Chapter 1 #2
"It's accurate." Ridge turns back to me, and even though I can't see his eyes, but I sense his attention. "You planning to stay at the plaza?"
"God, no. It's just a pop-up. I'll be gone in a few weeks, off to the next location."
He tilts his head. "Why not stay?"
"Because pop-ups don't stay. That's the whole point. Low commitment, high flexibility. I go where the foot traffic is."
"Sounds lonely."
The observation catches me off guard. I cover it with another sip of my drink, which is now mostly melted ice and lime pulp.
"Sounds like freedom," I correct.
He doesn't argue, but something in the set of his shoulders suggests he doesn't agree.
Colum's toast reaches a crescendo, something about quarterly earnings and the power of friendship, and the remaining crowd erupts into applause. Ridge raises his glass in a half-hearted salute.
"I should probably go," I say, even though I don't move.
"Probably," Ridge agrees. Also not moving.
The string lights flicker. Someone cranks the jukebox. The night smells like summer and gasoline and the sharp green notes of cut grass from the field beyond the parking lot.
"Can I ask you something?" Ridge's voice drops lower, and I have to lean in to hear him.
"Sure."
"Why'd you come tonight? If you're not staying, if you barely know Colum, why show up?"
I think about my answer. About cereal dinners and plastic bins and the way my hands always smell faintly of vanilla and mica powder.
"Free poppers," I say lightly.
He smiles again. Doesn't believe me for a second.
"Fair enough."
The music shifts again, something slower now with a bassline that thrums through the soles of my boots. The patio's nearly empty, just Colum still holding court with a few stragglers, and Ridge and me, still perched on our barstools like we're waiting for something.
We are waiting for something.
The realization hits me like a shot. My skin feels too tight, my lips buzzing from the lime and the way Ridge's thigh keeps brushing mine every time he shifts on his stool.
He's close enough that I can see the faint green undertones in his olive skin, the way his tattoos catch the string lights when he moves.
I want to trace them with my tongue.
Oh, hell.
I finish my drink in one long pull, the ice clinking against my teeth. Ridge watches me, his expression unreadable behind those damn sunglasses, but his body language is all heat and tension.
"Dance with me," I say, because if I don't do something with this energy, I'm going to combust.
He blinks. "What?"
I grab his hand and tug him toward the small patch of open space near the jukebox. "Dance. Now. Before I change my mind."
For a second, I think he'll resist. Then he follows, his fingers warm around mine, his body moving with surprising grace for someone so broad.
The song's a slow, bluesy number with a lot of slide guitar and a beat that's more suggestion than structure. Perfect. I step into Ridge's space, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. His hands settle on my hips, tentative at first, then firmer as I sway against him.
"You're good at this," I murmur.
"Beginner's luck." His voice is rough, and I can feel the vibration of it through his chest where it presses against mine.
I laugh, low and breathy. "Liar."
His hands flex on my hips, pulling me closer. The leather of his jacket creaks. "Guilty."
We move together, slow and deliberate, our bodies finding a rhythm that's all heat and friction. His thighs part mine with every step, and I can feel the hard ridge of him through his jeans, through the thin fabric of my dress. My breath catches.
Oh, God.
I tilt my head back further, exposing the line of my throat. Ridge's breath hitches, and then his mouth is there, hot and open against my skin. His teeth graze my collarbone, and I shudder, my hands flying up to tangle in his hair.
It's softer than I expected. Thick and silky, and he makes a low, rough sound when I tug.
"Sis," he growls against my skin, and the nickname sends a fresh wave of heat through me.
"Ridge," I gasp back, because I need to say his name, need to hear it between us like a promise.
His hands slide down to cup my ass, lifting me against him. I wrap my legs around his waist, and he groans, the sound vibrating through both of us.
"Fuck," he mutters, and then his mouth is on mine, hot and demanding.
I kiss him back just as hard, my tongue tangling with his. He tastes like whiskey and something darker, earthy and rich. His hands are everywhere,my back, my ass, tangling in my hair, and I can't get close enough, can't get enough.
We're barely dancing anymore. Just grinding against each other, our bodies moving in a rhythm older than music. His cock is hard against my stomach, and I rock against him, needing the friction, needing more.
He breaks the kiss with a groan. "We should stop."
