Chapter 10 – pippa
PIPPA
My feet feel like I took them on a walk through a broken glass factory. It’s only a short walk from my Uber to the House of Cards entrance, but every step feels like a punishment I don’t deserve.
“Ow, ow, ow,” I mumble to myself.
Normally, I pride myself on being able to rock four-inch heels through any scenario. Tonight, I can’t wait to strip my boots off and slip into my mercifully flat slippers.
I blame my date. When Alex showed up in a cowboy hat and shiny cowboy boots, I figured it was just a fashion statement.
Instead, he dragged me out to a honky-tonk and accosted my poor ears with country music all night.
I don’t care how much Beyoncé and Miley Cyrus try to convince me otherwise—country music sucks.
Still, I was determined to make the best of it. I’ve already written two articles about going out to dinner with wealthy assholes, and I don’t want all my 12 Dates of Christmas to be downers. So I took a few tequila shots and let myself get dragged out on the dance floor.
I had so much fun, I ended up staying out till 1:00 a.m. Getting up tomorrow is going to be a bitch, but it was worth it.
Once I’m in the lobby, I slump onto a bench and unzip my boots. I wince at the pain as my new blisters rub up against the leather, but once the shoes are off, I breathe a sigh of relief. Sweet freedom.
I shoot the doorman an apologetic look as I pad barefoot over to the elevator. He gives me a professional nod, completely unphased. I guess between all the guys who live here, he’s probably seen worse.
Maybe I should have invited Alex upstairs to talk a little more.
He was nice enough, and didn’t mention crypto or give off stalker vibes once.
I just don’t see us really dating. We had absolutely nothing in common—I love books, he only reads the news.
I dream of traveling, he doesn’t care if he ever leaves Canada.
I have a cat, he’s got three big dogs. If it weren’t for all the dancing, we would’ve just been sitting there awkwardly.
Still, it might have been nice to make out with him as a distraction.
My first article from the new series goes live on the Belladonna site tomorrow, and I’m nervous as hell.
I’ve never written anything that felt so personal, where I let my own, unfiltered voice free instead of using a polished, magazine-standard tone.
I just hope people don’t hate it.
When the elevator arrives, my finger automatically goes to the wrong button—number ten, Cat and Nate’s floor. I used to go up and visit her all the time, so it’s habit. I wish I could press it, so I could go up and tell her all about my night.
Since Cat got engaged, we’ve barely seen each other, and even our texting has gone down to a minimum. It feels like she’s always busy these days, and I don’t want to add more on her plate by being too demanding. Even if I’m dying to share my dating stories with a real friend and not my editor.
I just need to be patient. Cat’s always made time for me before, even when she was working two jobs. She’s not going to ditch me—even if I’ve lost some flaky friends before, Cat’s not like that. She’s too loyal. She’ll call me back.
The elevator arrives, and even though none of the lights are on, the ambient city light shining through the windows illuminates the outlines of the furniture in blue-ish white.
My boots clunk to the ground as I drop them.
After all the blisters they gave me, maybe I’ll just throw them down the elevator shaft.
My mouth feels dry, dehydrated from all the dancing and tequila. Padding to the kitchen, I grab a glass and turn on the tap.
“It was a good date, I take it?”
I jump, practically dropping my glass. Thankfully, my brain registers that it’s Ryan’s voice I’m hearing before I grab for a butcher knife. My empty hand goes to my chest, pressing against my thudding heart.
Ryan’s sitting in the living room, leaning back in an armchair with one long leg crossed over the other. I can’t see his face in the dark, but I can see him lift a glass of whiskey to take a sip.
“What the fuck, Ryan? Aren’t you supposed to be in L.A.? Why are you just lurking in the dark like a serial killer?”
He chuckles, but nothing about it sounds amused. “I needed to make sure you got home okay. It’s one in the morning, Pips.”
I shake my head. “Nobody asked you to play paranoid Daddy. You volunteered, apparently.”
The words feel sharp and raspy as they come out of my dry throat. I fill my water glass and take a long sip.
“Well, if I’m going to play Daddy, I should do it right.” Ryan drags out the word, taunting me with it. “Where did the young man take you?”
“Drinks and dancing. Some honky-tonk in the West End.”
This time when Ryan laughs, it’s warmer. “Oh man, you must have loooooooved that.”
I raise my chin. “I had a great time, actually.”
“Of course. Because you love country music so much,” he says sarcastically.
