Chapter 27
27
Josie
My heart pounds an erratic rhythm as I head to my hotel room. All day, I’ve been scanning faces at the conference, knowing that any of the men here could be RJ. Even during my panel, I couldn’t stop searching the audience, wondering if he was there, if we’d make eye contact and feel a zing of connection.
Instead, my eyes kept snagging on Ryan. His concerned frown when I was interrupted by the old guys up there with me, his proud smile when Penelope Adler-Wolf stood and silenced everyone so I could talk. But also catching glimpses of him around the conference, always surrounded by hordes of women. I’m sure they all think he’s just the best thing ever, this tall smiling man with his cardigan and tortoiseshell glasses who loves all their favorite books. Every time I saw him shining his smile in another woman’s direction, my insides crackled with envy.
He’s probably having dinner with that woman who left her lipstick on his cheek. Maybe they’ll end up back in his room afterward, and I bet he won’t stop right before giving her a mind-melting orgasm.
The thought makes me nauseous. Truly sick to my stomach. Forcing my mind away, I let myself into my “Wicked Small” room (which is literally what the hotel calls them—they’re barely big enough for a queen-size bed) and change into the dress I picked out to meet RJ, my body tingling with fear and anticipation. I wish I could skip to the ending of this night, like I used to skip to the end of books as a kid, skimming the final pages because I couldn’t stand the tension. Will we connect as much in person as we do online? Or will our spark fizzle?
Only one way to find out.
I don’t need to leave yet, so I sit on the bed and pull out my phone, staring at the last message from RJ. My eyes catch on his profile picture, that familiar image of his hands holding a small, leather-bound book.
Feeling like a stalker, I click on the picture and zoom in, scanning the pixelated image for clues about this man I know so well but have never met. He’s wearing a light blue T-shirt, and I can make out some kind of pink strap around his neck. Maybe a lanyard.
The skin on my arms prickles. How many men wear a pink lanyard?
With shaking fingers, I zoom back out, now noticing the edges of what looks like a gray cardigan. A wave of dizziness hits me, but I force myself to stare at his hands again. Wide palms and thick fingers and knobby knuckles.
I know those hands. I’ve watched them handling books, carefully—almost tenderly. I’ve felt them in my hair and deep inside me.
It can’t be. Can it?
My vision is going black around the edges, my rib cage tightening as my breathing goes shallow.
A new message pops up.
RJ.Reads: Just got to the restaurant. Can’t wait to see you.
My entire body goes rigid. I don’t have time to sift through my prior conversations with RJ or mentally analyze my interactions with Ryan. I don’t have time to call my sister and get her advice. And I certainly don’t have time to sit here and freak out.
I need to go. Now.
Teetering in my heels, I hurry down the street to the restaurant. My legs are wobbly, my mind a whirling tornado—shock and confusion and a thousand questions.
How is this possible? Does he know? If he does, why didn’t he tell me? If he doesn’t, will he be happy? Am I happy? What if I’m wrong? Do I want to be wrong?
A rush of impending doom overwhelms me, and I falter. But it’s too late. I’m at the restaurant, and my eyes are scanning the crowd gathered at the entrance. There: Dark blue suit. Light blue shirt. A red rose in the lapel and a bouquet of daisies in his hands.
I slowly lift my eyes to his face and—
All the breath rushes out of my lungs. It’s Ryan.
He’s pale and fidgety and nervous looking. But none of the shock I feel is written on his face.
“You knew,” I whisper.
He blinks. “Wait—did you know?”
I nod, dazed. It was one thing to stare at my phone and put the pieces together. Quite another to stand here, facing him, knowing it for certain. My throat tightens with a feeling somewhere between anger and betrayal.
“Why didn’t you tell me—is this some kind of weird game?”
“No. Of course not.” Ryan takes a step forward, eyes flashing with panic. “Josie. I—I’ve been trying to tell you, I swear, but every time I asked about meeting in person…”
I said no. I kept asking him to be patient, to wait until I was ready—and he did. He did exactly what I asked. So why does my chest hurt so much? Why am I fighting tears and struggling to catch my breath?
