Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
The sound brings a smile to my lips, and I cup the back of his head in a half hug. For a beat of breath, he seems to lean into my touch, but then a new tension takes over his body, as though he’s afraid to move any farther and break the spell. But it’s already broken because we’re both aware now.
Carefully, like he’s afraid he might accidentally crush me, Rye eases back just enough to slip free from my body. I miss the fullness of him immediately. He curls up at my side, one long, thick leg lying heavily between mine, a warm hand on my hip.
For a long moment, neither of us says a word. But it’s in the air, hovering like a dark cloud: how I’d pushed him out last time, how he’d easily left. I don’t know what to do. Should I act as before? Get up and get dressed? For all my fears, I know with certainty that I don’t want to go. But what does he expect?
In the heavy silence, Rye’s gaze searches mine. His expression gives nothing away. I stare back at him, trying to keep my cool. Then he lifts his hand to gently stroke my damp hair back from my face.
“Stay,” he says.
Want tightens my stomach. “I should probably get back to work.”
I don’t sound too convincing. Something Rye immediately capitalizes on.
His words tumble out, tripping over themselves. “You shouldn’t leave with only two orgasms. I can give you more. Or we don’t have to fool around. I did promise you a foot rub.”
I can’t stop myself from tracing the strong line of his brow or cupping his cheek where his beard is springy. His eyes close as if by reflex, but he forces them open and watches me.
“You did promise me that,” I say, my voice embarrassingly husky.
A smile lights his eyes. “And there are all those cookies and tea you brought.”
I laugh softly. “You’re going to make me tea?”
“Sure,” he murmurs, his lids lowering. “I’ll make you anything you want.” But he doesn’t get up. He gently nudges my legs farther apart before easing over me and making space for himself. His body is still hot. His dick is hard again, a meaty weight on my inner thigh.
Rye gives me a lazy kiss, slowly delving into my mouth. It steals my breath. Like that, I’m melting again. “You sore?” he whispers.
I am. Wonderfully, achingly sore. Doesn’t stop me from flushing hot as he cants his hips and slides his hardness higher. Humming, I rock my swollen clit against his cock just enough to send a tremor through me. “I feel empty.”
“Yeah?” His lips part mine, just a little, a soft, suckling kiss. “Can I fuck you again? Nice and slow. I’ll be gentle, Bren. So gentle.”
The wide tip of his cock is at my entrance, not pushing in, but hot and hard and waiting. I spread my thighs wider, meet his gaze and hold it. “Okay, but I still want that foot rub.”
His smile is instant and downright dirty with promise as he pushes slowly, oh, so slowly into my slick, sensitized sex. We both shiver, and his voice comes out like rough sand. “Anything, Berry. Anything.”
Chapter Sixteen
Rye
The thing about making a deal with the devil is that it’s always for something you want so desperately you pretend the inevitable suffering will be worth it. You make a little deal with yourself first, that you’ll able to handle anything thrown your way.
I shouldn’t liken Brenna to the devil. She’s not the one who came up with this deal. I did. I guess that makes me the devil here. Whatever the case, it’s becoming harder to pretend I’m fine with things as they are.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m mostly in heaven. Because getting to touch Brenna, to see her laugh, to make her moan and sigh, is heaven.
We have fallen into a pattern. We go about our days avoiding each other—or at least I try my best not to text or call her—and then we meet up at night and go at each other like sex-starved animals. Or rather, every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday night. Brenna insists on keeping to the three-nights-a-week rule.
And that? Yeah, that is hell.
I don’t understand it. I was perfectly fine in a no-sex-with-Brenna world. Not happy, exactly. Who is fully happy with every aspect of their lives? But I was fine. I’d live my days and nights without this fucking clawing need to see her, to breathe the same air. Now, I’m a damn wreck on our off days. I walk around like a zombie, not knowing what to do with myself. A permanent ache has taken up residence in my chest, and my skin feels both too cold and too tight.
That’s bad enough. But not as bad as having to publicly pretend that we’re still at odds with each other. That I don’t care about her.