My shoulders tighten. Something about the way he’s so confident sets me on edge. He acts like he knows me, even if we haven’t spent real time together since high school. Well, screw that. I’m tired of him telling me how boring and stuck-up and humorless I am.
“You don’t have a clue what I like. Music or otherwise,” I spit.
“Oh yeah?” He pushes out of the chair and saunters over. Jesus, he’s still not wearing a shirt, because of course he isn’t. The dim light glints off the silver chain hanging from his neck. I swallow, my chest suddenly feeling way too tight.
“You love country music so much? Then name one artist,” he says.
My brain scrambles, throwing a thousand wrong names at me. Sheila? Garth? Reba?
“Reba McEntire!” I blurt out. I’m about 80 percent sure that name is right.
Ryan raises a brow, and for a second I think he might actually be impressed. Then he leans in toward me, his nose just inches from mine.
“What’s one song she sings?”
Fuck.
My lips part and I suck in a breath. Song names flash through my mind, but I can’t seem to grasp on to any of them. I can’t think with Ryan so close, taunting me with his dark eyes and his full lips curled into a smirk. No man should get to have lips like that—it’s not fucking fair.
Ryan smacks his lips, pure satisfaction pooling in his eyes. “That’s what I thought. Maybe say something like you might like the boots and hats, Pips, but you’ll never be a country girl and you know it. You’re rock and roll, through and through. Always have been. Always will be.”
My blood feels like it’s vibrating through my veins. Putting my hands on his chest, I shove him away. “You don’t know anything about me, asshole.”
His hands circle my wrists, grabbing them tight and yanking me forward. My hands land on his hard, leanly muscled chest. His bare skin feels hot under my fingers, his body like an inferno inches away from me. I can’t breathe as he glowers down at me.
“Yes, I fucking do,” he growls.
He buries a hand in my hair, yanking so hard that my scalp stings and I can’t hold back my whimper of pain. He swallows the sound as he shoves his lips against mine.
My whole body freezes. I can’t move, can’t speak, can’t think. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to use my arms to push him away. I’d fall if Ryan wasn’t holding me tight against him.
Is this really fucking happening?
Ryan’s tongue presses into my mouth, sure and demanding.
He tastes like whiskey and bad decisions, and I can’t get enough.
Dark heat rushes through me like wildfire, starting low in my belly and spreading relentlessly through my veins.
I’m dizzy with how fucking good it feels to have his hard body pressed against mine, his warm musky scent surrounding me.
My traitorous body responds instinctively, fingers digging into his skin as I arch my back, pressing myself against him. I push up on my toes, trying to eliminate every micron of space between us.
Ryan’s mouth moves expertly over mine, hot and rough and furious. He uses the hand still tight in my hair to angle my head just the way he wants, plundering my mouth with his tongue. There’s nothing sweet or gentle about it, but that’s the point.
I like a man to be rough with me, and somehow he fucking knows.
Well, I give as good as I get.
I scratch my nails hard against his side, leaving marks as I trace from his ribs to his spine. He hisses at the pain, shoving me back against the kitchen counter. It knocks the breath out of me for a second. When Ryan’s hard body presses back against me, it makes me gasp at the sensation.
It’s my last breath before his lips are back on mine. Every brush of his lips is furious, all-consuming, and fucking devastating.
My body melts under the molten heat of his touch. Our bodies mold against each other, my breasts against his bare chest, our hips grinding hard against each other. A sharp ache spreads between my thighs, my clit already swollen and begging for relief. I whimper against Ryan’s mouth, wanting—
Meow!
Waffle cries out insistently, piercing the silence. Ryan and I break apart at the sound, hands, lips, and tongues to ourselves.
Pleased, Waffle purrs and winds around my ankles. I take a shuddering breath, still incapable of processing what just happened. At least it’s dark enough that Ryan can’t see my face. I don’t want to know what my expression is saying.
I crouch to pick up Waffle and push past Ryan to walk back to my room. I need to get away from him and just think. I practically run down the hallway back to my bedroom, Waffle wiggling in my arms.
Once I’m inside the door, I close it and slump against the back of it. Waffle eagerly jumps to the floor, off to find some toy to kick around.
I’m left to sag to the floor and confront reality. Ryan kissed me, and I didn’t stop him. Worse, I kissed him back.
I knew living with Ryan was going to be a disaster, but I never guessed this would be the fallout.