Chapter 5
Chapter 5
Ryan
F or a moment, I just stand there, the scotch dripping from my face, soaking into my shirt. The burn of the liquor on my skin is sharp, the scent heady and familiar. I run my tongue across my lips, tasting the smokiness of the drink she just threw in my face. Damn.
Her tastes have improved.
Unless I’m seriously mistaken, it’s the same brand I favor—Macallan, probably at least a twenty-five-year, maybe older. Candace Prescott doesn’t do things halfway. Even her fury comes with a touch of class.
A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it, low and nervous at first, but it builds, rolling out of me in a way I can’t control. The whole tavern stares, wide-eyed, until one of the regulars at the bar starts chuckling, and before long, the entire place is laughing with me.
I swipe my sleeve across my face, grinning as I turn to the waitress, who looks completely flustered. “Sorry for the mess,” I say, reaching for my wallet and pulling out a hundred-dollar bill. “That should cover it. Keep the change.”
She stammers something I can’t hear over the laughter, and I wave it off, tossing the bill onto the counter before heading out the door.
The cool night air hits me like a slap, washing away some of the liquor’s lingering sting. I take a deep breath, steadying myself as I stride toward my bike. My boots crunch against the gravel, and the sound is the only thing grounding me for a moment.
Where the hell did she go?
Sliding onto my Indian, I fire up the engine, the rumble vibrating through me as I take off toward the only place I can think she’d be. If I know Candace—and I’d like to think I do—she wouldn’t settle for just any accommodation. She’d want somewhere luxurious, private, and preferably with a killer view. There’s only one place in this town that fits the bill: the Airbnb on the outskirts, perched on the rise overlooking the Atlantic.
The road winds ahead of me, dark and quiet, the bike’s headlight cutting through the night. I’m halfway there when I spot it: her limo parked on the side of the road, its glossy black surface gleaming faintly under the moonlight.
I pull over behind it, killing the engine and swinging my leg off the bike. The driver is standing outside the driver’s side door, staring straight ahead like a statue. His expression doesn’t change as I approach, but his eyes flick toward me briefly before glancing down the hill.
“Down there?” I ask, gesturing toward the rocky hill that heads down to the ocean.
He nods once, a subtle movement, and I don’t wait for more.
The path down the hill is steep and uneven, the rocks shifting under my boots as I descend. The sound of waves crashing against the shore grows louder with each step, the salty tang of the ocean filling my lungs.
I spot her before she notices me, crouched low to the ground, her hand splayed over the earth like she’s trying to draw something out of it. The moonlight catches the wet streaks on her cheeks, her face tight with an anger I don’t fully understand. It’s as if this place has special significance to her—as if there is a memory she is trying to recapture.
It’s not the Candace I expect—the icy, controlled woman who just threw scotch in my face. This is raw, vulnerable, a side of her I haven’t seen in many, many years.
“Candace,” I say softly, my voice barely audible over the waves. “What is it, baby?”
She stiffens, her head snapping up, and her glare could cut through steel. She wipes at her face quickly, as if trying to erase any evidence of tears, then stands, her movements sharp and deliberate.
“You don’t get to call me that. Not now, not ever. What the hell are you doing here?” she bites out, her tone cold enough to make me flinch.
“I could ask you the same thing,” I reply, my hands raised slightly in a gesture of peace. “But I figured you wouldn’t answer.”
She doesn’t. Instead, she turns and starts back up the hill, her steps unsteady but determined. Stiletto Louboutins aren’t exactly made for negotiating sand dunes or walking on the beach.
“You sure you don’t want a hand?” I call after her, the faintest hint of a grin tugging at my lips.
“Go to hell, Ryan,” she snaps without looking back.
I follow her anyway, keeping a few paces behind, watching her ass under that pencil skirt sway in a way that makes me hard as a rock. God, I dream of her ass, but I dream of her tits and pussy, as well. She fights her way up the incline without so much as a stumble. That’s Candace for you—stubborn as hell, always refusing help even when she needs it.
