Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
noia
I spend the next hour cleaning my house like I’m preparing for a military inspection. Scrubbing countertops, dusting shelves, and vacuuming every corner until the place looks better than it has in months.
“Sasha would be so proud,” I mutter to Goonie, who watches me from atop the bookshelf. “Don’t give me that look. This is for my sanity, not to impress Ryder.”
Goonie blinks at me, clearly unconvinced.
After grabbing my purse and keys, I head for the door. “I’m going to the grocery store. Try not to destroy anything while I’m gone.”
The cool air hits my face as I step outside, and I take a deep breath in.
Maybe some time alone will help clear my head.
I need groceries anyway—my fridge is practically empty except for condiments and that questionable yogurt that’s been there since.
.. Well, probably since before Eric left me at the altar.
The local supermarket is only ten minutes away, and I crank up the radio, singing along to distract myself from thoughts of Ryder and how he’s doing at the tattoo shop. By the time I pull into the parking lot, I’ve almost convinced myself that everything will make sense, eventually.
Inside, I grab a cart and methodically work my way through the aisles.
Real food this time—not just the frozen dinners and ramen that have barely managed to sustain me over the past couple of weeks.
I toss in some fresh vegetables, a couple of chicken breasts, pasta, and enough coffee to fuel a small army.
As I’m debating between two different brands of pasta sauce, my phone buzzes.
RYDER: Make sure you get beer. And steak.
I nearly drop my phone. How did he—
RYDER: And ice cream. You’re almost out.
ME: Are you spying on me?
RYDER: Just a lucky guess. I saw the empty carton in your freezer. You should really throw things out when you’re done.
Unable to stop the smile spreading across my face, I shake my head.
ME: Anything else, your highness?
RYDER: That’s sir to you, kitten. And something for breakfast tomorrow that doesn’t involve pop tarts.
Rolling my eyes against the shiver caused by his ‘sir’ comment, I head to the ice cream aisle.
When I reach the checkout counter, I park myself in line behind a young couple.
Pressed close together, the guy has his arm draped casually around the woman’s shoulders while they debate which kind of chips to buy.
There’s something about their easy going affection that makes my chest ache just a little.
“That’ll be $127.42,” the cashier states, yanking me from my thoughts.
I pay and wheel my cart out to the parking lot and load the bags into the trunk. Just as I settle into the front seat, I get another text.
RYDER: Wear your hair down tonight. I’ll text you with further instructions when I’m on my way home.
His simple command sends a tingle of excitement up my spine.
ME: Bossy.
RYDER: Kitten, you have no idea. See you tonight.
A sharp knock at the front door, makes me nearly jump out of the red dress Ryder basically ordered me to wear.
When I open it, I almost forget how to breathe.
Ryder is standing before me in a blue button-down, sleeves rolled just high enough to show off his muscular forearms and the thick veins running from wrist to elbow. His hair is styled in its signature chaotic dark and messy and he’s wearing cologne that should come with a warning label.
Warning: This scent is designed to make your panties drop within seconds. Proceed with caution.
Holding a single white daisy, he flashes me a smirk.
“Hey,” he says, voice smooth. “I’m here for my blind date. You must be Noia.”
My brain short-circuits. “What?”
He lifts a brow. “You agreed to have dinner with me tonight, said you’d be wearing a red dress?”
The flowy, red wrap around dress with the too high slit and the seriously low neckline actually makes me feel alive again—sexy. But the way he’s eyeing me right now, I feel exposed—like he can read my thoughts through every visible inch of my skin—but in all the best ways.
“I understand you’re a writer,” he adds, brushing by me as he steps inside. “Romance novels, right? Bet you’ve got a thing for slow-burn and broody, dangerous, complicated men.”
“Oh. My. God,” I mutter, closing the door. “You’re being serious right now, aren’t you?”
Ryder texted me when he was on his way home and told me to wait upstairs until he texted me to come down, surprising me when he knocked on the front door.
He shrugs and walks into the candlelit living room like he didn’t light all those damn candles himself.
There’s soft jazz playing in the background and a couple of plates and wine glasses have been set out on the small table by the window. He even laid out cloth napkins. Where he managed to find those, I have no fucking clue.
This guy has this wooing thing pretty down pat.
“I figured we might as well make the most of what we’re doing. Make it fun.”
“You’re deranged.”
He flashes a grin. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
I cross my arms under my breasts, which pushes them up even more. “And what is the goal tonight exactly?”
Ryder’s gaze flicks down to my chest and he slowly licks his lips before quickly looking away. He shrugs again, uncorking the chilled bottle and pouring the wine. “We’re at a crossroads with your writer’s block. So tonight, we’re going to pretend we’re strangers.”
He hands me a glass.
I hesitate. “What if I don’t want to play along?”
He takes a slow sip from his glass. “Then I sit here and snuggle with Goonie all night instead. He’s way less emotionally constipated.”
Goonie meows loudly from the kitchen in agreement.
Traitor.
My eyes volley between the wine, Ryder, and the flicker of candlelight dancing across his face.
Screw it.
“Fine.” I take the glass and down half of it. “Let’s play.”
We sit across from each other and he makes small talk asking me what I do for a living other than writing. I play along and make up a story about how I design greeting cards for emotionally repressed men. He pretends to be a retired stunt double who teaches yoga to senior citizens.
Our knees bump under the table and we laugh as we talk. At one point, he reaches out to brush a crumb from the corner of my mouth with his thumb.
“So, Noia,” he says, tilting his head, keeping his voice low and full of warmth. “Tell me something you’ve never told anyone before.”
