“So, I guess I’m not following. Why are we partying here?”
“Since everyone’s gone, Deck and I are supposed to be housesitting,” he said. “It was just easier to have the party here this year instead of at our place in Highlands.”
She snuggled herself up against his arm, fingers twined with his, as they crossed the lawn.
Molly’s heartbeat did what it did whenever Ryker touched her; it sped up. She didn’t know why he’d decided to hold her hand, yet he had, and the doing delighted her.
When they stepped inside Mr. and Mrs. Cage’s home, the music was thumping, and people were mingling in the foyer, but Ryker pushed his way through them, taking her along with him, hand gripped tight with hers until he came to one of the closets.
“Give me your coat, Molls.”
She hated to let go of him, nonetheless she did, took off her coat, and handed it over. Ryker hung the wool garment for her, then took off his leather jacket, hanging it, too, before he unbuttoned the long-sleeve dress shirt he had on and slipped it off, hanging that as well, freeing what he had on underneath the button-down—a black T-shirt, and black Diesel jeans. Her gaze went back to the tee and the way the cotton hugged his body.
Molly chuckled as she read the orange spiky words printed across his chest.
This Is My Costume, Moron.
“Hey, man,” Declan said, strolling up to them, dressed to match his twin. She shook her head, smiling from ear to ear. They were a mirrored pair. “Hi, Moll.”
“Hi,” she said.
Then, Declan looked at her in a thorough, head-to-toe manner. “Jesus, Molly.” His gaze rested on her propped up by the corset breasts. “That’s a costume all right.”
“Deck,” Ryker said, with a tone of warning in his voice. “Eyes on something else.”
Was Molly floating? She sure thought so. Perhaps she shouldn’t be ecstatic at Ryker’s possessiveness, but she was. Ryker wasn’t joking around. He didn’t want his brother looking at her.
She glanced down her torso. She hadn’t been at all sure about this costume, and she did feel a bit self-conscious when she put it on. However, now, she was happy she’d followed through and worn the skimpy outfit, especially if Ryker kept his attention trained on her.
Deck cleared his throat. “Ahem.” And stared at his brother. “I need some help with the kegs.”
“Sure.” Ryker’s stormy sea-colored eyes flickered as he returned his gaze to her. “You’re coming with me, Molls.”
“Okay,” she said, so elated, she thought her heart would burst.
***
Ryker was miserable. And Molly? She seemed oblivious to how tempting she was. Thus far, he’d been doing a fair job at keeping his jealously contained, but he couldn’t take the way the men at the party, and many of them friends and acquaintances were reduced to drooling as they gawked at her. More than once, he was tempted to punch several of them in their leering faces. Not to mention he almost lost his shit when Randy strode up earlier and asked her to dance.
He’d snarled out, “She’s dancing with me.” Then took her into his arms, feeling her lushness pressed against him.
As they danced, Ryker’s domineering side wanted to mark her as his. Put his scent on her. Brand her. All he could think about was taking her into the first unoccupied room he came to, putting her up against the wall, and fucking the shit out of her. Over and over the scene plagued him. His lips on her creamy cleavage and then his teeth biting down on the apex of her breasts, cock deep inside her warm, wet pussy, experiencing her body shake.
He wanted his mouth on hers. Her tongue twirling with his. Those sexy stocking-clad legs wrapped around his waist. Her fingernails clawing up his back. He longed to see the passion on her face as she lost all composure. He wanted to make her moan, beg him to fuck her harder, and cry out his name as she came around his cock.
“Shit,” he muttered, downing his third tequila shot hoping to if not drown out the picture show in his head, at least blur it some.
When Molly licked the top of her salt-dipped glass, his dick jerked at the sight, and he almost groaned. Another tequila shot was the ticket.
“Ryker,” Molly said, setting the non-alcoholic margarita she’d been sipping down. “You need to slow your roll with the tequila.”
“Don’t start bitching at me, Molls.”
