11. Ryder
RYDER
The security feeds glow blue-white across my living room while Alex pretends to sleep upstairs.
I’m on the couch with the scanner low on the coffee table, my phone facedown beside an untouched glass of water, and every light in the house off except the lamp in the corner and the monitors showing the outside of my house from five different angles.
Front porch. Driveway. Garage. Back door.
Side yard. I told Alex about every camera.
No more secrets. At least, not from her.
Alex didn’t close or lock the guest bedroom door.
My obsessive brain keeps coming back to that, because it would be so easy to stand, cross the living room, take the stairs, and check on her.
Just check. I don’t need to touch her.
The lie sits there, ugly and familiar, while I lean forward and brace my elbows on my knees.
Of course I fuckin’ need her. I need her more than I need to eat.
There’s a reason she’s here, with me, instead of her family.
And I will be damned if I walk away or do anything to drive her away now that I have her. That’s not even remotely possible. Not anymore.
The couch creaks beneath my weight. I stare at the front porch feed until my eyes burn, but the image doesn’t change. Empty steps. Wet railing. The black shine of the driveway beyond the porch light.
My phone buzzes against the table, and I check it out of habit.
Remy: Parker sent the Lucy’s footage. Preston left through the back after you got Alex outside. No plate yet. We’re checking street cams.
My hand tightens around the phone hard enough to make the case creak. Through the reflection of the screen, I catch the hard line of my mouth and force my jaw to loosen before I crack a tooth.
Me: He had enough time to get to her apartment.
Remy: Looks that way. Parker said he paid cash, left the drink, and smiled at the server like he hadn’t just grabbed a woman under the table then asked for her number. Man’s got balls. Can’t wait to help you remove them.
I close my eyes and see Alex’s wrist again.
Red marks were already darkening when we stood beneath my porch light.
Her hand tucked under my jacket to hide herself.
The way she told me he hurt her again, flat and small, like the words couldn’t carry the real size of what they meant. The pain she went through.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard.
Me: Tell Parker thank you.
Remy: Tell her yourself when she stops threatening to staple Preston’s balls to a barstool.
Despite the rage crawling through me, a rough breath almost passes for a laugh. Parker would, too. Remy married a woman with a soft smile, a sharp tongue, and absolutely no fear of making dangerous men look stupid in public.
Remy: Alex needs to make a statement tomorrow.
The almost-laugh dies.
I glance toward the ceiling. The guest room is directly above the hall, not over the living room, but I look up anyway like I might see through drywall if I want hard enough.
Me: I’ll talk to her.
Remy: Talk to her or I will.
I look at that message longer than I need to. Then I turn the phone facedown again before I say something that makes him drive over here just to hit me.
The scanner murmurs from the coffee table, low enough that the words blur together and create white noise. I reach for the volume knob and turn it down another notch because I can hear Alex moving upstairs.
One step.
Then another.
A floorboard gives beneath her weight, faint but clearly my house is telling me that my guest isn’t safely tucked in bed.
Every muscle in my body locks.
I don’t move. I sit there with my hands clasped loosely between my knees and my eyes fixed on the side-yard feed while she crosses the guest room above me. Water runs for less than a minute in the bathroom. Then the steps return, softer this time, and the house goes still again.
She’s awake up there. Maybe scared. Maybe checking the window lock twice and staring at the door, wondering if she should have locked it. Maybe lying in my guest room wearing my jacket and tasting me on her mouth while I sit downstairs pretending the monitors are what require all this restraint.
My hand goes to the back of my neck, fingers digging in until the pressure hurts.
She kissed me.
More than once.
Alex Harmon fucking kissed me.
The first time outside Lucy’s with rain in her hair, Preston’s marks on her skin, and a look in her eyes that damn near broke what little restraint I had left.
The second time here, in my living room, with her hands on my chest and my name caught in her mouth like she had made a decision she wasn’t willing to apologize for.
I could still feel her fingers in my hair if I let myself.
I’m so gone for that woman, because I want to. I want to live in the memory of her touch.
My body reacts hard and fast, a pulse of heat low in my stomach that has nothing to do with comfort and everything to do with Alex upstairs in a bed I put her in before I lost the last thread of sense I had.
