Chapter 6 RYDER
SIX
ryder
What the hell had I just agreed to?
I watch as Noia’s warm, soft fingers slide out of mine after we shake on our twisted little deal, and all I can think is—where the hell did I come up with that?
It wasn’t just some casual suggestion. It was a goddamn mission statement. One that involves real-dating my creator, seducing her, helping her write, and basically making her life better all while figuring out how the hell I’m going to help her finish my story.
I lean back against the couch and drag a hand through my hair.
The words had just… tumbled out. And it surprises me how much I actually meant them.
I should be pissed at her.
One second I’m on the brink of a climactic moment—the kind that usually ends in blood, sex or both—and the next, I wake up here. In her world. In her house.
It was jarring.
But what throws me the most? I’m not mad. Not really.
Beneath the frustration, and the weird, tangled confusion of being fictional and suddenly not… there’s something else.
Curiosity and... need. A need that curls low in my stomach every time I look at her.
Noia Wilde, the prolific author dubbed ‘The Queen of Steam’, has a tragic backstory and a stubborn, sexy mouth. Chaos in a bun, she’s all sharp, snarky comebacks and soft, full lips, swearing under her breath while she stomps around the house like a pissed-off cat.
And now she is sitting next to me, flustered and fidgety, pretending like she doesn’t notice the way I’m eye fucking her.
Why hide it?
She’s hella sexy.
Not in the over-processed, Instagram-filtered kind of way. The real kind of sexy. The kind that creeps up on you. The kind that makes your mind go blank and your dick stand painfully at rock-hard attention.
With messy dark blond hair and a hoodie that clings to her curves, her lips are a little puffy and red from biting them while she pouted in her room.
She doesn’t even realize how beautiful she is. Which, of course, makes it even worse.
And hell, I know exactly how she wrote me.
I’m supposed to be broody and dangerous with a little redemption buried under all the trauma and smirks. But despite everything she plotted out, none of it prepared me for how real this would feel. Or how drawn I would be to her.
I sit back and watch her turn on her heel and stalk toward the kitchen, muttering about needing more caffeine.
My gaze follows her hips as they sway, attitude cranked up to eleven.
I smirk.
Yeah. I want to do this. Not just because I want her to finish my story—but because of her.
Deep down, I know she didn’t mean to summon me here. She doesn’t even believe I am real. I’m pretty sure she’s just playing along, seeing how all this is going to play out—or if she might wake up tomorrow morning in the looney-bin.
Her life is unraveling, words jammed up inside her like the Hoover Dam, heart still wrecked because of some douchebag who didn’t even have the balls to show up to his own wedding.
And, even after all the bullshit she’s been through, she hasn’t completely broken down.
Noia is strong and stubborn, cussing and fighting me with a fire in her eyes that says she’s ready to take on not only me, but the whole goddamn world.
So yeah. I’m going to help her.
She needs help finishing her story. And maybe, just maybe… so do I. Even if it means seducing her—and especially if it means watching her squirm every time I get too close.
“I’m gonna more than make it worth your while, kitten,” I murmur to myself.
Grabbing her book from the coffee table, I flip through it again. My notes are scribbled along the margins, but instead of going back to correct the dialogue, this time I distract myself by imagining how the next scene should play out off the page.
So, I’m going to take her out on a real date—one filled with pure, unadulterated sexual tension.
I look up as she reappears, cradling a mug and side-eyeing me like she regrets every life decision she’s ever made leading up to this very moment.
She looks delicious.
I shoot her a grin. “You should wear something that would make your ex cry,” I say.
She blinks slowly before her eyes widen. “What?”
“For tonight. We’re going out. If we’re going to do this, we’re doing it right.”
A look of panic flashes across her face for about half a second before her eyes narrow in suspicion. “Tell me what you mean exactly by out.”
I stand, stretching like a cat who ate the canary, and stalk over to her.
“We’re going to a bar,” I answer. “A very public, loud, rowdy bar full of people who’ll see you glowing like the goddess you are. No one will be able to take their eyes off of you. I guarantee it.”
“Goddess?” she scoffs, rolling her eyes. “That’s a stretch.”
I lean in, brushing past her shoulder, letting my breath graze the shell of her ear. “Oh, kitten. You have no idea how god damned gorgeous you really are, do you?”
She sucks in a breath and stills.
