Chapter 18
Ryan POV
The firelight from the cast-iron hearth flickered in low, amber bars across the dark pine floorboards.
Nylah sat straddling my thighs on the leather sectional, her knees braced against the cushions on either side of my hips. My oversized grey hockey hoodie swallowed her frame, the thick navy lettering stretched across her small chest, the hem falling past her hips to cover the tops of her thighs.
The contrast between her delicate bones and the dense, scarred mass of my quads was a physical brand burned into my vision.
I didn't rush. The storm was howling against the panoramic windows, throwing thick drifts of white against the glass, sealing us inside a frozen world where nothing existed except the sound of her rapid, uneven breathing.
My hands rested on her thighs, my broad palms spanning the heavy flannel of the sweatpants. Slowly, deliberately, I slid my hands upward, gathering the thick fleece of the hoodie as I went, until my calloused fingers slipped beneath the hem.
The skin of her waist was blazing hot, soft as silk, and damp with a fine sheen of heat.
Nylah’s breath hitched in a sharp, defensive gasp. Her small hands flattened against the front of my black shirt, right over my pectoral muscle, her fingers splaying wide over the cotton. The silver band on her right thumb pressed cold against my collarbone.
Beneath her palms, my heart was hammering—a heavy, concussive thud that rattled the marrow of my ribs.
"Ryan..."
I reached up with my right hand, hooking my thumb beneath the sharp curve of her jawline, tilting her face up into the amber light. Her amber-flecked eyes were dilated wide, the black swallowing the gold until only a razor-thin rim of steel remained.
"You looked at me on the ice six weeks ago like you wanted to dismantle me with an equation, Collins," I murmured, my gravelly voice scraping low and heavy against the quiet room. "And now you're sitting in my lap, wearing my name, shaking from the inside out."
Her throat moved as she swallowed dry. Her chin angled up, that stubborn, beautiful defiance flaring in her eyes for one last, desperate second. "I'm not shaking."
"Yes, you are, sweetheart," I rasped, my thumb dragging across the swollen contour of her lower lip, feeling the heat of her breath wash over my knuckles. "Because you know what happens next. You know there’s no walking out of this room."
She stared at my mouth, her lips parting on a ragged exhale, her fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt to pull me closer instead of pushing away.
"I don't want to walk out," she whispered.
* * *
The admission broke the last chain of restraint in my skull.
I gathered the heavy fabric of the grey fleece in both hands, slowly easing the sweatshirt upward over her ribs.
Nylah lifted her arms without a word, her head tilting back as the thick fleece cleared her dark hair. The hoodie dropped to the hardwood floor with a soft, heavy thud, leaving her sitting before me in the dim amber glow wearing only a black lace bra and the flannel sweatpants.
The breath left my lungs in a sharp, silent blow.
She was stunning. The pale curve of her shoulders, the delicate line of her collarbones, and the soft, perfect swell of her breasts above the dark lace were bathed in the flickering orange light of the stove.
Her dark hair tumbled down around her neck in loose, disheveled waves, curling against the flushed skin of her chest.
My hands settled on her hips, my fingers sinking into the soft dip above her pelvis.
I leaned in, my mouth finding the warm hollow beneath her ear.
I pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin along her jawline, my rough three-day stubble grazing the flushed line of her throat.
Nylah gasped, a broken, trembling whimper that caught in the back of her throat. Her fingers left my chest, flying to the back of my neck, her nails biting through the cotton of my shirt into the thick ropes of muscle along my trapezius.
"Good girl," I rasped against her skin, my lips dragging down to the sensitive dip of her collarbone. "Look at me, Nylah."
Her eyelids fluttered open, heavy and dark with a dazed, unvarnished hunger that made the blood in my veins boil like molten asphalt.
"Breathe for me," I commanded softly, my mouth pressing against the delicate notch of her sternum, feeling the frantic, wild flutter of her pulse beneath the bone. "Match my chest. That's it."
She drew in a deep, shuddering inhalation, her small ribcage expanding against mine.
I reached down, catching the rolled elastic waistband of the sweatpants, and peeled the flannel down her long, smooth legs. I guided the fabric past her ankles, tossing it onto the pile with her hoodie, until she was stripped down to the black lace against my dark clothes.
My calloused palms mapped every inch of her skin—the flare of her hips, the soft curve of her waist, the burning warmth of her inner thighs. Every time she shivered, every time her hips arched involuntarily against mine seeking friction, I rewarded her with low, rough praise against her ear.
"Look at how good you feel," I rumbled, my voice thick with a dark, velvet approval that coated her skin like warm oil. "Look at what you do to me. Let me take care of you, Nylah."
"Ryan, please..." Her voice was a fractured plea, her hips shifting against mine, her fingers tightening in my hair with a desperate, instinctual need that showed she was drowning in the sensory overload.
"I've got you," I murmured, kissing the corner of her swollen mouth, letting her taste the cedar and coffee on my tongue. "I've got you, sweetheart."
* * *
I didn't let her touch the cold floor.
I slipped my right arm beneath her knees and my left arm behind her back, rising from the leather sofa in one smooth, continuous surge of power.
Nylah gasped, her arms instantly locking around my neck, her face pressing into the crook of my collarbone as I hauled her against my chest. Her small body curled into my frame with absolute, unquestioning trust, her bare skin burning against the cotton of my shirt.
I carried her down the short brick hallway into the master bedroom.
The room was vast, dark, and silent, illuminated only by the faint, blue-white luminescence of the blizzard reflecting through the high transom windows.
Outside, the wind howled off the black water, but inside, the massive cast-iron radiator hissing against the baseboards filled the space with a dry, suffocating heat.
In the center of the dark hardwood floor sat a low platform bed made with charcoal-grey linen sheets.
I laid her down gently in the center of the mattress.
Nylah sank into the dark linen, her dark hair fanning out across the pillows in a wide, silken halo, her amber eyes tracking my every movement through the shadows.
I reached down, gripped the hem of my black shirt with both hands, and pulled it over my head in one fluid motion, tossing it onto the floor.
My scarred shoulders, the dense muscle of my chest, and the dark purple contusion across my left ribs were laid bare in the pale winter light.
I climbed onto the mattress, moving between her parted knees, settling my heavy frame over hers. I braced my weight on my forearms on either side of her head, caging her small body beneath two hundred and twenty pounds of athlete without crushing the breath from her lungs.
Nylah reached up immediately.
Her small, soft hands slid into the thick hair at the base of my skull, her fingers curling tight, using her grip to haul my mouth down to hers.
Her hips arched off the linen, pressing the burning heat of her lower body against the hard, unyielding ridge of my pelvis through my athletic pants. The contact was concussive, a jolt of pure friction that shattered the last lingering thread of my self-control.
I groaned into her mouth, a low, animal sound torn from the marrow of my sternum.
I pulled back by a millimeter, hovering over her swollen lips, my breath searing hot against her chin, my voice dropping into a ruined, gravelly rasp that resonated through the dark room:
"By morning, Nylah, you're going to feel my mark in every breath you take."