“It’s really you?” My voice is faint.
He nods, the bouquet drooping in one hand. “It’s me. Ryan James Lawson.”
“How did you figure it out?” I ask, staring up at him in disbelief.
“I saw you reading—”
“ The Princess Bride ,” I say, gasping. “You knew before we went to Maine ?”
He winces.
“And you knew my sister’s name.” I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection before. “You knew my mom read bodice rippers. Things I didn’t tell RJ, things I told Ryan. Or vice versa. Whatever. Fuck. I can’t—” My voice is getting hysterical. “He’s been you the whole time? You’ve been him? The whole fucking time?”
The world tilts, and I look for somewhere to sit. To calm myself down so I can approach this rationally.
“Wait, don’t go—” Ryan puts out a hand and grabs my arm. “Can you give me ten minutes? Five minutes? I don’t blame you for being upset, but let me explain. Please.”
The rawness in his voice jolts me out of my dizziness and confusion, and I force myself to look at him. Really look at him. He’s an absolute wreck, his eyes teary, his hand still clutching the daisies. The expression on his face is complete and utter despair.
And then it all crystallizes.
The two men I’ve been torn between are one and the same. RJ is Ryan and he’s standing in front of me, staring at me like his heart is cracking in pieces. That ache in my chest? It’s the pain of realizing what I’ve missed out on all these weeks. I could’ve had him—all of him—if I’d been brave enough to meet him the first time he asked.
And I’ll be damned if I miss out on a moment more.
Without a word, I put my arms around him. He hesitates briefly before wrapping his arms around me in the best hug I can imagine, like being wrapped in a blanket fresh out of the dryer. He’s rubbing my back, whispering that he’s sorry, that he wanted to tell me but didn’t know how, that he’s crazy about me, that he’ll do anything to make this up to me. My hands clutch his suit jacket, my eyes leak tears onto his shirt, and I inhale his scent in deep, calming breaths. It’s my favorite smell in the entire world.
“Don’t cry, BookshopGirl,” he whispers, so quiet I almost don’t catch it. “Don’t cry.”
“Can we go somewhere?” I say, my face still buried in his chest.
“I put our name in for a table. We can talk more. I know this is all such a mess, but I’ll try to explain everything.”
That’s the smart thing to do. Sitting down for dinner and hashing it all out, discussing what this means for our partnership at the bookstore, if we should let our relationship go further. This is my usual approach: keeping my distance, avoiding my feelings, compartmentalizing everything into manageable, safe categories.
But if I’ve learned anything from the books I love to read, it’s that life is full of misunderstandings, raw emotions, and hard truths—and so are relationships. I’ve sometimes wondered if spending too much time lost in fiction has left me unable to face reality, but maybe it’s done the opposite. Maybe it’s been preparing me all along for this very moment: messy and complicated and real.
And now? I’m finally ready.
I look up at him. “I don’t want to go to dinner.”
“Oh,” he says, disappointment in his eyes. “I understand—”
“You have a room, right?”
He blinks. “At the hotel? Yes.”
“Then let’s go.”
I grab his hand and start marching back the way I came, no longer wobbling in my heels.
“Wait—what’s going on?” he says, tugging on my hand to turn me around.
“What’s going on?” I repeat, facing him. “This is the best news I’ve gotten in years.”
It takes a moment for that to hit him, but when it does, his entire face changes, confusion morphing into hope. “It is?”
“I’ve been an absolute mess , torn between RJ and Ryan, wishing I could somehow keep you both. So yes, we’re going to need to talk at some point, but all I can think of right now is picking up where we left off the other night.”
“I—” He shakes his head, a smile spreading across his face. “Then let’s go.”
We hurry down the sidewalk, hand in hand, grinning like kids on their way to the Scholastic Book Fair. When we reach the hotel, though, he starts tensing up, sneaking shifty glances at me in the elevator. And when we reach his door, he fumbles with the key card and drops it.
