7. Alex #3
My name sounds different in his mouth than it had coming from Preston. Gentle without being soft. Careful without making me feel breakable. God, how is this man as perfect as he is? I don’t deserve him.
I never will.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, covering for the pain and exhaustion and embarrassment of the situation in a way that feels both comforting and perpetuating the lie.
His eyes go to my wrist again, and I wish I were able to keep him from seeing everything. Red marks already circle the skin where Preston grabbed me.
I look down at my own arm like it belongs to someone else. “I’m not fine.” The truth doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would.
Ryder’s hands flex, then stop. “I know.”
“He hurt me,” I say. “Again.” The words come out flat.
I hate that. I thought if I ever said them out loud, they would sound dramatic enough to match what they cost. The pain and humiliation I’m being forced to wear because my words don’t just expose Preston…
I’m the one exposed. My weakness. The words should be huge.
They should suck all of the air out of my lungs. Instead they’re small. Plain. So much
Ryder’s face changes, and this time he can’t hide it.
“He hurt me for years,” I add, because if I stop now, I don’t know when I’ll ever start again. “He grabbed me. He hit me. He used a belt once because I embarrassed him at dinner. He made me apologize afterward for making him so angry.”
Ryder turns his head away.
Only for a second.
When he looks back, his eyes are wet and furious, and that does something brutal to my chest.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I shake my head fast. “Don’t.”
“Okay.”
“I can’t handle sorry right now.”
“Then I won’t say it again.”
My breath shudders out, and he watches me fight for the next one.
“Look at me,” Ryder says, his voice low.
I do.
“Give me your hand.”
My fingers tremble when I lift them, but he doesn’t grab. He waits until I put my hand in his. His palm is warm. Solid. He turns my hand over carefully, avoiding the marks on my wrist, and presses two fingers against the center of my palm.
“Here,” he murmurs. “Stay here with me.”
A laugh breaks out of me, thin and messy. “That sounds like something from a terrible self-help podcast.”
His mouth twitches, but his eyes stay on mine. “Is it working?”
“No.”
He raises one brow.
“A little,” I admit.
“Good.”
I hate how badly I want to step into him.
I hate how much easier breathing feels with his hand around mine and his body blocking the wind.
I hate that Preston was right about one thing: Ryder has always been there in the back of my mind, impossible and warm and dangerous in a completely different way.
Ryder brushes his thumb across my palm once. “I should’ve gotten there sooner.”
“You got there.”
“Not soon enough.”
“Ryder.”
His name comes out rough, and his gaze drops to my mouth before he catches himself.
That tiny slip changes everything.
The rain. The street. The red marks on my wrist. The fear clawing through my ribs. All of it is still there, but now there is Ryder too, standing close enough to touch, watching me like he is one bad decision away from giving me whatever I ask for.
So I ask without words.
I step closer, rise onto my toes, and kiss him.
For half a second, he doesn’t move.
His whole body locks like I’ve shoved him off a ledge.
Then a sound tears out of him, low and wrecked, and he kisses me back.
Not gently.
Not the way a man kisses his best friend’s little sister after years of behaving himself.
Ryder kisses me like restraint has been killing him and I just put my mouth on the wound.
His hand slides into my hair, careful for one breath, then firm enough to tilt my head exactly where he wants it.
His other arm wraps around my waist and pulls me against him until there is no cold air left between us.
I gasp into his mouth.
He takes it like permission.
The brick presses against my back. Ryder’s body covers mine, broad and hot and shaking with the effort of not taking more than I’m giving.
He tastes like rain and mint and something that feels dangerously close to home.
My hands grip the front of his jacket, because standing has become complicated and apparently my knees have decided this is their resignation letter.
Ryder breaks the kiss first.
Barely.
His forehead rests against mine, his breathing harsh enough that I feel it against my lips.
“Alex,” he says, and this time my name sounds like a warning.
I pull him back down anyway.
He swears against my mouth and kisses me again, slower now, deeper in a way that makes my whole body go soft and restless at the same time. His thumb strokes once beneath my jaw. The gentleness of it nearly ruins me more than the hunger.
When he pulls back again, he doesn’t let go.
Neither do I.
Rain slides down his temple. His eyes search mine, dark and blown wide, with years of things neither of us has been brave enough to say.
“I don’t want to be afraid of wanting you,” I whisper.
Ryder closes his eyes for one second, like the words hurt.
When he opens them, his hand tightens in my hair. “Then don’t be. You’re worth it, Alex. You’re worth everything. Every. Fucking. Thing.”
And then he kisses me again.