11. Ryder
11
RYDER
We spend almost every day of the next two weeks together.
I don’t know what changed in her mind that day she invited me over, but ever since then, she’s been a new woman.
Or rather, she’s been herself.
The morning after our swim that skipped us over the line of friendship, I was entirely prepared for her to either redraw or cut contact entirely. For her to chalk it up to a momentary lapse, just another night when she got caught up in the heat of desire. I know why she did it the first time—hell, I respected her for it. Whether she did what she thought would better herself once, twice, a thousand times, I wouldn’t have judged her. Even if it would’ve cut me deeper this time.
So, imagine my surprise when, instead of waking up to another mutiny in her kitchen, I got a blow job and the offer of Belgian waffles.
I’ve kept things light between us. She hasn’t explicitly said that’s what she wants, but I didn’t think it was a huge assumption to make. Her marriage ended less than a year ago and it’s obvious she’s trying to focus on herself. Who am I to push for something serious?
Then again, she makes it really fucking hard. I want to spend all my time with her, get to know her better, make her laugh and smile, hold and kiss her. I just want more of her . And it’s hard not to blurt that out sometimes.
Admittedly, the sex is a good distraction. Especially when I walk onto her patio and find her sunbathing. Topless.
“Well, this is a nice surprise,” I say, sliding my sunglasses onto my head so I can stare at her shamelessly.
Goddamn, she’s gorgeous. She’s become more comfortable in her skin lately, wearing tighter clothes and less cover-ups. And she’s got a sway in her step nowadays. Whatever is in the water at that pole dancing studio, it has Vanessa feeling like every bit the siren I’ve seen her as since that first night.
She smiles, reaching her arms above her head as she stretches her body. “I was hot after class, so I went for a dip,” she purrs.
I can’t look away from her sun-kissed body, her skin glistening with sweat or oil or I-don’t-care-with-what. “Did it cool you off?” I manage to ask.
She bites down on her smile, slowly shaking her head.
I nod, as if that’s the end of this conversation. Walking over to the built-in fridge on the other side of the patio, I put away the ingredients I brought over for our at-home cooking date. And then I practically sprint back to Vanessa.
She doesn’t seem surprised when I place a knee between her legs so I can lean down and kiss her body. Or when I keep kissing her, because I become singularly focused on kissing every inch.
After a moment, I hear her chuckle. “Ryder,” she says, her tone admonishing as her hands sink into my hair.
“Just a quick one,” I murmur against her belly.
She huffs a laugh. “Just a quick what? Fuck?”
I grunt my disagreement as I move lower. “No. I just want to give you a quick orgasm.”
Before she can say anything else, I take the string of her bikini bottoms in my teeth. I’m not gentle about it, I simply yank on the string on one side, and then the other. When they’re both undone, I bite into the fabric and lift it away from her skin.
I love hearing her gasp when my teeth scrape against her pussy with the movement. In the next second, my mouth is between her legs, no barrier to dull the sensation.
With a groan, I set to work.
I could eat her for hours. It’s my favorite thing to do, every time. I can’t get enough of her taste, her moans, the feeling of her thighs tightening around my head when she comes. Even now, with my tongue swirling in quick circles over her clit and two fingers driving inside her, I know she’s about to come, and already I want to see it again. Once isn’t nearly enough.
But when I slide my tongue inside her and try for orgasm number two, she lets out a weak groan. “I’m too sensitive,” she whines. “I think you killed me last night.”
She pushes my face away, causing me to pout, but that just makes her laugh. When she sits up, it forces me to straighten into a kneeling position. I move, albeit begrudgingly.
But as soon as she creates the space, she’s flipping onto her hands and knees.
“Fuck,” I mutter, sliding my hand into her hair as she undoes my shorts.
I can only stare at the sight before me as she wraps her lips around my cock. She takes her time sucking me, with deep, slow pulls that drive me crazy. She takes me all the way into her throat before pulling back to the tip. It takes no time at all before my hips start moving.
“Let me fuck you,” I groan, fisting my hand in her hair as I try half-heartedly to pull her off me. Even as I continue to fuck her mouth.
I half-expect her to keep sucking, but instead, her lips pop off my cock. She looks up at me and whispers, “Come on me.”
Fuck. She’s never asked for that.