I shift on the couch, dragging one hand over my mouth, but that only brings back the taste of her.
Rain. Sprite. Salt from the fries she ate because she knew I needed her to eat. Her mouth soft at first, then not soft at all when she pressed closer and let me feel exactly how much she wanted.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
The front porch feed stays empty. The driveway feed shows my truck slick with rain. The world outside my house keeps being nothing but wet darkness and motionless trees.
Inside, I’m a goddamn mess.
I lean back against the couch and close my eyes, but that is worse.
With the monitors gone, there’s nothing except for Alex on my mind.
Every image of her is burned into my memory.
Her standing in my kitchen holding a bag of sour gummy worms like she was seconds away from throwing it at my head.
Her face when she saw the photograph on my shelf. Her hand on my chest. Her whisper.
You should probably tell me not to do this.
I should have.
No, that’s not true. I was never going to tell her not to kiss me. I was only strong enough to stop after I knew what her mouth felt like when she chose mine.
My hand drops to my thigh. I tell myself to leave it there.
The scanner murmurs again. A dispatcher’s voice breaks through, then fades. My house creaks with rain and wind. Upstairs, Alex doesn’t move.
I slide my hand over the front of my jeans and bite back a groan so rough it burns my throat.
The pressure is brutal. Immediate. I should get up, take a cold shower, do push-ups until my arms shake, go outside and stand in the rain like an idiot.
Instead, I stay on the couch with my eyes on the monitors and my hand moving, slow and firm, over denim.
I think about her hand in my hair.
Her mouth opening under mine.
The way she looked at me when I told her I wanted to touch her everywhere.
My zipper is loud in the quiet living room. I pause after lowering it, listening hard enough to hear the rainwater running through the gutters. Nothing upstairs. No footsteps. No door. No voice calling for me.
I’m a grown ass man. If I want to take my dick out, I can.
That doesn’t change the fact that I feel like I’m going to get caught any second.
I wrap my hand around myself and exhale through my teeth.
It’s relief and punishment at the same time.
I keep my eyes open because shutting them feels too close to shame.
And I’m not ashamed of this. Of what she does to my fraying self control.
The monitors glow across my skin, turning my hand and stomach ghost-pale in the room’s dim light.
I stroke myself slowly, jaw clenched, breathing controlled through my nose while every filthy, desperate thought I’ve ever had about Alex tries to climb into my head.
Her on this couch, with her shirt up around her waist and my fingers playing with her.
Her in my bed wearing absolutely nothing but a smile.
Her looking up at me with that smart mouth red from mine, telling me exactly what she wants because she finally knows I’ll give it to her.
My hand tightens.
I tip my head back against the couch, the tendons in my neck pulling tight as I fight to stay quiet.
I don’t let myself imagine going upstairs.
I don’t let myself imagine her vulnerable and half-asleep.
Not tonight. Tonight I keep her in my mind the way she was downstairs: awake, choosing, hands on me, eyes clear even through the fear.
That is the only version I will let myself have tonight.
The thought hits harder than it should, and pleasure coils tight at the base of my spine. I move faster, still watching the empty porch feed, still listening for her, still forcing every breath to stay low and contained. My free hand grips the edge of the couch cushion.
“Alex,” I breathe, so quietly there’s no chance my words were heard.
I come with my teeth locked and my eyes open, heat spilling over my hand while the monitors keep showing nothing. No movement outside. No threat at the door. No one getting through the dark to reach her.
My body grows heavy afterward, but the shame doesn’t come the way I expect it to. Not exactly. Wanting Alex isn’t the problem. Walking upstairs because the door might be unlocked would be. Turning her trust into permission she never gave would be.
I sit there with my breathing rough and one hand braced on my thigh, staring at the porch camera until the difference settles into a hard, necessary truth.
Wanting is mine. I’ve always wanted her. Since she was my best friend’s little sister with stars in her eyes and her entire future ahead of her.
Choosing has to be hers. I’ve already stayed away for her benefit before.
Now? Now, I want her to pick me because that’s all she wants.
Not because she has no choice.