16. Ryder
16
RYDER
When I finish taking out the trash, the back alley is quiet, and the evening air holds that stillness unique to small towns after closing time. Something feels off the moment I step back inside the diner. The mop lies abandoned on the wet floor, water pooling around its base.
For a moment, my mind races back to the morning’s meeting about Cypher. Panic rises—a feeling I’m not used to. Have they taken her?
The main dining area is empty. Kitchen clear. Storage room—nothing. A quick sweep reveals no signs of struggle.
The pantry door is locked.
I don’t hesitate. One solid kick and the door splinters open.
The sight stops me cold.
Rowan stands there, her wet top barely covering her chest. Water droplets trace paths down her skin that I can’t help but notice.
“Don’t you people ever knock?!” she yells.
I don’t answer. Instead, I take three strides and pull her into a hug. The relief is unexpected. Overwhelming.
Pulling back, I hold her face in my hands. My voice is quiet, almost vulnerable. “Don’t scare me like that again.”
Confusion clouds her eyes. “What do you mean?”
My hands move to her bare shoulders. The scent of her—without clothes—is intoxicating. Her lips are parted, full, and inviting. “What happened out there?” I ask, my fingers tracing her skin.
She explains about the broken tap, but I’m barely listening. She’s so close. Too close. I want her, but I’m not like most men. I know I’m rough. Intense. I don’t do subtle.
Her words barely register. Not when she’s this close. Not when her skin is warm under my hands, and her eyes are dark with something beyond surprise. I should step back. Should remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea. My brothers who might want her too. A job she needs. Enemies who might target anyone close to us.
But none of those reasons seem important with her looking at me like this, her breath coming faster, her pulse visible at the base of her throat.
I want her. Have wanted her since that first day in her apartment when she stood her ground despite being cornered by three men who’d broken her door.
I should walk away. She deserves better than what I am—a man of violence and silence, someone who takes what he wants and leaves marks on whatever he touches.
Before I can move, she rises to her tiptoes and presses her mouth to mine.
The control I’ve maintained cracks instantly. I take her mouth with a hunger that should frighten her, my hands tangling tighter in her hair to angle her head exactly how I want it. She matches my intensity without hesitation, the wet shirt dropping forgotten to the floor as her hands clutch at my face, my shoulders, anything she can reach.
I break away, breathing hard. “You don’t want this,” I warn, my voice barely recognizable. “You can’t handle me.”
Her eyes flash, something familiar in their depths—a defiance that reminds me of another life where people told her what she couldn’t do. “I want this,” she says firmly. “I can handle you.”
“No.” I shake my head, fighting the need pulsing through every inch of me. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
She pushes against my chest, anger replacing desire. “You Kane brothers are all jerks,” she snaps, trying to move past me.
“I catch her waist before she can reach the door, the feel of her bare skin under my hands nearly undoing me. The hurt in her eyes cuts deeper than it has any right to. “It’s not that simple.”
“It is that simple.” Her voice drops, challenge in every syllable. “Unless you’re afraid.”
The accusation hits its mark. I’ve been trained to withstand torture, to face death without flinching, but I have no defense against this woman calling me a coward.
In one fluid motion, I lift her onto the supply table, my hands spanning her waist. She gasps, surprise and heat mingling in her expression. I don’t give her time to reconsider, to realize she’s making a mistake.
My hands go to her shoes first, yanking them off one by one and tossing them aside without a second thought. Then her jeans—tugged down, peeled away, leaving her in nothing but black lace and that soaked-through bra that still clings to her curves.
I suck in a breath. Fuck.
She’s perfect. Full thighs, full breasts, a body carved out exactly how I like it. My hands move without thinking, instinct taking over as I drag my palms up her legs, feeling the smooth heat of her skin.
She watches me, chest rising and falling, lips parted, that same defiant need in her eyes. I want to wreck it. I want to see those eyes go glassy. Her body melts against mine, all that bravado turned into helpless want.
I slide my hands higher, skimming the bare skin of her stomach before tracing the swell of her breasts through her damp bra. She sucks in a sharp breath at the contact, her nipples already tight beneath the soaked lace, begging for my attention.
“Ryder—”
“Shh.” I drag my thumbs over the hardened peaks, watching her reaction. The way her breath stutters, the way she instinctively arches, pressing into my hands.