But she’s naked and glistening, her lips swollen and eyes lust-drunk, and there isn’t a chance in hell I’m not giving her exactly what she wants. I stand, the hand not woven into her hair dropping down to stroke my length. She straightens into a kneeling position as I move, bound by my grip on her. Her eyes never leave mine.
“Open your mouth,” I growl.
When she obediently extends her tongue, I bite out a curse.
“God damn , you look perfect like this,” I groan, my fist sliding faster and faster over my length. “You want my cum all over you? You want me to make you messy?”
She doesn’t speak, she simply nods, her pupils blown so black, I can barely see the green anymore.
I come with a deep groan.
Her eyes flutter closed when the first drop hits her cheek, and a moan slips out when more splatters over her tongue, her chin, her breasts.
I think I’ve composed myself with a shaky exhale, but then her eyes open and her gaze locks on me as she closes her mouth to swallow the few drops that landed on her tongue.
I bite out a curse, one hand reaching down to cup my hardening dick.
Vanessa is smiling as she shakes her head. “Your refractory period is inhuman. Are you always like this?”
I wince. “Never. But you’re kneeling at my feet, covered in sweat and my cum. It has an effect.”
She laughs as she gets to her feet. I waste no time wrapping an arm around her and pulling her closer, completely uncaring about the mess because I’m the one who made her messy.
Bracing her hands on my chest, she says with an amused smile, “I promise, after dinner, you can come on me—or in me—as much as you want.”
I groan, dropping my face into her neck. “Don’t talk about me coming in you. I’m barely surviving as is.”
She’s shaking her head as she gently pushes me back. “I’m going to shower and get dressed really quick. Can you pick out a wine for us?”
I nod and lean forward to kiss her. She ducks away with a laugh.
When she walks out onto the patio fifteen minutes later, she’s barefoot and braless, wearing a floral sundress that makes her look entirely too tempting. If I wasn’t admiring the outdoor kitchen on the other side of the patio, I’d probably pull her right back under me.
I force my attention to the island as she takes a seat on the couch. “Is this a built-in pizza oven?” I ask.
“Mmhmm.”
I whistle my appreciation. “This design is amazing, babe. It’s so seamless.”
She’s getting better with my compliments, because she smiles and says simply, “Thank you.”
I give up on the kitchen and walk over to her, plopping down on the cushion beside her. “So…remind me again why you don’t want to be an interior decorator?”
She shrugs. “I’m not exactly qualified for it. It’s not like interior design where I would need a degree and certificate, but building a portfolio with pictures of my own house hardly screams competent.”
My brow furrows. “Well, then how do people get into it? You have to start somewhere.”
Another shrug. “I don’t know, I’m sure there are courses and things you can pad your resume with. And networking is a big part of it. I think a lot of people get jobs based on word-of-mouth recommendations. Those jobs are what build your portfolio.”
I turn toward her with a raised eyebrow. “You don’t know rich people with more money than god that would let you design their house?”
Her voice goes cold. “None that aren’t connected to my ex.”
I look out over the ocean, debating if I want to push this conversation. I’ve avoided talking about the subjects that I can sense make Vanessa uncomfortable—job talk included. Despite the increase in design magazines around the house, and her spending more and more time on the design apps on her iPad, Vanessa hasn’t shown any willingness to share more about it as a career option. So I’ve left it alone, and stuck to safer topics.
I’m not even really sure why I’m bringing it up now . The only thing I can attribute it to is this growing feeling of restlessness inside me, for her to see how amazing she is.
And how amazing we’d be together.
But when I look over at her, at her stiff posture and general defensiveness as she waits for me to push her further, I know now isn’t the time to have this conversation. She’s not ready.
So instead, I put us back on solid ground, where I make her laugh.
Jerking my head toward the kitchen, I ask, “Should we try your hand at cooking first? Or are we doomed to eat chocolate chip cookies for the rest of our lives?”
A surprised laugh—tinged with gratitude—bursts out of her. “Definitely not. What are we making tonight?”
I pull her to her feet and toward the kitchen. “Chicken Florentine. It was the first thing I learned to make and it’s still one of my favorite things to eat. Why don’t you grab one of the skillets and we’ll get started on the chicken? I don’t trust you not to pelt me with the flour.”
She bites down on her smile. “I told you that was an accident. I didn’t mean to spray you with the hose.”