I stoop to pick it up, then pause and touch his cheek. “Hey. How you doing up there?”
He looks like he’s stuck his finger in an electric socket: eyes wide, glasses askew. “I’m having trouble believing this is happening. Is this happening?”
I hold the key card to the reader. “I sure hope so.”
The card registers, I turn the handle, and we both enter. And as the door clicks shut behind us, all his nerves swoop right into me.
It’s the sight of the bed, crisp and white, his suitcase open on the floor next to it, the cardigan and jeans he wore earlier draped over a chair, the warm glow of the lamp on the nightstand. The intimacy of it. We are alone in a hotel room and nothing is going to interrupt us.
“Hey,” he says, touching my cheek. “How you doing down there?”
“I’m…nervous,” I say.
“Why?”
“Because this matters to me.”
It never has before, I realize. Not with anyone else.
He’s looking at me with pure sweetness. “You know I’ve got you, right?”
I know he doesn’t just mean physically—he means in every way possible. And I believe him. I take his hand, leading him into the room, and he sets the bouquet on the desk. With trembling fingers, I reach for the top button of his shirt and undo it, working my way down.
“Good god,” I whisper.
“What?”
“Your chest.” It’s official: my new kink is a sturdy, six-foot-seven-inch man wearing a suit with the shirt unbuttoned to reveal peachy skin, scattered freckles, light brown hair fanning across his chest and diving into his waistband. “I want it.”
“It’s yours.”
“All of it?” I reach for the fly of his pants—there’s already a bulge—but he catches my wrist, and I have a moment of panic that he’s pulling away like last time.
He must see it on my face, because he says, “Don’t stop. But can we go slow?”
I nod, even though I’m aching to get going. He shrugs off his suit jacket and drapes it over a nearby chair.
“Ryan Lawson, now you’re worried about wrinkles?” I say, smiling.
“I’m trying to prove that I’m not just a messy ball of chaos. I remember your face when you saw my car the first time.”
His hair is way too perfectly combed, so I reach up and mess it with my fingers. Now he looks more like my Ryan.
“I’m learning to appreciate a little chaos,” I tell him. Then I reach for his glasses, setting them behind me on the desk, never taking my eyes off him.
I slide my hands under his dress shirt. His shoulders are broad, his arms thick, and he has these big, rounded pecs that make my eyes go wide as I spread my palms across them. No six-pack or V-cut abs here—his stomach is just the right amount of soft, which means this man doesn’t deny himself delicious things, like his beloved sugar-loaded coffees. I’m grateful; I have plenty of soft areas, too. If he was built like some action hero, I’d be intimidated.
I mime pulling a sticker off a sheet, then press it over his heart.
“Uh…what was that?” he says.
“A gold star.” I glance up at him; he’s smiling fondly. Then I glide my hands down his torso and start working on his belt.
“Josie, wait,” he says, tilting my chin up. I stiffen again, and he kisses my forehead. “Slow, remember? Please, I want to look at you.”
His eyes are almost feverish as he gazes down at my body. Big, warm hands come to my shoulders and my neck, searching for the zipper for my dress, so I turn around. He brushes my hair over one shoulder, and I swear he presses his nose to my head and inhales. Then he’s sliding the zipper down, fingers trailing along my back.
The dress puddles at my feet so I’m wearing nothing but my pale pink bra and panties and red high heels. Only an hour ago I put these on, wondering if RJ might see them—and the truth hits me again: RJ is Ryan and Ryan is RJ and somehow I’m here with them both.
The pad of his finger presses between my shoulder blades. “Gold star,” he whispers.
Another gentle press of his finger, below my bra strap, then another, star after star running down my spine, sending goose bumps across my skin.
He reaches around me from behind in a bear hug, cuddling me against him, and it would be sweet if there wasn’t a bulge pressing against my backside. I push back against it, and he clucks his tongue like he’s disappointed in me.
“What?” I say innocently.
“Slow,” he reminds me.
Then he takes my hand and turns me, guiding me toward him as he backs up and sits on the bed, facing me.