“I’m not bitching.”
He glared at her. “Yes, you are. This is a party. Loosen up.”
She slid the cat ears on her head back. “I hate when you start acting this way.”
“What way?”
She put her hand on her hip. “You’re acting like an asshole.”
He slammed his shot glass down on a table. She jumped—palm going to her heart—startled.
Ryker put his hands on her shoulders and backed her into a shadowed nook beneath the spiral staircase. “What did you say to me?”
Christ. His dick was so hard he hurt.
She brought her gaze up and glowered at him. “I said, you’re acting like an asshole, Ryker.”
He leaned down and got in her face. “Well, you’re an uptight, prissy bitch.”
Molly gasped. “You’re a fucktard!”
“You’re a cock tease!”
Her face turned fourteen shades of red before she hauled off and slapped him—the burn searing his cheek.
“God damn it,” he growled, palm slapping the wall beside her head. “You can’t tame me, Molls.” She was about ready to smack him again, but he caught her wrist, fingers wrapping tight around the delicate bones, stopping her. Was he imagining things, or did she soften as if to submit to him?
“I’m leaving.” She tugged her hand. “Let go.”
“Good.” He let her loose. “I hope you do leave.”
She went ridged. “You want me to?”
“Yes. I’ll be able to drink in peace.”
“Fine,” she snapped. “Go ahead and drink yourself into oblivion, you neanderthalic fuck nugget.”
He frowned. “Fuck nugget? Really, Molls? That’s the best you’ve got?”
She stomped off, the short skirt swaying across the back of her thighs, then she flung one last parting blow over her shoulder. “Limp-dicked douche canoe!”
“I’ve heard a lot of women make comments on my dick, sweetheart,” he called out. “But limp has never been one of them.”
As soon as Molly was gone, Ryker strode into the family room and assessed the people in the space, when he spotted some chick wearing a skin tight skirt. He smirked. He’d found what he was looking for in the way of a fantastic ass.
She had a drink in her hand, raven black hair tumbling down her back, and was wearing a colorful Mardi Gras mask, swaying those curvy hips to Disclosure’s “Latch.”
“Hey, baby,” he said, and brushed up against her, adding his sway to hers. “You choose. Trick or treat?”
Chapter Eleven
Past.
“Thank you for inviting me to your dinner tonight,” Molly said, shedding her coat and hanging it over the banister before setting her purse on the step. Ryker was following her after bringing her home from a celebration dinner his parents hosted for the grand opening of his computer software business. She’d been overflowing with pride and happiness, not only for his accomplishments, but by the fact he’d wanted her there, with him. After their horrible fight over his drinking the night of the Halloween party just a week earlier, she’d figured it would be a while before he spoke to her again. She’d stormed out and left him behind to get snockered since that’s what he was intent on doing. “I’m sorry we fought last weekend.”
“So am I,” he said. “I don’t like fighting with you, Molls.”
“I just hate seeing you drink so much. You know why I—”
“I know,” he said.
When she turned to give him her full attention, she sucked in a breath. The dim light trickled in from the living room and obscured a portion of his chiseled features within the shadowed slice. He’d been
turned into the picture of light/dark perfection.
“What?” he asked.
She shook her head and tucked a piece of her strawberry-blonde hair behind her ear. “It was a great celebration.”
“Thank you for coming with me.”
She nodded. “Of course.” A heartbeat. A breath. “I’ve got some Ben and Jerry’s, and you know me. I’m always up for a little late night snack. How about you? Want some dessert?”
“Sure.”
He flung his coat over hers, then reached out and palmed her cheek. She nuzzled within the warmth of him, heart thumping in a wild rhythm from the touch, gazing up at him from beneath her lashes.
Something akin to charged energy sparked between them, then struck her hard when the hand palming her face slid around, cupped the base of her head, and tugged her forward one step. Two.
“Molly,” he said in his rough-rasped voice. “Tell me to stop this.”