When we reach the road, she heads straight for the limo, her heels clicking against the pavement with every furious step. She doesn’t pause, doesn’t look back, just slips inside after the driver opens the door.
I stand there for a moment, debating whether to let her stew, but I can’t help myself. I round the limo and open the passenger door, climbing in without asking for permission.
The driver doesn’t react, his face as impassive as ever. Candace, on the other hand, shoots me a withering glare but says nothing, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.
For now, I let the silence linger. She’s mad as hell, and I’m not in the mood to pour fuel on the fire—yet.
The silence stretches between us like a taut wire, ready to snap. The driver starts the engine.
“Don’t,” I growl.
The driver sits back. I’m not so stupid as to believe this will end up with us in bed together so I don’t intend to be separated from my bike. The tension is thick enough to choke on. I can’t take it anymore.
I turn to face her. “You threw your scotch in my face,” I say, breaking the quiet.
Her head snaps toward me, her eyes blazing. “I wish it had been gasoline and that I’d had a match.”
I let out a low whistle, shaking my head with a faint smile. “That bad, huh?”
She doesn’t answer, just turns away and glares out the window. Her fingers dig into the leather seat, and I can see the effort it’s taking for her to keep from saying more. I lean back, my arm resting along the top of the seat, watching her, studying her. She’s always been fire and steel, but this? This is something else. This is next level.
“Why are you so angry, Candace?” I ask quietly, the question hanging in the air between us.
Her jaw tightens, her gaze still fixed on the darkness outside. “It’s too late, Ryan. Too late for explanations, too late for apologies. It’s all just… too late.”
I tilt my head, watching the way her chest rises and falls, the rapid rhythm betraying the storm beneath her calm exterior. “Is it too late for… other things?” I ask, my voice low, almost a whisper.
She turns then, her eyes locking onto mine, and the look she gives me knocks the breath right out of my lungs. It’s anger, yes, but it’s something else, too. Something deeper. Something raw.
For a second, the world holds still. I don’t know who moves first, but suddenly I’m leaning forward, my hand sliding up to press the button that raises the privacy barrier between us and the driver. As the soft hum of the partition settles into place, I reach for her, hauling her over the small space that separates us.
Her lips crash into mine, and the kiss is nothing like the ones I remember. It’s hard, fierce, fueled by years of anger and frustration. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer even as her teeth nip at my bottom lip, and I groan, deep and low, as the fire in her ignites something in me I thought she’d long ago buried.
I pull her onto my lap, my hands sliding up her thighs, hiking up her skirt as I feel the heat of her body pressing against me. She breaks the kiss, her breath coming fast, her lips swollen and wet as she glares down at me.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” she snaps, her voice trembling with fury and… something else.
“Right,” I murmur, my hands gripping her hips as I pull her down against me, stealing another kiss before she can argue.
The limo sways slightly as we move together, the heat between us building to a fever pitch. Clothes are pushed aside, her skirt bunched around her hips, my shirt shoved open. Her nails rake across my chest, leaving marks I’ll feel for days, and I love it. Every moment of it. It’s raw, it’s messy, it’s nothing like what I remembered or imagined—because this isn’t about love. It’s about years of unresolved tension, of hurt and desire colliding in a storm neither of us can control.
Her body arches as I slip my fingers into her pussy to find that place inside her, wet and waiting. She’s biting down on her bottom lip—she never was one much for foreplay, but then when we were kids, neither was I. I slide another finger inside her, the slickness making it easy for me to pump in and out. Her walls clench around me and I can’t help but groan at the tightness.
“Look at me,” I order, my voice hoarse with desire. She looks away. I grasp her chin and force her to do so. Her eyes flutter open and meet mine, glittering with suppressed need. The sight alone is enough to make me shudder with anticipation.
“Candace,” I say softly. “I’m going to have you. Do you have a problem with that?”
She shakes her head. “Get on with it.”