Good.
Because this story? This story is about to get really interesting.
If you ever want to truly get under a woman’s skin—you know, dig down to her nerves and start building a summer home there? Just start tossing her clothes over your shoulder while you stand in her walk-in closet half-naked.
Trust me. Works like a charm.
“No. Nope. What even is this? A wool onesie?” I mutter to myself, flinging another piece of clothing over my shoulder onto the growing pile on the floor behind me.
“Ryder!”
“I told you we’re going out. Think of it like a special occasion. If you’re going to make your public debut as my girlfriend, you gotta wear something that makes men choke on their drinks and rethink all their fucked up life choices.”
“I swear to god, if you stretch out my crop top—”
Stretching the garment taut between my hands, I raise a brow and smirk. “This tiny thing? Kitten, I could fucking floss with it and it wouldn’t lose its shape.”
She muffles her scream into a pillow before chucking at my head.
It bounces off my back, landing next to the heap of shirts, skirts, and what I’m pretty sure is an angry pair of shiny faux leather pants.
I glance over my shoulder, and yep, there it is. That flustered thing she does where she crosses her arms, face flushed as she tries to decide whether she wants to throttle me to death or let me throw her on the bed and throttle her—with my cock.
My way would be much more fun.
She hasn’t made up her mind yet. But I’m hoping for option B.
“You are a walking disaster, Ryder.”
“Pot. Kettle, kitten,” I wink before turning back to the closet, a man on a mission.
“I said I’ve got it,” she snaps, swatting at my hand as I reach for a hanger.
“You clearly don’t,” I say, tossing a wrinkled cardigan over my shoulder. “This is a fashion emergency, and I refuse to be seen in public with a woman wearing sad librarian beige.”
“That’s cashmere, you dick.”
“Cashmere’s not bulletproof against frump.”
The sound she makes at my come back is akin to a half-gasp, half-growl as she tries to push past me.
Hooking my arm out to block her path, I dive deeper into the racks of cotton and chaos.
It not just about finding her an outfit anymore. This clothing war, is now based on principle.
Also… the view is well worth the trouble.
Ducking under my arm, she bends over to yank a top out of a bottom drawer, and I lose my train of thought for at least thirty seconds.
Long, toned legs, and the curve of her plump, round ass are staring me right in the face.
Jesus.
Already shirtless, I’m dangerously close to losing more than just my shirt, so instead, I turn away, cough, and launch another dress over my shoulder. “Too pink.”
“That’s raspberry!”
“It’s one sequin short of a Barbie Dreamhouse.”
Noia huffs behind me, her voice growing sharp. “Why are you like this?”
“Um... How many times do I have to tell you? You wrote me this way. Or did you forget already?”
“Shit. I must be some sort of masochist,” she mutters. “Pretty sure I’m gonna need years of therapy.”
“Little late for that, kitten,” I grin.
It takes another ten minutes of glorious chaos—me flinging every fashion offense over my shoulder, while Noia curses like a sailor trying to stop me—before I finally find it. A little red number buried between a tragic bridesmaid dress and an old tattered hoodie.
The top is off the shoulder with long, flowing sleeves. The red fabric whispers danger and confidence. It’s the kind of top that’ll make any man want to unbutton not just his pants, but his morals—if he has any to begin with.
Holding it up like a trophy, I crow, “Found it!”
Mouth open, Noia stares, eyes wide with shock. “I haven’t worn that since—”
“Well, you’re wearing it tonight.”
She hesitates, lips parting as her fingers brush the fabric. “It’s too dressy.”
I take a step closer and lower my voice. “No. It’s perfect.”
Her gaze lifts to mine and silence pulses, thick and electric in the air between us.
Tearing her gaze away, she swipes the top from my hand and spins around, muttering something about needing at least ten minutes and threatening me with violence if I so much as peek.
Fair enough.
While I wait, I take some time to look around.
Her bedroom smells like lavender and paper, and the walls are a grayish-blue, kind of like the sky right before a storm breaks it wide open.
One wall has floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, overflowing with romance novels, poetry, old journals, even a few vintage fairy tales with cracked leather spines.
The queen-sized bed is a mess of rumpled cream colored sheets, a mountain of pillows tucked into mismatched cases and covered in a quilt that looks handmade.
One side of the bed is clearly more lived-in than the other, with an open notebook and a pen half-tucked underneath a pillow.