“No.”
“You should.”
He bent and pressed his lips to hers. She dissolved, arms wrapping around his taut waist, opening for him.
He pulled her tighter into his hold, tongue twining with hers in a dance of slick heat and mastery. A fire overtook every part of her body as her hands roamed up the strength of his back, beneath the shirt he wore untucked over his low-slung jeans.
One of his hands held firm, fingers curling around the back of her neck, the other slipped lower, clutched her hip, then covered her ass—his erection pushing into her stomach. With a shudder, she breathed in his caramel-spiced scent, reveling in the way he tasted, how he took her, the way he claimed her body and soul with his kiss. Although, he’d claimed her heart long ago with a few simple words, then later with a kiss, keeping her tied to him without even knowing he’d done so. In all of her life, she’d never wanted anyone as much as she wanted Ryker Cage. Her need for him was all encompassing.
Picking her up, she whimpered. He never broke their kiss, thrusting his tongue deep as he walked them into the living room, where he laid her down on the chaise. The skirt she had on slipped up. He tucked his hard body between her spread thighs. The rough denim slid against the slick silk of her panties as he ground himself into her, sending tidal waves of sensation through her body.
Ryker slipped his mouth from hers, his lips going to the side of her neck. “You smell so God damn good, Molls.” He scraped his teeth against her throat, one hand tugging on her blouse, popping buttons off. His other hand latched onto her leg, fingers hooking under her knee. Her sex liquefied.
When he palmed her breast, she moaned and covered her eyes with the crook of her left arm. He mouthed her pebble-hard nipple through the material of her lacy bra, sending another shiver over the canvas of her skin at the warmth of him—of his breath—caressing her.
“Mmm….” She worked her body into his, arching.
He groaned—the grip of his fingers on her leg bit into her flesh.
“Please.” Molly reached between their bodies, palm pressing into the stiff denim of his crotch. “Touch me.”
“Fuck.” He tore the lace C-cup of her bra open with his teeth, nosed the material aside, and wrapped his lips around one pink peak—sucking.
“Oh,” she muttered, stomach tremulous.
The hand he had on her leg, slipped higher, higher, scooting up her thigh. He pinched the fleshy portion, sending a heated spike of wanting desire through her. He pinched again, only this time he bit and tugged at her nipple, too.
She writhed, arm moving from her face so her fingers could twine within his hair.
He pressed the heel of his hand against her clit. “You’re so wet.”
At his words, another spill of her cream dampened her panties. “Make love to me, Ryker.”
His entire body went rigid. At once, he stopped touching her, pulled back, and sat up. The eyes she loved turned to hard stone. Unyielding. Her stomach dropped. The heat and desire she took so much pleasure in only moments before turned into a polar wind, chilling her to the bone.
“What’s wrong?”
“You want something from me I don’t do, Molly.”
She clutched at her gaping blouse and sat up, straitening her skirt. She was almost embarrassed to be sitting there, her panties soaked, and still trembling. Molly thought she might cry, although refused to. “I - don’t.” She hesitated, trying to gather her scrambled thoughts. “I don’t understand.”
“I know you don’t,” he said, getting to his feet.
“What’s wrong with me?”
He scowled. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Then why do you always run from me?”
“Why do you always chase me?”
She glanced down at her lap. “I don’t know.”
“I’m not running, Molls.”
She nodded. “You are. You do.”
He rubbed at his jaw, irritated. “I’m not what you want. I will never be that guy.”
“What do you mean?”
“You want a guy to buy you flowers, take you on dates, give you soft caresses, and say loving things. A man who will make a commitment and put a ring on your finger. But I’m not that guy. I’ll never be that guy.”
Unbidden, the tears streamed down her face, and Molly watched the only man she would ever love do what he did best—walk away.
Chapter Twelve
Present.
Jack thought of everything. He even brought wine and proper glasses for their evening picnic beneath the stars.