Damn, she’s hard, but then so am I. I remove my hand from between her legs, leaning her back onto the seat, spreading her legs and unbuttoning my fly. My cock juts out. It’s as if the thing has been waiting for this chance to have her again for a very long time.
I shove in and she gasps as I do so, the heady pleasure of being inside her causing me to momentarily pause to drink in the sensation.
“God, you feel good,” I murmur, beginning to rock my hips against hers. Our bodies shift against each other in a perfect rhythm, each thrust sending a jolt of pleasure through both of us. I watch as her eyes go wide at the stretch, her breath hitching with each move I make.
Her nails dig into my shoulders, a low moan slipping from her lips as I angle my hips to hit that sweet spot deep within her. When she squeezes around my length, I know she’s dangerously close to the edge.
I almost want to laugh at how quickly she’s finding her pleasure, but I won’t. I’m not doing anything to take away from her pleasure. She needs to remember this. Remember us. I remember everything about us… about her. I know I’d be able to extend or repeat her climax if I could get her into a bed.
I pull out entirely before reentering her in one swift motion, causing her back to arch with a surprised cry. I grin wolfishly at the responsiveness of her body. The way she moves with me is intoxicating.I’d almost convinced myself that it hadn’t been this good between us. I was so fucking wrong.
I reach up and capture her chin, forcing her eyes to mine. She’s panting heavily, her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath she takes. I lower my lips to hers, swallowing her moans as I drive into her harder.
“Harder,” she moans.
That’s all I need to hear to release the last bit of control I’m holding back. My thrusts become erratic but purposeful as I chase that high. I’m pounding into her as her body tenses beneath mine, a clear sign she’s on the brink of her release. Her body convulses beneath mine and her gasps turn into cries of abandonment and pleasure as wave after wave of pleasure washes over her. I watch with satisfaction, feeling simultaneously powerful and captivated. Her release is a beautiful thing to witness—pure, raw, and unabashed.
With her every whimper, every pleading grasp at my shoulders, I feel my own climax approaching. Her nails sink into my flesh, dragging me further down the precipice of my own pleasure. She’s a volatile force I know I won’t be able to resist.
I grip her hips harder, holding onto her as I thrust into her over and over again. Candace’s cries grow louder and then soften into a low moan—a sound that pulls at something deep within me and sends me spiraling over the edge.
With one final thrust, I let out a groan that echoes in the otherwise silent space. My body shudders against hers as I ride out my own climax.
Finally sliding out of her, I watch as my cum pools at her entrance. Her clothes and hair are in disarray. God, this is a sight worth seeing.
When it’s over, she pushes me away, her breathing heavy as she rights herself on the seat, smoothing down her skirt and straightening her blouse. I reach for her, but she swats my hand away, her glare returning full force.
“Don’t,” she says sharply, grabbing her purse. “Just don’t. This changes nothing. Get out.”
I watch as she yanks open the door and steps out of the limo, her heels clicking against the pavement as she walks away. The driver rolls down the barrier and glances back at me in the rearview mirror, his expression unreadable, but he doesn’t say a word.
I climb out after her, watching as she rounds the front of the limo climbs back inside and slams the door, flicking the electric locks. Well played, baby. Well played. The engine roars to life, and the car pulls away, leaving me standing on the side of the road, the cool night air washing over my overheated skin.
For a moment, I just stand there, staring after her. My chest feels lighter than it has in years, like something that’s been weighing me down has finally lifted.
Coming back was the right decision.
Seeing her again has sparked something in me, something I thought had died a long time ago. And obviously, she still feels strongly too—no one throws expensive scotch in a man’s face she doesn’t care about, not to mention has sex in the back seat of a limo with him if they’re indifferent.
Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe there’s a way to fix things.
I glance up at the stars, taking a deep breath, and smile faintly. I’m not running this time. Not from her, not from my family, not from this town, not from anything. It’s time to make things right. I swing my leg over the Indian, start the engine, and head back to the vineyard.