9. Ryder
9
RYDER
First, the towel that barely conceals her beautiful body—which, by the way, has been seared into my memory for all eternity—and then the short shorts that barely cover her ass?
Is this woman begging to be fucked?
I shake the thoughts away, despite the strain on my slightly throbbing cock, as we head downstairs after she’s changed into something more concealing. Something appropriate for working in a kitchen. Something that doesn’t make me want to bend her over the nearest surface.
Focus. I need to focus.
The stairwell is dark, and streetlights barely filter through the high windows. Rowan stays between Brick and me, with Maddox leading the way. Her posture is tense but not fearful.
Outside, the early morning air holds a bite of freshness that will burn off by noon. Our rides wait at the curb—two of our older bikes, which we keep as backups. They’re not as flashy as the ones she destroyed, but they are reliable.
“You’ll ride with Ryder,” Brick says, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Rowan glances at her car, which is parked in the lot behind the building. “Why can’t I just drive myself?”
“It’s a long drive, sweetheart.” Maddox grins, spinning his helmet in his hands. “And we don’t have enough parking for that boat you call a car.”
“Fuck you,” she mutters, but there’s no real heat behind it.
“Leave her alone,” Brick says, checking the straps on his helmet.
Maddox snorts. “She shouldn’t have trashed our bikes. Now I have to ride with you. You nearly killed us on the way here, remember?”
“Hey, hey. I started riding three years before you,” Brick counters, offense clear in his tone. They’ve been having this argument since we were teenagers.
“Can we just get the hell out of here?” Rowan’s frustrated voice cuts through their bickering, startling both of my brothers into silence.
“My thoughts exactly,” I say softly, offering her my helmet. I watch with interest as she takes it, expertly adjusting the straps and fitting it over her head.
“Need help with that?” Maddox teases, leaning against his bike.
She doesn’t even look his way, just raises her middle finger in a gesture that’s somehow both elegant and unmistakable.
I can’t help the small smile that forms on my lips. She’s something else—beautiful, smart, defiant, fiery. The combination stirs something dangerous in my chest as I swing my leg over the bike and kick it to life.
The engine rumbles beneath me, vibrating through my body like a living thing. Rowan hesitates only a moment before climbing on behind me, her body close but not touching mine.
“You might want to hold on tight!” Maddox yells over the engine noise. “Ryder rides like he has a death wish!”
“I have nothing to live for anyway,” I hear her mutter against my back, the words not meant for anyone else.
Hmm. Interesting. I think there’s a story here, and we’ll find it out in time.
I pull away from the curb, merging into the empty predawn street. Brick and Maddox follow, their headlight casting strange shadows as we ride. Rowan still isn’t holding on, her body swaying slightly with each turn. She’s going to get herself hurt.
After a few minutes, when we reach a quiet stretch of road through a residential area, I pull over. Brick’s bike sails past, Maddox turning to look back with confusion.
“What? Why did you stop?” Rowan’s voice is muffled by the helmet.
“You should hold on to me,” I tell her, keeping my voice low. “It’s for your safety.”
“I already have a helmet on,” she argues.
“Just do what you’re told, princess.”
The word slips out before I can stop it. An echo from another life when I was someone else. I feel her breath catch, her body tensing slightly.
For a moment, I think she’ll argue again. Instead, she wraps her arms around my waist, her body pressing fully against my back. The softness of her breasts against me makes my jaw clench. Her thighs bracket mine, warm and firm.
This was a terrible idea.
The ride to the diner takes another thirty minutes, winding through back roads that gradually transition from residential to commercial. By the time we arrive, I can feel how stiff Rowan has become, her muscles locked from holding on so long. It’s clear she hasn’t ridden in a very long time, though everything else about her movements says she used to ride regularly.
Black Dog Bites stands alone on the corner, its newly painted exterior gleaming under the security lights. The sign is Maddox’s design—a stylized black wolf with its teeth bared, surrounded by simple text.
Through the windows, I can see the interior we’ve spent months preparing—classic diner booths in black leather, chrome-edged tables, and a long counter with matching stools. The kitchen beyond is my domain—state-of-the-art appliances I insisted on despite Brick’s grumbling about the cost.
Rowan slides off the bike, removes her helmet, and shakes out her hair. The motion sends her scent toward me—the same scent that made me want to pull her close and lick every surface of her body back at her place.
“Welcome to Black Dog Bites,” Brick says, already unlocking the front door. “Hope you like early mornings, because this is going to be your home for the next couple of months.”
Brick gives her a quick tour inside. I hang back, watching her take in the space, her eyes lingering on details—the flow of the floor plan, the visibility from the kitchen to the dining area, and the placement of service stations.
“We won’t always be here at the diner,” Brick explains, leaning against the counter. “Most days, we’ll be at the garage while you run the kitchen.”
Rowan nods, asking questions about expectations, menu rotation, and supplier deliveries. The way her mind works fascinates me—quick, practical, always finding the next logical step. I wonder if I’m developing a crush on her, which is ridiculous, considering I didn’t know she existed twenty-four hours ago.
