I mutter a protest at being handled like luggage, but I’m so exhausted I give up without a fight. I sag against the broad expanse of his chest as he kicks the car door shut behind him.
He chuckles. “You’re heavier than you look.”
“And you’re dumber than you look,” I mumble. “Another crack about my weight and you’re a dead man.”
“God, I love it when you threaten me with bodily injury.”
My legs dangle over his arm as he walks across a gated parking lot to a squat, brick building with no windows on the first floor. In front of a metal door with no handle, he stops.
“Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,” he says to the door.
Bewildered, I lift my head and squint at him.
He shrugs. “So I love Mary Poppins. Sue me.”
The door slides open soundlessly, revealing a lighted steel box about five feet wide and eight feet tall. When Ryan walks inside, the door slides shut behind us. With a subtle clang, the box begins to descend.
“Do you live near the center of the earth?” I ask his profile.
“Yep,” he answers instantly. “That’s why I’m so hot.”
He slants me a grin. I close my eyes against its brilliance and tuck my head into his neck.
“Where are we?”
“I told you. Home.”
“No, where?”
“The Bronx. Ish.”
“Either it is, or it isn’t.”
“Normally, I’d agree with you, but in this case, there’s a little wiggle room considering we’re not talkin’ horizontal coordinates.”
The elevator stops, the doors open, and Ryan walks out into pitch blackness. “Raindrops on roses,” he calls out.
Overhead lights blink on in orderly rows, revealing a bachelor pad that has probably starred in every male’s fantasy of a bachelor pad since the term was invented.
High ceilings. Exposed brick walls. Polished cement floors. Lots of steel beams and glass surfaces, and a smattering of leather furniture. A television the size of a school bus hangs on the wall, along with black-and-white abstract art suggestive of nude women. Not a single throw pillow or bright color in sight.
“Raindrops on roses?”
“And whiskers on kittens,” he says, nodding.
I look at him. “Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens?”
He beams. “Angel! You know The Sound of Music!”
I gaze around his underground sanctuary. It sizzles with machismo and is operated with voice commands taken from Julie Andrews movies. I ponder my predicament.
Only one reasonable explanation comes to mind.
“I’m dead, aren’t I? Just give it to me straight. I was shot sometime yesterday, and now I’m dead. And this is…purgatory?”
He scoffs. “This is heaven, baby!”
“Heaven? I am dubious.”
“That’s a one-hundred-ten-inch ultra-high-definition TV! And that”—he swings me around so I’m pointed in the direction of a large kitchen, gleaming with stainless steel appliances—“is a professional-grade chef’s kitchen complete with a grill, a griddle, a double-walled pizza oven, and an infrared salamander broiler—”
“Maybe purgatory was being too generous.”
Ryan purses his lips and considers me. “I know what you need,” he pronounces. Then strides through the living room, past the gargantuan television and arty nudes, past the built-in wine cellar and wet bar, around a wall composed entirely of live succulents in different shades of green, brown, and gray, and into his bedroom.
He stops in front of a bed approximately the size of a train platform. The duvet and sheets are black, as are the pillows. A trio of red candles reside on a black bedside table. A fuzzy black rug sprawls over the floor.
“So how many vampiresses do you usually sleep with in this thing?”
“Vampiress?”
“A vampire of the female persuasion.”
“Why isn’t that just vampire? Do you say poetess too? Seems a little sexist, Angel.”
“You’re avoiding the question about your abnormally large bed, which I find suspicious.”
“The bed, or the avoidance?”
“Both. I also find your choice of black and red as a palette for your boudoir suspicious. Especially when you’re trying to convince a person that this is heaven, which I’d like to think is decorated in more cheerful tones.”
“Boudoir?” he repeats, sounding insulted. “I’m a badass, sweetheart, not a French escort. This is called a bedroom. And it’s awesome.”
Ignoring his obvious delusion, I point with my foot across the room. “What in God’s name is that?”
“You’ve never seen a grand piano before?”
