are you doing?”
“Look at me, Stryder.”
He takes a deep breath and peers up at me, slouched on the couch, legs spread, a pained look in his expression.
“Tell me you don’t want me.”
“I would never fucking say that, because it isn’t the truth. You know I want you . . . so fucking bad.”
Moving in front of him, I bend at the waist, place my hands on his shoulders and watch as his eyes rake over my body, pupils dilated, strong jaw set in stone, lips thin. “Then take me, Stryder,” I whisper before sitting on his lap, my chest thrust forward, and my lace cheekies riding high on my ass.
“Rory, please.”
I grind on his lap, his erection aching to be freed from his pants, giving me an ample reminder of how big he is.
I lean forward and place my lips on his neck, slowly nibbling and licking, making my way to his ear as his hands find my hips and slowly slide down to my ass. Strong, wide hands splay across my backside, his fingers indenting my skin, his control slipping with each press of my lips.
Moving my hips again, I rub my center across his length, shooting a wave of pleasure up my spine. God, I want this man so bad.
I reach behind me to undo my bra when Stryder quickly stops me and rests his forehead against mine. “We—” he pauses, catching his breath. “We can’t do this, Rory.”
I lift up so I can really look him in the eyes. “Why the hell not?”
Turning away, he quietly says, “We just can’t.”
And that’s it. Sitting taller, I grip his chin and force him to look at me, truly look at me when I say, “Is this because of Colby?”
His eyes squeeze shut, the tension on in his body rolling off in waves from the mention of Colby’s name.
I have my answer.
“You won’t have sex with me because of Colby?”
“It’s not that simple, Rory.”
“Yes, it is.” My voice rises. I place my hand under his shirt and run it up his chest as I say, “I want you, Stryder. I want all of you, not just pieces. Why are you letting Colby get in your head?”
“Because,” he answers gruffly, arm thrown wide. “Because he was my best friend and I’m . . .” He shakes his head.
“You’re what?”
“I’m stealing his fucking girl,” Stryder shouts, sending me backward for a split second before my anger blooms into pure rage.
There is no way I’m going to let Colby be the roadblock to the relationship I want to have with Stryder.
No way in hell.
Chapter Twenty-One
STRYDER
Fuck.
I can’t seem to look at her, not when I can feel the heat of her anger blazing into my skin. Not when her perfect body, toned and tight in all the right places is begging for my touch. Not when all I can think about is the friend I would be betraying, the man I’ve been betraying this entire time.
From the moment I laid my lips on Rory and claimed her as mine, I’ve felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. How could I do this to Colby? I gave in to the temptation, and even though I would do it again and again just to taste Rory on my lips, I continue to have this overwhelming sense of having fucked up yet again.
And I hate that feeling.
I’ve been a fuck-up my entire life and this is just another thing to add to the list.
Looking away, my confession hangs between us, heavy and unwanted. Turning my head with her finger, Rory makes me look into her eyes of green, understanding and sweet.
“Stryder, do you see Colby here?”
�
�Rory, come on—”
“No.” She grips my face tightly with both hand. “Do you fucking see Colby here?”
I swallow hard and say, “No.”
“Colby isn’t here. Why are you letting him in your head? I’m the one who’s here, I’m the one practically begging for you to touch me, to kiss me, to fuck me.”
I rub her bare sides with my large palms, hating this mental roadblock I’m suffering through. “I know, Rory. I just—”
“No.” She shakes her head. “There is no reason why you should be thinking about him. This is about us, Stryder. You and me, no one else. Just us.” She leans her forehead against mine and quietly whispers, “What am I going to have to do to get you inside me?” She presses a light kiss across my lips. “Strip?”
She wiggles on my lap, her hips starting to undulate back and forth, slowly, methodically, igniting a flame deep in my belly.
Reaching behind her back, she unhooks her bra while placing another kiss on my lips. Her angry energy turns sensual, breaking my willpower with each rock of her hips.
With purpose, Rory reaches her hands up to the straps of her red bra and deliberately lowers the fabric down her arms until the cups are barely pressed against her breasts.
I clear my throat, trying to find my voice. “Rory.”
She tosses the bra to the side, and for the love of God, I can’t look away. My eyes go straight to her chest, to her pert tits. Full, but not too big, puckered nipples begging for my tongue.