“I…” His face goes slack. “You’re so…” He licks his lips. “Josie, I’m…”
He’s glitching like a radio coming in and out of range, so I take his hands and place them on my waist. He was so urgent before—at the beach, in the store the other day—but now he’s tentative, sliding his hands up and down my hips, stroking my stomach with his thumbs. My body is lighting up, shivers running down my legs. He slides his hands up to encircle my ribs just below my bra, his fingertips teasing the clasp in back.
“May I?” he asks. So polite. As if he wasn’t the same man who roughly shoved my bra out of the way and palmed me like a dirty-minded teenager.
I nod, smiling.
“Say it.” His expression is grave.
“Yes,” I say obediently.
Slowly, he unclasps my bra, his eyes darkening as he takes in this new sight. His palms are warm and deliciously rough as he cups my breasts and leans forward, his mouth giving attention to one nipple, then the other. I run my hands through his hair and hum with pleasure. Everything is hazy and golden, sweet as honey on a summer morning.
Hands drift down to my hips, fingers playing with the elastic hem of my panties. “May I take these off?”
“What do you think?”
“I need to hear the word.”
He waits, and when I say “yes,” he starts sliding them down.
I step out of my panties, leaving my shoes behind, too, and then it’s just me, standing naked on the carpet as Ryan sits in front of me, almost fully clothed. I start to shrink into myself, but he catches my wrists and holds them out, turning me one way, then the other, letting his eyes linger.
“The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmurs. When I can’t stand this lazy perusal any longer, he looks up. Sharp eyes. Laser focused. “May I take you to bed?”
“ Yes! ” I shout, and he breaks into a smile and bends forward and throws me over his shoulder.
I yelp as I’m lifted in the air, inches away from the ceiling, but soon enough I’m being lowered, my back gently hitting the mattress as Ryan comes over me, grinning.
“You sounded pretty eager,” he says.
“You left me so hot and bothered the other day—”
“I know.” His smile disappears, lips dipping in a frown. “Let me make it up to you?”
“You better.”
He kisses my forehead, then my lips, moving down—neck, chest, stomach, hip. I need no encouragement to let my thighs fall open, and I gasp when I feel his wet, warm tongue as he tastes me, sucking, sliding two fingers to stroke inside me. It feels as wonderful as it did the other day in the bookstore—but now there’s nothing between us, no holding back, no unwilling deception. He was right; this is infinitely better, and I’m so damn grateful for him, grateful that he was patient when I wasn’t ready…and grateful that he made us wait until we could be fully open with each other.
He’s still going slow, and I shift myself to guide him where I want him. When he hits the right spot, I suck in a breath. I’m about to say, “Do that again,” but he’s apparently gotten the message, because he repeats the same motion, circling and stroking, and the rhythm is perfect, the friction exquisite.
Somehow, he manages to continue exactly the way I want. Time stretches and twists until I have no idea how long we’ve been here, but I’m squirming and my legs are trembling and I’m making the kind of noises I’ve mocked in the past, gasping and groaning, pleading for him to keep going, don’t stop, just like that, oh my god oh my god yes yes yes. He’s relentless, holding me in place as the intensity builds and builds, waves on a stormy sea, until I crest the highest peak and tumble down, head over heels, crying out over and over again.
I’m shaking when I open my eyes to see his face over mine, blurry.
He’s smirking down at me. “I seem to remember someone suggesting that women don’t make noises like that in real life.”
“Apparently that’s because I’ve only had mediocre sex.”
He chuckles. “Not anymore. Only the best for BookshopGirl.”
I laugh, shaking my head in amazement. “I still can’t believe you’re RJ. That I’ve been talking to you all this time. It’s going to take me a while to get used to it.”
“But it’s a good thing? You’re sure it’s good?” The vulnerability in his voice surprises me, and I put my hand on his cheek, gazing into his dark-honey eyes. All the times he confided in me that he felt like he didn’t measure up, that he was the participation trophy kid—I want to erase it all, every doubt in his mind that he is anything but extraordinary.