I exhale with what I hope is sufficient disgust. “I’ve never seen one in a bedroom before. It’s ridiculous. I’m picturing you in a velvet smoking jacket, serenading your harem of vampiresses with a little post-bloodsucking Rachmaninoff.”
Ryan kisses the top of my head. “You’re delirious. It’s probably the proximity to all this grade A testosterone I’m manufacturin’.”
“Undoubtedly,” I say, trying hard not to find him charming, but failing.
“Let’s get you to bed.”
Without waiting for an answer, he strides over to the black behemoth and gently deposits me on it. He kneels at my feet, unlaces my boots, and pulls them off, then peels off my socks and tosses those aside while I watch in something like shock. Only achier.
He glances up and catches me watching him. “What?”
“What are you doing?”
He looks at my feet, then back up at my face. He answers like he’s speaking to someone very drunk. “I’m takin’ off your shoes, darlin’.”
“No.” I close my eyes, inhale, then make a little motion with my index finger indicating the two of us. “What are you doing?”
When he squeezes my ankles, I open my eyes. Looking straight into them, he says, “Takin’ care of you. And before you ask why,” he says when I open my mouth, “the answer is because that’s what I’m gonna do from here on out. Take care of you. You’re the priority now. You’re mine.”
I mull over this ludicrous pronouncement.
Is he a professional stalker? Does he have a screw—or ten—loose? This can’t possibly be how he lives his whole life, just making one rash decision after another, with no more forethought than you’d give what pair of socks you were going to wear.
“I don’t understand.”
“I know,” he says warmly, pulling my hoodie over my head. “But you will.”
“How can you just decide like that?” I ask, sounding petulant as he discards my hoodie. I stare at my bare feet. They appear startlingly vulnerable, naked and pale, a visual metaphor for my heart. “We don’t even know each other,” I insist.
When I see that dimple appear in his cheek, I mutter “Biblically doesn’t count.”
The dimple turns into a pit you could fall into and disappear. “So says you. Lie down.”
I’m gently pushed onto my back. Swimming in confusion, I stare at the ceiling but find no answers there, probably because ceilings generally aren’t good for that sort of thing.
Ryan unbuttons my jeans and drags them down my legs in a no-nonsense, businesslike way, as if I’m an uncooperative patient and he’s my long-suffering nurse.
“People make things way more complicated than they need to be,” he says, flinging my jeans over his shoulder. I notice he isn’t nearly as fastidious with my clothing as he is with his own. “If you’d just listen to your gut, nine times out of ten you’ll make the right decision without havin’ to do any hand wringin’ or hair pullin’. Your instincts will tell you what you should do.”
“Except for that pesky tenth time.” I yawn as he pulls the covers up to my chin. My eyelids are so heavy. “Then you’re fucked.”
He leans over and kisses me on the forehead. Then he makes a face and wipes his lips. “Stay there,” he commands, as if I have a choice in
anything.
He leaves. I let my eyes drift shut and listen to the sound of running water. Then his footsteps return, along with him, bearing a wet washcloth.
He begins to clean my face.
“This is too much,” I protest, but only half-heartedly, because the warm, wet cloth feels delicious on my dirt-caked skin. “Ryan. I don’t think I can handle this…whatever this is. Us. You’re giving me a mental breakdown.”
“Nah, you’re doin’ that all on your own, darlin’. Just go with it. I promise it’ll all work out. Jesus, what is this, like, industrial-strength dirt?” He scrubs harder.
“Had to make sure…you know…disguise.”
“Yeah, well, you get a gold star for effort. When you wake up, I’m gonna have to throw you in the shower to get the rest of this shit off.”
“Throw?” I say, drifting off to sleep. “Sounds a little aggressive, cowboy.”
He sighs, stirring my hair. “Always focusin’ on the wrong things,” he mutters to himself.
I fall asleep to the sound of his breathing and his hands gently caressing my face.
* * *
I dream of burning buildings and firetrucks with ladders too short to rescue people hanging from windows on upper floors. When I wake, I bolt upright, sweating, heart thundering, with no idea where I am.
Then I see the polished bulk of the ridiculous grand piano, the all-black everything else, and realize there’s only one place on earth besides Dracula’s castle that I could possibly be.
