Chapter 19
NINETEEN
noia
Bookish Babe Books is super cozy. With creaky hardwood floors, mismatched armchairs, and shelves that tilt a little to the left. The air smells like fresh espresso, rain-soaked leaves from the open door, and old books that’ve been read too many times to count.
Despite how much this place feels like home, I already feel off balance and overstimulated, and that was before Ryder crowded up behind me.
I shouldn’t have let him bring me here.
His Henley hugs his arms and clings to his chest, and I’m not even close to convinced it wasn’t sewn onto his body by some thirst trap witch. Wearing a snug pair of jeans, his smirk is dialed up to lethal.
“I’m regretting this already,” I mutter, flicking my eyes to the door.
“Too late, kitten.” His voice is low, cocky, and soaked in flirt as he rests his hand against my lower back. “We’re already here. And you promised to let me help you by bringing you to your natural habitat.”
“My natural habitat is wine and solitude, dammit.”
“True. But we’re here to stir up your ecosystem.”
I roll my eyes and stalk toward the romance section before my face betrays how much I want to lick him from bottom to top like a fucking cherry popsicle.
After what he said to me the other night about fucking me? I can’t get that memory out of my head to save my life—pretty sure I’m already dead, though.
Wooden signs dangle above each aisle.
Horror. True Crime. Romance. Erotic Romance.
I make a hard left toward the aisle of my people, where pastel covers and shirtless men with tropes for days fill the shelves.
My veins throb with unresolved tension as Ryder’s fingers trail along a shelf, his expression full of devilish curiosity. He picks up a book with a half-naked Highlander on the cover, raises a brow, and tucks it under his arm.
“For research,” he says.
With a snort, I give him side-eye, trying to focus on the safety and familiarity of the books in front of me, and not on how his arm brushes against mine as he reaches for another book.
But he’s too tall. The scent of sandalwood and rain is coming off him in waves, and he’s so close, despite trying not to, that when I reach for a book, my arm brushes against his chest.
The contact sets off a fire in my belly that’s a bitch to pretend doesn’t exist.
“We’re going to pick something specific,” he says out of nowhere.
I glance at up him. “What?”
“A book. Find the one that wrecked you emotionally. One of those ‘stare-into-space-because-it-destroyed-you-forever’ kind of reads.”
“Why?”
“Because we are going to trade,” he says, eyes dancing. “Forced vulnerability. Think of it as an emotional trust fall. You hand me your book trauma and I’ll hand you mine.”
“You’re a menace.”
“And you’re deflecting.”
“Fine.” Already regretting what I’m about to do, I huff and pull Flock from the shelf. “Here. It’s the first in a trilogy. If you think this one is intense, just wait until you read the second. It’ll fuck you up for life.”
He studies the cover, then reads the blurb, nodding in approval. “Bold choice. My turn.”
Pivoting, he takes a couple of steps, snatches a book off a shelf, then turns and hands it to me.
When I check out the cover, my soul shrivels up and dies.
It’s my book.
Heartstruck was my debut novel. It was the book that started everything. The book that brought Ryder Blackwood and his Marine buddies into fictional existence.
He smirks like he’s already won. “Most transformative read of my life.”
“You’re ridiculous. You didn’t read it, you lived it.”
“Semantics.”
“You cannot seriously expect me to read this to you.”
Entering my personal space, he lowers his voice. “Page one-forty-seven.”
“No.”
“Read it.”
“I will not.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “Coward.”
I glare and flip to the page, scanning it quickly.
No. No way. Nope.
It’s the ‘up-against-the-wall-in-the-library’ scene. The one where the MMC says things that require a trigger warning. I can’t breathe, let alone say any of it out loud.
“I was in a vulnerable place when I wrote this,” I mutter.
“So wild,” he murmurs, grinning. “And so fucking hot.”
“I seriously hate you right now.”
“Kitten.” He gives me a stern look. “You promised to be open-minded, remember?”
Rolling my eyes, I blow out a sigh. “Fine.”
“Here.” Gently taking the book out of my hands, he brushes his thumb against mine, and his tone instantly turns deep and sultry. “Let me.”
And then he starts to read—out loud.
“She was trembling under his touch, her back pressed against the ancient library shelf as his fingers trailed like fire up her thigh.”
I try to grab the book, but he holds it out of reach, slightly turning away. As he continues to read, his voice drops even lower, into a sensual growl that makes every hair on my body stand on end.
“I need to taste you,” he whispered against her neck. “Right here. Right now.”
Oh god. Did I actually write this? My face burns as I glance around, thankful we’re alone in the aisle.
“Ryder, stop,” I whisper-hiss, but he just smirks and keeps on reading.
“Dropping to his knees, he pushes her skirt up around her waist. Hooking his fingers into the delicate lace of her panties, he drags them down her trembling legs. The sight of her pussy glistening for him makes his cock throb in anticipation.”
My heart is hammering so hard against my ribs I can hear it in my ears. Ryder’s eyes flick up to lock with mine over the top of the book, dark with heat as his voice caresses each explicit word.
“The first taste of her was like coming home. Sweet and smoky and so fucking perfect, making him groan against her slick folds.”
Low, steady and sinful, his voice curls around every syllable, drawing it out, turning words that are already hot enough into full-blown bodily weapons. By the time he gets to the part where the heroine moans his name, I’m sweating through the pits of my T-shirt.
“Moaning his name, she bucked against his mouth, her fingers tangling in his hair as he licked a slow path from her entrance to her swollen, throbbing clit—”
Devising a sneak attack, I snatch the book out of his hands and shut it with a definitive slap.
He laughs, genuinely delighted.
“You’re seriously evil, you know that?” I snap, lips twitching.
“And you, my beautiful kitten... are now sexually frustrated.”
His beautiful kitten.
Those words hit too close to home.
“I’m walking out of here and never speaking to you again.”
“You’re just stalling.” He brushes a finger down my cheek. “Tell me I don’t live rent free in your head twenty-four seven.”
I jerk away. “You don’t.”
“Liar.”
Just as I open my mouth to tell him off, a voice comes from somewhere behind him.
“Excuse me—sorry—but... Oh my God, you’re Noia Wilde!”
Caught off guard, I blink in surprise.
A woman, who looks to be in her early twenties, is cradling a stack of books in her arms, looking like she’s trying not to vibrate out of her skin, staring at me like I’m made of magic or some shit.
“I am,” I say carefully.
“I love your books so much,” she gushes. “You’re literally the reason why I started writing. I—oh my God—is this him? Is this the guy that inspired Ryder Blackwood?”
Ryder grins like he’s signing autographs at the gates of hell. “I get that a lot.”
The girl makes a noise that sounds like a cross between a squeal and a squeak and backs away. “I gotta go. Nice to meet you.”
Turning slowly, I look up at Ryder. “What the hell was that?”
He just shrugs.
Shaking my head, I walk toward the front with my book under one arm and my dignity slowly dwindling away as it trails along the floor behind me, barely hanging on.
When we walk outside, the afternoon air feels blessedly cool against my heated skin.
He nudges my shoulder as we head toward his truck. “Did you have fun?”
I shrug.
“Later tonight, we’re really going to test your boundaries,” he says, opening the door for me.
“And how do you plan on doing that?”
“That, kitten, is also a surprise.”
I climb up into the seat. Trying to ignore how incessantly my clit is throbbing, I deflect. “How about I throw a book at your head instead?”
“Plot twist,” he growls, before shutting the door with a wink. “I like that kind of shit.”