A copy of the popular vampire novel Dark In Blood lies face-down on the nightstand next to a salt lamp and half a glass of water.
Her desk sits in the corner under a large picture window that looks out at the woods, with a chunky yellow throw draped over the back of the chair tucked underneath it.
A wire photo board with clipped snapshots hangs on the wall next to the window, with a picture of Noia and a cute redhead laughing with their heads thrown back, and a few other pictures tacked up haphazardly around it.
Done with my tour, I flop back onto the bed and tuck my arms behind my head.
I feel good. Energized. Like the adrenaline high you’d get from a perfect heist.
Fifteen minutes later, the bathroom door creaks open.
I sit up and promptly forget how to breathe.
Noia steps through the doorway like a slow-motion dream.
Black skinny jeans hug every curve like they’ve been stitched to her thighs.
Red hooker heels give her legs for days, and that red top?
It drapes off one shoulder, revealing just enough collarbone to short-circuit every rational thought I’ve ever had.
My gaze takes all of her in as I stare and lick my lips.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she mumbles, fidgeting with her hair.
“Holy shit, you’re stunning,” I murmur.
Her flush is bright crimson and gorgeous.
“Wait a second.” She narrows her eyes at me. “You can’t go out like that.”
Confused, all I can do is blink. “What?”
“You’re not wearing a shirt and you’re barefoot.”
I shrug. “Not my fault.”
“In your last scene, you were supposed to be dressed for the gala.”
“Well, you never got around to writing that part did you? So, technically, this is your fault.”
“You’re not walking into a bar looking like the goddamn cover of a Highland romance novel.”
“Why not?” I shrug again. “Could be good marketing.”
She groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You’re impossible.”
I get up and give her my best faux-innocent smirk. “I could always borrow one of your sweaters.”
Noia snaps her head up so fast it’s a miracle her neck doesn’t break. “Touch my cashmere and die.”
“Noted. But, seriously. You actually think I would wear cashmere?”
A long, thoughtful pause hangs in the air before her expression slowly shifts into something that can only be described as devious.
Uh-oh.
“Wait a second,” she whispers.
“What?” I deadpan.
“What if… I write you into a shirt and shoes?”
Okay. That doesn’t sound so bad.
I raise an eyebrow, waiting for her to come to terms with what she’d just said. “What’re you gonna do? Manifest it with your mind? Or do I just sit here while you narrate it?”
But she’s already on the move.
Rushing over to her laptop sitting on the desk, she opens it up like a woman possessed.
Focused and determined, her tongue pokes out between her lips as she stares at the screen.
Fuck. Why is that so goddamn hot? I wonder what else she can do with that tongue?
Down boy.
Tapping her finger on the desk, she mutters under her breath before she starts to type, speaking the words out loud as she goes.
“Ryder is wearing a black button-down shirt, its soft fabric clinging to him like a second skin. His sleeves are rolled up, and his collar is open, with a black pair of motorcycle boots completing the ensemble.”
A weird tingle that feels a lot like static travels across my shoulders, down my arms and across my feet.
I look down, and sure enough, a black, fitted button-up with the top two buttons undone, cuffs rolled halfway up my forearms and a pair of motorcycle boots are now covering my upper torso and feet.
“Well, shit,” I whisper.
Noia looks up, triumphant. “Ha! I did it. I actually—” Her eyes flick over me as she bites her lip.
“Oh no,” I smirk. “You wrote it sexy, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t mean to—” she starts, her face turning beet red.
“You said, and I quote: ‘clinging to him like a second skin.’”
“I was trying to be descriptive!”
Stepping into her personal space, I stare down at her. She’s at least six inches shorter than me. “You’re picturing me without it now, aren’t you?”
Her cheeks flame.
I lean in and whisper low. “Don’t worry, kitten. I remember how you wrote that part, too. Not that I’m going to need you to write it for me again. I’ve got my own ideas too, you know. And I can’t wait to make those ideas come to fruition.”
Her strangled shriek makes me chuckle as she stomps out of the room and down the hall, yelling something about ‘never giving a fictional man this much power again.’
Grinning like the devil, I shove my hands in my pockets and watch her go.
She can run and hide behind her sass, sarcasm and writer’s block all she wants, but I’m part of her world now.
And believe me—I’m just getting started.