I rub the sleep from my eyes, throw off the covers, and pad into the adjoining bathroom. My bladder isn’t so much full as it is ready to burst. I use the toilet, then wash my hands and face and brush my teeth because my breath is poisonous. When I realize I’ve used Ryan’s toothbrush without a second thought, I have a lot of second thoughts, and stand there staring at it in my hand.
From the doorway comes his amused voice. “I can see the smoke pourin’ from your ears, Angel. Don’t pop a blood vessel over there.”
I glance at him. He’s shirtless and barefoot, wearing only a pair of faded jeans, leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded over his chest and a wry smile on his lips.
As always, he’s beautiful. A big, muscular, tattooed, golden beauty of a man who claims I’m his.
My heart feels like it might explode.
“I’ve never used anyone else’s toothbrush before,” I say quietly.
“I’ve never let anyone else sleep in my bed before.”
That gives me a start. He sees my surprise and drawls, “Nope, not even the vampiresses. I kick ’em out right after I play Rachmaninoff. Come here.”
Moving at the speed of refrigerated molasses, I return his toothbrush to its small glass tumbler and walk toward him. He holds a hand out, wiggling his fingers.
“Any slower and I’ll be an old man by the time you get here.”
“Give me a sec. I’m trying to control my freak-out.”
“Over how spectacular I look without a shirt?”
I step into his arms and hide my face in his chest. “Over how spectacular you are in general.”
He wraps his arms around me and pulls me in tight. I’m engulfed in warmth and the scent of a male in his prime: clean skin, warm musk, and a delicious, indefinable something that’s so damn sexy I make a little noise deep in my throat.
Ryan nuzzles my ear. “You’ve got it bad for me, don’t you, Angel?” he teases, a chuckle rumbling through his chest.
That sound coming from my chest is a whimper.
In one smooth motion, he bends and picks me up in his arms. He heads toward the glassed-in shower on the opposite side of the room.
“Is this going to be a thing?” I ask, my arms wound around his broad shoulders. “You carrying me around like a sack of potatoes?”
“It makes me feel macho bein’ able to lift all this weight—ow!”
“Serves you right,” I grumble, releasing his earlobe from my front teeth. Then I feel guilty and kiss the spot I’ve just bitten, making him chuckle again.
“So she has a conscience after all,” he muses. “Who knew?”
“Shut up.”
“Put somethin’ in my mouth and make me.”
I roll my eyes at his suggestive wink. “It’s like you’re twelve.”
“You’re not the first person to tell me that.”
He’s not insulted, just matter-of-fact. We arrive at the shower door. He sets me on my feet and, with no further ado, pulls my T-shirt over my head.
“Matching bra and panties,” he says, hungrily eying my underwear. “Lacy. Nice. Take ’em off.”
“You’re an incredibly pushy man, you know that?” I’m grousing but obeying at the same time, reaching around to unsnap my bra. When the straps fall down my arms and my breasts spring free, Ryan bites his lower lip.
“Yes,” he says, his voice husky. “Now get those fuckin’ panties off and let me look at you.”
I let my bra dangle from my fingertips for a moment because I love the way the delay makes his eyes burn. Then I let the bra drop to the floor, and slip my thumbs under the top of my panties, just over my hips.
“These panties?” I say, teasing. I do a little shimmy. He narrows his eyes.
“Tyrant,” I say, and edge the panties down an inch.
His gaze flashes up to mine. It’s a look that could ignite a forest fire.
I slide the panties down another inch. “You’re not the boss of me, you know that, right?”
“As soon as you get those goddamn panties off,” he growls, “I’m gonna prove you wrong, darlin’.”
How I’m beginning to adore that sleepy, slow Southern drawl. I never guessed a dropped g at the end of a word could be so sexy.
I push the panties past my hips. They slither down my legs and pool around my ankles. Ryan takes one long, silent look at me—head to toe, his gaze blistering—then drops to his knees, grabs my ass, pulls me into his face, and bites me right between my legs.