I pull back just enough to meet his gaze. "Do you want to stop?"
His jaw works. "No."
"Then don't." I lean in and nip at his lower lip. "Take me somewhere."
His hands flex on my ass, and for a second, I think he's going to argue. Then he's moving, carrying me toward the patio door like I weigh nothing. The cool night air hits my skin as we step outside, but Ridge's body shields me from the worst of it.
His bike is parked near the entrance, a sleek black machine that looks like it was built for speed. He sets me down just long enough to grab a helmet from the handlebars and settle it over my head, his fingers brushing my cheeks as he fastens the strap.
"Hold on tight," he murmurs, and then he's swinging a leg over the bike, pulling me on behind him.
I encircle my arms around his body, pressing close. The engine roars to life between my thighs, and then we're moving, the wind rushing past us as Ridge weaves through the quiet streets.
It's exhilarating. Freeing. I laugh, the sound torn from me by the wind and the speed and the sheer, wild joy of it.
Ridge's body vibrates with a chuckle of his own. "You like that?"
"God, yes," I shout back, and he guns the engine in response, sending us flying down the road.
We don't go far. Just a few miles to a motel on the outskirts of town, a low-slung building with a flickering neon sign that reads Vacancy. Ridge pulls into a spot near the office, killing the engine and swinging off the bike in one smooth motion.
He helps me off, his hands lingering on my waist. "You sure about this?"
I look up at him, at the strong line of his jaw, the fullness of his lips, the way his body seems to radiate heat even in the cool night air. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life."
His answering smile is slow and heated, and then he's tugging me toward the office, his hand warm and sure in mine.
The clerk barely looks up as we enter, too busy watching something on his phone. Ridge slides a credit card across the counter, and a few minutes later, we're standing outside a door marked 12, a keycard in Ridge's hand.
He opens the door and pulls me inside, kicking it shut behind us.
The room is small but clean, the bed neatly made, the air smelling faintly of lemon cleaner. Ridge backs me up against the door, his body pinning mine, and then his mouth is on mine again, hot and demanding.
I kiss him back just as hard, my hands flying up to tangle in his hair. He groans, the sound vibrating through both of us, and then his hands are on my ass, lifting me.
I wrap my legs around his torso, grinding against him, needing the friction, needing more. He walks us toward the bed, laying me down gently before following me down, his body covering mine.
"Last chance to change your mind," he murmurs against my lips.
I arch up into him. "Not a chance."
His answering growl is almost feral, and then his hands are everywhere, my breasts, my stomach, my thighs, mapping me like he's memorizing the terrain. I gasp as his fingers find the hem of my dress, pushing it up, up, up until it's bunched around my waist and his hands are on my bare skin.
"Fuck, Sis," he mutters, his fingers tracing the lace edge of my panties. "You're so fucking soft."
I whimper as he slips a finger under the fabric, finding me wet and ready for him. "Ridge, please."
"Please what?" His finger circles my clit, slow and deliberate, and I buck against his hand.
"Please fuck me."
His answering growl is almost triumphant, and then he's pulling my panties down, tossing them aside before settling between my thighs. I can feel the heat of him through his jeans, the hard ridge of his cock pressing against me.
He fumbles with the buckle while I help, needing him naked, needing him now. He helps me, shucking his jeans and boxers down his thighs, and then he's there, his cock hot and heavy in my hand.
I stroke him, once, twice, and he groans, his hips jerking into my touch. "Sis, I'm not gonna last if you keep doing that."
I smile, slow and wicked. "Good."
I guide him to my entrance, and then he's pushing in, slow and steady, giving me time to adjust to his size. He's big, stretching me in a way that's almost painful, but so, so good.
"Fuck," he mutters as he bottoms out, his forehead resting against mine. "You feel amazing."
My legs draw him closer, pulling him deeper. "Move, Ridge."
He does, pulling out almost all the way before sliding back in, setting a rhythm that's slow and deep and perfect. I meet him thrust for thrust, my nails digging into his shoulders, my body winding tighter and tighter with every movement.
"Harder," I gasp, and he obeys, his hips snapping against mine, driving into me with a force that has me crying out.
"Like that?" His voice is rough, almost guttural, and I can feel the strain in his body, the way he's holding back.
"Yes, just like that."