Then again, that didn’t stop me from stealing her panties and doing dirty things with them. I think of the black lace fabric that now hangs from my shower head, drying after I washed it clean. Waiting to be used again.
“Ryder? Ryder? Did you hear me?” Brick’s voice pulls me from thoughts I shouldn’t be having at six-thirty in the morning.
“No,” I admit. “Could you say it again?”
Brick gives me that look—the one that says he knows exactly where my mind wanders. “I said, why don’t you show Rowan the recipes you perfected for the opening menu? She needs to know what she’s working with.”
I nod, moving toward the kitchen.
“Ryder’s the only one of us with a professional degree,” Brick tells Rowan, following us through the swinging door. “Culinary school at eighteen. Only one in his class to graduate with honors.”
I don’t need to look to know Rowan is studying me with new interest.
“Let’s get to work,” I say, eager to redirect her attention.
The kitchen isn’t the largest in the world, but it’s perfectly designed for efficiency. Every surface gleams, waiting for the chaos of service to begin. We start by cleaning the already spotless counters, a ritual I require before any cooking begins.
Culinary school.
The memory surfaces as I move around the familiar territory of a professional kitchen. That scholarship came when I needed it most—seventeen, angry, in a foster home after Brick’s accident left him unable to work or keep custody of us. The social worker saw something in me, the way I always cooked for the younger kids. Said there was a program for at-risk youth with culinary interests.
The irony still makes me want to laugh. They thought they were saving me from a life of crime, but they actually gave me better tools for the life I was already living.
“We’ll start with the basics,” I tell her, pulling out the menu binder where I’ve compiled our opening offerings.
Rowan flips through the laminated pages, her expression thoughtful. “Simple but solid. Smart for a new place.”
I begin pulling ingredients from the walk-in fridge. We need to test the pancake batter to ensure consistency when cooked on these particular grills. Cooking is a science as much as an art, and variables like temperature, humidity, and equipment can dramatically change outcomes.
“Are you selectively dumb?” Rowan blurts, then immediately claps a hand over her mouth. “Sorry, that came out wrong. I didn’t mean?—”
I don’t respond, focusing instead on measuring flour into a large mixing bowl. I’m used to people questioning my silence, wondering if something’s wrong with me because I don’t fill every moment with needless chatter.
But Rowan doesn’t let it drop. “I mean, how do you cope with a brother like Maddox? Surely he must drive you mad all the time, and you’d just want to scream at him to shut the hell up, right?”
I continue working, adding buttermilk to the batter. Let her wonder. Let her fill the silence. Most people do.
The kitchen fills with the sounds of preparation—whisks against metal, ingredients landing in bowls, the hum of the refrigerator. Rowan eventually stops waiting for an answer and starts working on her own tasks, measuring ingredients for the bread dough we need to start.
“I prefer listening to talking,” I finally say, my voice low. The words feel rusty, like they always do when I break my usual silence.
Her eyes light up when I respond, almost like she’s won a prize. The reaction makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
“I’m sorry I called you dumb,” she says, glancing at me from beneath dark lashes. “That was rude. My mouth runs ahead of my brain sometimes.”
I concentrate on whisking the batter, giving her a slight nod of acknowledgment. The apology is unexpected. Most people just assume my silence means there’s nothing worth hearing.
We work side by side for several minutes, a comfortable rhythm developing between us. She shifts slightly when I reach past her for salt, her arm brushing mine. The brief contact lingers on my skin.
“So,” she says after another few minutes, her tone deliberately casual. “You’ve been riding bikes a long time?”
I nod.
“Me too,” she admits, then winces slightly, like she’s said more than she intended. “I mean, I used to. Years ago.”
I suspected as much. The way she held onto me during the ride—tentative at first, but her body remembered even if her mind was rusty.
“You’re good at that,” she says, nodding toward the perfect consistency of the batter I’m mixing. “Did you always want to be a chef?”
The personal questions make my fingers tighten slightly around the whisk.
“Never mind,” she says quickly, noticing my reaction. “You don’t have to answer that. I’m just…trying to figure you out.”
The admission makes me look at her directly for the first time since we entered the kitchen. Her cheeks flush under my gaze, but she doesn’t look away. God, she’s so beautiful.
“Most people don’t bother,” I say softly.
Her expression shifts to something genuine. “I’m not most people.”
No, she certainly isn’t. That much I already know.
She turns back to her dough, kneading it with practiced movements. “So, about yesterday, in my be?—”
“If you’re going to ask about what I’ve done with your underwear, you’re not going to get an answer,” I cut her off, keeping my expression neutral despite the heat the memory brings.
Rowan pouts, then scowls, throwing the dough she’s been working on down onto the cutting board with more force than necessary.
I don’t respond outwardly, but satisfaction curls through me. I like riling her up. I like seeing those flashes of fire beneath her careful control.
And I’m looking forward to seeing just how much more fire I can draw from her in the days to come.