It’s not a hard bite. It’s just like…mine. This is mine, and I’m gonna bite it because I can, and I want to.
My entire body shudders. I’ve never been this aroused—this quickly—in my life.
Then he slips his tongue between my folds, and my arousal sprouts wings and launches into outer space. I dig my fingers into his hair and rock against his hot, wet mouth. My nipples tighten and tingle with every swipe of his tongue.
“That feels so good,” I whisper.
He opens his eyes and looks up at me. It’s almost painfully intimate, watching him suckle me on his knees as I struggle to remain standing. The sound of my ragged gasps echoes off the bathroom walls. When his teeth scrape over my clit, I moan.
He reaches down between his legs, yanks open his fly, grabs his erection in his fist and starts to stroke it as he eats me, looking up at me the entire time with hooded, heated eyes.
I love it that he likes to taste me. That the first thing he wants to do is put his mouth between my legs. It’s carnal, a little animal, and makes me feel sexy and dirty and gloriously desired.
I flex my hips in time to the strokes of his tongue and am rewarded by a low, guttural groan of approval deep from within his chest.
I arch back. My shoulders hit the glass shower wall with a hollow noise. Bracing my weight against the wall, I cant my hips forward and spread my thighs open wider. Ryan takes advantage of the new angle and plunges his tongue deep inside me.
My moan is loud and broken. My nipples are so hard, they ache. I’m panting, no longer simply flexing my hips but riding his face like a rodeo bull as he pumps his cock in his fist.
I gasp as a wave of heat blasts through me. Deep inside my pelvis, there’s a throb and a hard, abrupt clench. “Oh fuck,” I whisper. “Ryan. Ryan.”
He knows I’m there. He slides two fingers inside me, reaches up with his other hand and pinches my nipple, and gently bites down on my engorged clit.
I come, screaming his name with my head thrown back, my eyes
closed, and my whole body jerking. Wave after wave of pleasure pulses through me. It’s violent, and soul-searing hot.
He’s on his feet before it’s over, slinging one of my legs over his bent arm so I’m wide open for him. He plunges inside me with a groan. Then he starts to fuck me, his strokes short and fast, thrusting into me as my body clenches around him, holding us up against the shower door.
I scream and come and cling to his shoulders, lost to all of it. To him. Us.
This earthquake of emotion that’s splitting me open and shattering all my walls.
He laughs a dark, satisfied laugh. “What were you sayin’ about me not bein’ the boss of you?” he says gruffly into my ear. When I sob brokenly, he whispers softly. “Yeah, baby. Who’s your daddy now?”
He’s so hot and so hard and so fucking male, I’m absolutely wild for him. But oh shit, this is a complete disaster. What the hell am I doing?
I must make another noise, because Ryan stills. “Easy,” he says, breathing heavily. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
“I’ve got you.” Still trembling with aftershocks, I groan and bury my face in his neck.
“Hush, Angel,” he whispers. “C’mon now. Shh.”
“I can’t—I can’t—”
“You can. You will. We will. I promise.”
I start to cry, and can’t stop. I’m making ugly, raw noises, like an animal in pain. Hot tears stream down my face and drip onto his chest. I’m horrified at myself, at this awful show of weakness, but he takes it all in stride, as if dealing with emotional females is par for the course.
“It’s okay. Get it out. Get it out, baby, you’ll feel better.”
His arms are a cage, or a refuge, I don’t know which. I only know that suddenly I’m scared shitless. All I want to do is run and hide from the enormity of this thing unfurling between us—this dangerous, addictive, overpowering thing.
He’s still inside me.
After a while, when my sobs turn into muffled hiccups, he exhales a long breath and kisses my hair. “Well. I knew I was amazing in bed, but tears are unprecedented.”
I sniffle and blow out a hard breath. “It’s just that I like you,” I grudgingly admit. “Like…a lot.”
His laugh starts deep in his belly, a silent clenching and unclenching of his abs that leads to a chuckle burbling up into his chest and breaking free. He throws his head back and laughs, shaking us both. It goes on forever.
Wicked Intentions: The Wicked Games Series, Book 3 Page 15