“So good,” I say. “The absolute best.”
He exhales and settles next to me on the pillow, putting one arm around me so my head is on his chest, my cheek resting on his unbuttoned shirt. “I didn’t know how to handle this when I first found out,” he says, his voice a quiet hum.
He’s still fully clothed, just his shirt open, and when his hand rests on my bare stomach, I feel suddenly exposed.
“You probably didn’t think it was such a good thing, huh?” Now it’s my voice that sounds vulnerable.
“Not at first. But it didn’t take long before I knew I had to do whatever it took to convince you to give us a chance.”
“I didn’t make it easy on you.”
He trails his fingers across my stomach. “Someone once told me that the effort is what makes it worth it—like mining for jewels. If they were out in the open, they wouldn’t be so precious.”
He’s repeating my words about my favorite books, but he’s saying them about me. It makes me feel, for the first time ever, that my protective shell isn’t a character flaw; maybe I’m not too difficult to get to know. Maybe I’ve just been waiting for someone who’s willing to put in the work.
Before I can respond, he slides his hand down between my legs, where I’m still sensitive. My breath catches. His fingers start drawing a slow, whisper-light circle that feels so good I can’t help sighing again.
Still, I feel like I should tell him. “Just so you know, I never have more than one orgasm during sex.”
“That’s fine.” But he doesn’t stop, and it does feel great, so I try to relax and enjoy it.
“Just don’t want you to be disappointed,” I murmur.
“Never.”
But as the minutes tick by, I start to worry. He’s used to romance-reading, sex-positive partners, not an aloof ice queen. Plus, he’s already given me a top-notch orgasm, and I don’t want to be greedy. What if he’s getting impatient? Or bored? This is why women fake it. But if I tried that, he’d know—he just saw the real thing.
“We really can do something else,” I say after a while.
He presses a kiss to my temple. “Josie. If it doesn’t feel good, just tell me.”
My breath hitches as he increases the pressure. “It feels good. So good. I just…”
“What?”
“I feel bad taking so much time and…and effort.”
Another brush of lips on my temple. “I’m in bed with my fantasy girl, and she’s naked and warm and soft, and I’m touching her exactly where I’ve been dreaming of touching her. I’m having the time of my life.”
A warm glow settles in my chest. “Fantasy girl?”
“You have no fucking idea.” The words are a deep rumble, and another wave of pleasure rolls through me.
“Tell me.”
He lets out a chuckle. “You want me to talk dirty?”
“Sure.” It’s not something I’ve liked in the past, but Ryan is getting me to believe in the power of change.
“Let’s see…the day you moved those squeaky bookcases, I was watching your ass. Trying not to think about how I wanted to pull your skirt up and pull your panties down and bend you over and bury myself inside you.” His fingers pick up the pace, and I feel a rush of heat. “Even when we were fighting, I’d have these impulses to press you against a bookcase and kiss you until you squirmed. Dreams, too. I’d wake up so hard I couldn’t function.”
My legs begin to tremble. He keeps talking, keeps touching me.
“I’ve imagined waking up with you in that bed at the inn, and we’re spooning and I get harder until you let me slide inside you, both of us lazy and sleepy, my lips pressed to the back of your neck and my hand between your legs.”
My fingers find his open shirt and I clutch it, bracing myself against the intensity of this feeling. It’s more than the building arousal—it’s his words. This isn’t simple dirty talk. These are his most intimate thoughts, murmured in my ear like confessions.
“At work I find myself listening for your voice and thinking about how your lips look like a perfect bow, and how your neck starts flushing when you get riled up. Like right now.”
I can’t respond; I’m on the edge, and he lowers his mouth to my ear and says, “Of all the books I’ve ever read and all the fantasies I’ve ever had, none of them hold a candle to the reality of being with you. You are what I’ve been waiting for.” He presses his lips to my jaw. “Please trust this: I will do whatever it takes to give you every single thing you have ever wanted.”