“Tonight has been nice,” Molly said, experiencing the evening breeze tickle her arms.
She took a sip of the merlot, watching the multicolored starbursts of the fireworks light up the night, twinkle a thousand facets, and freefall toward the ground.
“I’m glad you think so.” Jack took her free hand in his, twining his fingers through hers, and brought their clasped hands to his mouth where he brushed his lips across her knuckles. “You know. I wasn’t kidding about you coming for me again tonight. Let’s pack the leftovers of our dinner away and head back to my place where I can make love to you. In my bed.”
Molly glanced over at him. One of the fireworks boomed, sending the night into that flash of light, highlighting his face. He was a handsome man, and, while she was attracted to him, her heart didn’t race at seeing how he looked at her. There was no specific flutter in her stomach reserved just for him when he touched her.
Was she nuts for not being head over hills for Jack Jamison? Possibly. Because regardless of the fact they worked together, which had always been a sticking point for her, he was attentive. Attractive. Smart. Funny. Romantic. Good in bed. Wanted the wife, the kids, and the whole white picket fence thing. He even knew how to cook.
Yeah. More than once, she’d asked herself, why? Why couldn’t she fall for him? Although, she was well acquainted with the reason. No matter whom she attempted to have a relationship with, casual or not, there would always be another man who stood in the way, even when he wasn’t around.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll start packing the food, and you grab the blanket and the wine.”
***
Ryker had lost his ever-loving mind. Why couldn’t he let Molly Monroe go? Why the hell did she have to be the one woman who made him consider wanting something he couldn’t ever give her?
Ticked, he drove around Denver for hours. Aimless. Stopped to get gas and a coffee, trying to talk himself out of going back by her place, but caved, and drove by Molly’s hoping to see when she came home. He was insane. No doubt.
“Shit,” he grumbled.
The girl she had been and the woman she’d become always unraveled him and tested his control. Molly was his kryptonite, turning him into one huge, heaping pile of crazed mess.
A tsunami of possessiveness had pulled him under when he saw that douche-nozzle who dared touch her, help her into his car and pull away earlier. Now, here he was, doing another drive-by at three thirty-eight in the morning, instead of being sane and home tucke
d away in his bed, sleeping soundly and dreaming of…well, anything but her.
When the headlights coming up behind him shifted into Molly’s drive, he went around the block. By the time he came around again and parked his Viper across the street, the BMW was leaving. And there she was, waving at the black-as-night car, while standing in her open door, backlit from the light in her foyer, looking sweet and angelic.
His driver’s side door was open and his Reef flip-flops hit the pavement, right about the moment she shut her front door. Ryker wanted to slam his fists into something, yet held back the urge. He turned and walked with determination across the street, up the sidewalk, jogging the five steps up to her porch, and knocked. No. He pounded.
When the door swung open, she uttered, “Ryke—”
That’s all he allowed her to get out, because he grabbed Molly up. Her intake of surprised breath happened when he kicked the front door shut behind them and slammed his mouth down over hers.
Their tongues tangled in fiery heat—his cock, hard and throbbing for her. His need to claim and possess riding him as he backed her up until her shoulders hit the wall. In one move, he had her arms above her head, both of her delicate wrists manacled by one of his large hands, body pressed tight against her, his knee between her legs—devouring her moans. God damn it. He owned those moans. They were his, and he wanted to swallow down every last one of them.
“Wait,” she said in a mutter into his mouth, tugging her arms, meeting the resistance of his hold.
“No.”
He bit at the side of her neck, reveling in her corresponding shudder.
“Ryker. Hang on.” She tried to wiggle—the action futile. “Wait.”
Some semblance of rational thought bounced around in his mind, and he loosened his grip.
“Let my wrists go.”
“Son of a bitch,” he grumbled.
He let her go. Had he scared her?
She lowered her arms and pressed her palms on his collarbone. He put some space between them, hands going to either side of her head, knuckles on the wall, caging her in.
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