I twirl my wine glass, trying not to drown in the way he’s looking at me and make up some more shit. I mean, it’s a fake date after all.
After dinner, we clear the table and he changes the music. With the candles half-melted, he holds out his hand.
“Dance with me?”
I hesitate.
“Come on,” he says, crooking his fingers.
There’s no way he’s going to let this go, so I let him pull me into his arms.
My world narrows to the feel of his chest against my cheek, the way his thumb strokes slow circles at the small of my back, and how our hips sway together like we’ve done this a thousand times before.
After a few minutes, I get nervous and back away, putting a few inches between us. When I finally look up, he’s watching me.
“What?” I whisper.
“You’re so beautiful.”
My heart skips and he gives me a small smile. “And based on how quickly you just pulled away, I’m pretty sure you’re doing everything in your power not to fall for me.”
“How do you know?” I volley back.
He leans in close, his mouth a breath away from mine.
“Because if you had,” he murmurs, “you’d let me kiss you right now.”
My lips part in surprise and I take another step back, forcing out a laugh as I wipe my sweaty palms on my dress. “This is getting a little too intense for a fake date.”
He doesn’t respond, just looks at me with those intense gray eyes.
Then his smile fades into something darker, more dangerous. In two strides, he’s in my space again, crowding me backward until my back hits the wall.
“What are you doing?” I gasp, my voice catching as his body heat surrounds me.
“Pretend time is over,” he says, planting his hands on either side of my head. “I’m tired of all this slow-burn bullshit,” he growls roughly. “It’s time we take whatever it is we’re doing to the next level.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. “And what level is that?”
His only answer is to by capture my mouth with his. It’s not the gentle kiss from the hot spring or even the adrenaline-fueled one from outside the bar. This is hunger and need and desperation all rolled into one devastating assault, switching my senses to high alert.
Sliding his hands down my sides, he finds the hem of my dress. Shoving the fabric up, he palms my ass and squeezes, pulling me against him as he deepens the kiss. I gasp into his mouth, which he takes advantage of, swiping his tongue against mine, making me weak in the knees.
I should stop this before it goes any further, push him away. But when his teeth graze my bottom lip, all rational thought flies out the window. My hands find their way into his hair, tugging him closer as heat pools low in my belly.
“Fuck,” he breathes against my lips, his voice rough with desire. “You taste good.”
His fingers dig into my flesh, lifting me to press his rock hard length against my center. A moan escapes my lips, and I feel him smile against my mouth.
“That’s it, kitten,” he murmurs, trailing kisses along my jaw to my ear. “Let me hear you.”
When his teeth nip gently at my earlobe, I can’t hold back my whimper. My head falls back against the wall, giving him better access to my neck, to which he then trails his lips along my skin down to my collarbone.
“Ryder,” I gasp, my fingers tightening in his hair. “We shouldn’t—”
“We absolutely should,” he growls, his breath hot against my skin. He slides a hand up, thumb brushing the underside of my breast through the thin fabric of my dress. “Tell me to stop, and I will. But I know that’s the last thing you want right now.”
The challenge in his eyes makes my pulse race and I hate that he’s right.
“I—” My words cut off when he kicks my legs farther apart and uses his other hand to graze a finger up my center over my panties.
“Holy fuck,” he moans. “You’re wet for me.”
Pushing the delicate fabric of my underwear aside, he slides two thick fingers deep inside, making me gasp and arch against the wall.
“Oh my god,” I whimper as his thumb finds my clit, pressing against it in tight, wet circles.
His fingers pump deeper, curling to hit the perfect spot inside as his eyes lock with mine. “You still think you’re imagining me now, kitten?” He increases the pace, the delicious friction making me dizzy with need. “Does this feel real enough for you? Or do you need more proof?”
There’s no way I can answer. I can barely breathe as he keeps working me with his thick, talented fingers. My hips buck against his hand, chasing the building pressure threatening to consume me.
“Answer me or I’ll stop,” he growls, fingers pumping faster, voice dark and commanding. “Am I real, Noia?”
“Yes,” I gasp, clinging to his shoulders as my legs threaten to give out. “Yes, you’re real.”
His eyes are dark with hunger as he watches my face, gauging every reaction. “And this?” He presses harder against my clit, making me cry out. “Is this real too?”
“Yes, yes! Fuck—don’t stop. Please!”
Capturing my mouth again, he swallows my cries as he works me closer to the edge. My entire body is trembling, teetering on the precipice of what is sure to be the biggest orgasm of my life.
When he pulls away, he flashes a victorious smile as he drops to his knees, shoving my dress up around my waist. “Good, girl. Now I’m going to devour you.”
“Rye, wait—” My protest dies when his mouth replaces his thumb, his tongue flicking and circling my clit while his fingers continue their relentless assault.
My hands curl in his hair and he moans against me, the vibration sending shockwaves of pleasure throughout my body.
“Come on, kitten. Let yourself fall,” he murmurs. “I’ll be here to catch you.”
The orgasm hits me like a tidal wave, crashing over me with so much intensity that I scream, my legs trembling as he works me through it, not letting up until I’m gasping and tugging at his hair.
When he finally pulls away, he looks up at me, mouth glistening with my arousal.
“That was...” Panting, unable to find the right words, I close my eyes.
“Just the beginning,” he finishes, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “But only if you want it to be.”
The vulnerability in his eyes catches me off guard. Despite his cocky exterior, he’s giving me an out—a chance to slow things down.
“I—I’m sorry, Ryder. But I think we should call it a night.”
His face goes from tender to hard in a span of seconds.