I’m starting to believe him. He’s so patient, and it’s paying off—my legs are tense and I’m breathless. My grip tightens on his shirt, and I squeeze my eyes shut and arch my back and—
This climax is a rolling wave, tossing me up and under, and when I resurface, I feel like I’m floating in warm, calm water. Slowly, I become aware of my body’s weight against the mattress, the sheet covering my bottom half, the scratch of Ryan’s shirt collar against my cheek. The press of his lips against my hair and his voice murmuring, “Watching you fall apart is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Fuck,” I whisper. I am in so much trouble with this man.
“Is that an exclamation or an instruction?”
I blink. “Huh? Oh. Both.”
Without further ado, I reach down and grab his belt. We’ve had plenty of slow —I’m ready to speed things up. I bat his hands away and whip that belt off, then unbuckle his pants to reveal baby blue boxers and a bulge veering to the left.
I palm him and he groans. It’s clear that Ryan is a giver, but now I’m desperate to see him take it, to watch him unravel and know that I’m the cause.
“My turn,” I say.
I’d like to say I have as much finesse as he does, but I’m a trembling mess as I pull his shirt off him, then struggle to get his pants down. He helps me, tossing them on the floor. I reach into his boxers and wrap my hand around him.
“Oh, thank god,” I whisper.
“What?”
“I was terrified that you’d have some monster giant dick.”
An awkward laugh. “I’m not sure how to respond to that.”
“I’m thrilled,” I say honestly. “I know women in romance novels want to be knotted or split up the center or get their backs blown out—and good for them—but this woman is ecstatic to see a penis that appears to be proportional and manageable.”
“That’s…” He pauses. “Good?”
“It’s great. Perfect. Wonderful. I mean, nothing about you is small.” I tug his boxers down; he helps me take them all the way off and send them in the direction of the rest of his clothes. “On your back.”
He obeys without a word. It’s almost comical, how much space he takes up in the bed, his legs sprawled out so his feet don’t dangle over the edge. Finally, I have him completely naked. Thick thighs and muscular calves, all covered in curly golden-brown hair. The skin near his upper thighs and hips is creamy and soft and I have half a mind to make him roll over so I can see that view. Instead, I make my way down, kissing the smooth skin near his hip bone, running my hand down that nice happy trail until I get to where I want to be. I wrap one hand around him and lick the tip.
“Fuck,” he hisses.
“Is that an exclamation or an instruction?” I say, then take him deeper. His hips jerk, but then he stays still, allowing me to get to know him. For the first time in my life, doing this doesn’t feel like a chore or an expectation. It’s a privilege, a pleasure, a joy. To give this to him, to hear his breathing quicken and watch his hands grip the sheets as he struggles to stay in control.
But all too soon, he’s pulling me up and shaking his head and throwing me back against the bed.
“That’s all I can take for now,” he says, grinning.
I scoot back against the headboard, and he comes up on his knees.
“Condom?” I say hopefully.
He opens the nightstand drawer and fishes one out. “I also have some in the pocket of my pants, just in case.”
He’s blushing, and those pink cheeks on this large naked man are so cute I can’t stand it.
I take the condom package, and he watches as I open it and roll it on him. His eyelids flutter in pleasure, and then he grabs my waist, pulling me under him.
There’s a moment of shock as our skin touches. He’s warm as a radiator on a winter’s night. And the scale of him—
“God, you’re so…” Big, I almost say, and stop. “Perfect,” I say instead. Because there’s so much more to him than his body, though I am a fan. He’s the man I’ve been pouring my heart out to online for months, the man I’ve worked side by side with for weeks, the man I’ve come to respect and admire for his passion, integrity, and dedication.
No longer my nemesis or even my competition—somehow, he’s become my best friend.
And now we’re skin to skin and he’s gazing at me, warm brown eyes and dilated pupils and soft eyelashes. He dips closer, and his lips find mine. Deep, searching kisses, still slow, savoring every taste. He parts my legs with his knee, and I feel him nudging against me.
“Josie. Do you want to do this?”
I can only nod, and he punishes me with a bite of my bottom lip.