I do it again, feeling the stiff peaks through the fabric, rolling them between my fingers just enough to make her shiver. I tilt her chin up with one hand, forcing her gaze to mine. Her lips are parted, kiss-swollen, her pupils blown wide with heat.
“You want me to take this off, don’t you?” I murmur, brushing my lips against hers, barely touching, letting the words ghost over her mouth.
She nods again, but that’s not enough.
“Say it,” I demand, pressing a teasing kiss to one corner of her lips, then the other, never giving her what she really wants.
Her breath hitches. “I want?—”
I cut her off with a kiss. My tongue slides against hers, coaxing, dominating, swallowing the little sound of need she makes. Her fingers clutch at my shirt, gripping it like she’s holding on for dear life.
I want her completely undone.
I kiss her harder, deeper, pouring everything into it—control, hunger, the raw possessiveness clawing its way to the surface. My fingers still tease her through her bra, rubbing slow, deliberate circles over her nipples until she’s squirming against me. Her moans are soft and needy, and I can feel the heat between her thighs, can feel the way she’s already soaked and desperate.
I pull back just enough to meet her gaze, dragging my thumb over her kiss-swollen lower lip. “Take off your bra,” I order, voice low, dark. “Now.”
She doesn’t hesitate. Her fingers slip behind her back, unclasping the tiny hooks, and she lets the straps slide down her arms. Her breath is quick and unsteady.
The lace falls away, and fuck.
I go still.
For a second, I just look.
Her breasts are full, gorgeous, fucking perfect, soft curves topped with tight, dusky nipples already begging for my mouth. I trail my hands up her sides, slow, deliberate, palms skimming her ribs before finally cupping her breasts in both hands.
They’re so fucking soft, so heavy in my grip. My thumbs brush over her stiff peaks, feeling how tight they’ve gotten. Her breath catches, her back arching the moment I squeeze—not too gentle, not too rough, just enough to make her feel it. She lets out a shuddering breath, watching me through hooded eyes, her lips parting as I knead her flesh.
I drag my thumbs in slow circles over her nipples, watching them pebble even tighter. She gasps, fingers gripping my shoulders, her body already strung tight with need.
I bend my head and take her into my mouth.
Her strangled moan is the sweetest fucking sound as I wrap my lips around one stiff peak, sucking hard. Her body jerks, back bowing as her nails sink into my skin, holding on as I devour her.
I swirl my tongue over her nipple, lapping, teasing, sucking deep until she’s writhing beneath me. I squeeze her other breast, kneading it in time with my tongue, feeling the way her body reacts to every flick, every graze of my teeth.
I want her mindless. So, I bite.
Hard enough to make her cry out, her whole body jolting against mine. The sound she makes—half pain, half pleasure—sends a bolt of pure hunger straight to my cock. But I don’t stop. I soothe the sting with my tongue, sucking deep, one hand sliding down to the heat between her thighs.
She’s drenched.
Even through the thin lace, I can feel just how ready she is. I press my fingers against her slit, rubbing slow, teasing circles that make her hips twitch beneath me.
“Already so fucking wet for me,” I murmur against her skin, moving to her other breast, giving it the same treatment—sucking, biting, licking until she’s writhing against me. “Tell me, Rowan. Tell me who made you this wet.”
Her breath is ragged, her chest rising and falling fast. “You.”
“Say my name.”
“Ryder,” she gasps. “You. You did this.”
I reward her by slipping my fingers beneath her panties, finding her bare, slick, and so fucking hot. The moment my fingers brush her clit, she jerks, thighs clenching around me.
“That’s right,” I growl. “I did this. And I’m not stopping until you can’t even fucking stand.”
I rip her panties down, letting them dangle from one ankle as I spread her wider. My cock aches against my jeans, straining, desperate for relief, but I’m not giving in just yet.
She needs to be ruined first.
I drag my fingers through her folds, feeling the way she throbs. I slide one finger inside her, then another, stretching her open, watching the way her lips part in a silent moan.
I curl them inside her, pressing against that perfect spot that makes her jolt. She’s so tight, her walls gripping me, and I know she’s close—her body already winding up, her breath coming faster, her nails dragging down my arms.
“Come for me,” I demand. “Now.”
She shatters.
Her whole body tenses, back arching off the table as she comes with a cry, her thighs trembling around my waist. I keep my fingers buried deep, working her through it, dragging out every last pulse of pleasure until she’s nothing but a gasping, writhing mess beneath me.
Only then do I free my cock.