Grabbing a nearby dish towel, I whip her once, making her yelp. Then I do it again.
“What are you doing?” she shrieks, trying to move out of range.
“Your pants are on fire,” I answer with a straight face.
She collapses against the counter in a fit of laughter.
It takes us twenty minutes to make dinner. She’s a natural, of course, but it’s fun being the one who gets to guide her. She’s riveted throughout the entire lesson, following every instruction and not letting herself get distracted even when I get distracted by how alluring she is.
That is until I notice her staring at my hands when I sprinkle some parmesan as the final step.
A slow grin stretches across my face. “Something wrong, babe?”
Her eyes dart up to meet mine, cheeks pinkening when she realizes I caught her staring.
“So, is it my hands in general?” I ask innocently, sprinkling some more cheese. “Or did we just unlock a chef kink?”
That blush deepens. But where the Vanessa of three weeks ago would have changed the subject, this Vanessa doesn’t shy from the question.
“Probably both,” she mumbles, her focus dropping back to my hands. “I’m also wondering how you would look baking some pastries.”
I let out a thoughtful hum as I wipe my hands off. “Maybe I’ll bake you some cookies,” I muse. Then I press her back against the counter, trapping her between my hands. Dropping my mouth to her neck, I nip at the delicate skin and add, “Maybe afterwards I’ll make a sundae with them and eat it off of you.”
I grin against her shoulder when I hear her sucked-in breath and feel her hands come up to grip my shirt. Finding new ways to turn Vanessa on has become my favorite pastime.
Her swallow is audible. “I’ll grab the ice cream tomorrow.”
I straighten with a laugh, moving my hands to her waist. “I love how down you are to try anything.”
Vanessa smiles, her eyes still hazy with lust. “I wonder whose influence that is.”
I grin proudly. “I don’t know but he sounds like a lot of fun.”
She rolls her eyes, still smiling. But enough of her desire has cleared that her attention catches on the meal we just cooked, simmering beside us on the stove.
It takes all the self-control I possess, but I finish the cooking lesson like a good teacher. Cutting off a piece of the chicken, I make sure there’s plenty of sauce on it and hold it up for Vanessa to try. “Okay, open up.”
She leans forward and pulls the bite off with her teeth.
“That’s amazing,” she says, eyes widening as her hand comes up to cover her mouth. “Why don’t you offer that at the restaurant?”
Smiling, I shrug and cut a piece for myself. “I don’t know, I’ve eaten it so much, I guess I never thought about it.” I taste the chicken and groan. “Okay, maybe I need to make that a special one day.”
She takes the knife and fork from my hands so she can cut another piece. “You definitely do. This is better than the steak I ate the night I was there.”
I playfully slap at her hands with a scowl. “Don’t you dare let Massimo hear you say that. You’ll break his chef’s heart.”
She quirks an eyebrow. “You don’t like hearing I prefer your food to Massimo’s?”
That makes me pause. “On second thought…hearing that does make me feel good.”
Huffing a laugh, she grabs the skillet with one of the oven mitts and carries it over to the table on the patio. “Come on, let’s eat before this gets cold.”
The sun goes down as we eat, the sky crackling with a kaleidoscope of blues, pinks, and oranges. We talk about everything and nothing as the ocean air fills with the sound of our laughter.
The night is…perfect.
When we eventually settle on the patio couch to snuggle under a blanket, I can’t stop thinking about how I’ve never clicked with a person as well as I do with Vanessa. We have the same humor, our personalities mesh, we’re absolutely compatible in bed and have effortless fun together—it’s just so… right being with her.
And I want more of it.
Maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s the entirety of an evening spent with Vanessa. But suddenly, that feeling from earlier, that restlessness, grabs hold of me. I want her to see how amazing she is, and how good we’d be together. I want her to see us how I see us.
“You should come to family dinner on Sunday,” I say excitedly. “It’s awesome. My mom and dad and I make this giant feast, and the whole extended family takes over my parents’ backyard with games. You’d love it; half of them are boardwalk games, so you could swindle them out of their victories. I bet they’d think it’s hilarious.”
I don’t notice she’s stiffened until my comment is met with silence. Frowning, I look down at her, curled under my arm.
When she looks up at me, I get a front-row seat to her terrified and guilty expression. That’s all it takes for my stomach to sink, and I know I’ve just fucked up.