“Words,” he says. “I need words.”
That feels like a big ask right now, but I search for one—
“Please.”
His eyes spark as he presses inside me, just an inch.
“Please, what?” he says.
I struggle for more words—the right words to capture how I feel. “Please be mine, Ryan.”
His smile is pure sunshine. “I already am,” he says, and pushes all the way inside me.
We both exhale—in pleasure, in relief. I’ve been waiting my entire life to want someone this much. To feel safe enough to drop my defenses. He pulls out partway and drives in again, and I’m along for the ride, letting him take the wheel. My heart is swelling and warming, like it’s too big for my chest. He’s locked in, thrusting slowly and watching me, changing his angle or his pressure, and each roll of his hips is better than the last.
“I take back everything I said about your books”—I gasp with another thrust—“if they taught you tricks like this.”
“Tricks?” A vein on his forehead is popping; he’s working hard to stay in control.
I wave in the direction of our hips. “This. You’re good at this.”
He thrusts again and I groan. “No tricks.”
“So you’re naturally gifted?”
“Nope. Just paying attention.”
And god, if that isn’t the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.
“For example…” He bends my knee up against him, lifts my hips off the bed an inch, and presses inside me again, a new angle that makes me whimper. “You seem to like that.” He leans down and puts his teeth on my earlobe; I shiver. “And that.” Then his hand moves up to my hair and makes a fist; my eyes roll back in my head. “And that, too.”
“Do you like it?” I feel like I’m not contributing much, but it’s difficult to participate when I’m melting into the bed.
“I like everything about this. Fantasy girl, remember?”
He closes his eyes and rolls into me again. Over and over, slow and steady—until it’s not. He quickens his pace, pressing his forehead against mine. Every muscle in his body is tense and taut. I run my fingernails down his back and bite his shoulder and kiss his neck until finally his rhythm falters and he tenses and shudders, holding on as long as he can to this moment before collapsing on me.
“Oof,” I say.
He springs up, rolling off me. “I’m sorry, did I—”
I tug him back over me. “Crush me, please.”
Shaking his head, he pulls me on top of him and I sprawl out, my cheek on his chest, listening to his heart rate slowly coming down. Every speck of tension in my body dissolves until I’m rag-doll limp and drifting toward sleep.
“Stay with me tonight?” he asks.
My eyes pop open. The thought of leaving hadn’t even occurred to me. “I might as well. Don’t want anyone to swoop in and take my place at breakfast with you tomorrow. By the way—where the hell did that lipstick on your cheek come from?”
I sound like a jealous harpy, but Ryan chuckles and wraps his arms around me. It’s like being in a straitjacket; I love it.
“All I was thinking about all day was you,” he says, kissing my forehead. “And now I’m thinking you must be hungry. I didn’t feed you dinner.”
There’s no way I’m leaving this bed. “We could get room service?”
“Sure. And then should we…talk?”
I know we need to talk—about everything that’s happened and what it means for our partnership at the bookstore and our future together—but there’s something else on my mind. Only problem is, it’s up in my room.
“Don’t take this the wrong say,” I say, “but I, uh, got an ARC from one of my favorite authors today—”
“Same!” He shifts so we’re facing each other. “It’s for the next book in this series I’m obsessed with—”
“And I keep thinking about it—”
“I read the first chapter over lunch—”
We’re talking over each other, and we both stop. Then we burst out laughing.
“You won’t be mad if we read tonight for a while?” I ask.
“Mad?” He laughs again. “I cannot think of anything better than hanging out in bed with you and reading.”
So that’s what we do. Ryan puts in a room service order. He cleans up and gets dressed, then takes my key card and goes to my room to fetch my roller bag and tote full of books from the convention. After we eat, he strips down to his boxers and I put on my pajamas, and we prop ourselves up in bed and open our books. He pulls my legs over his lap and lazily strokes them with one hand, pausing only when he needs to turn the page.
And as we lose ourselves in our stories, I find myself hoping, for the first time in my life, for a happy ending.