Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
noia
I wake up to an empty house and a note on the kitchen counter.
Gone to work. Made coffee. See you later. -R
That’s it. No “Have a good morning, kitten”? The bare-bones note leaves me feeling oddly disappointed.
Pouring myself a cup of coffee, I sigh and lean against the counter. Maybe I made a mistake last night. Maybe I should have just let things continue as they were.
No. I was right to ask to slow things down. This thing between us is moving way too fast, spiraling out of control. I need to get my bearings before I completely lose myself.
Ryder’s words echo in my head: “Give me a few days and you’ll be begging me to fuck you again.”
“Fat chance,” I mutter to Goonie as he winds between my ankles. “I have more self-control than that.”
Goonie’s meow sounds skeptical.
Figures.
After breakfast, I sit down to write.
I’m deep in the zone when my phone buzzes with a text.
SASHA: Just one more sleep and I’ll be at your door!
ME: Can’t wait! Fair warning though. Things have gotten... complicated.
SASHA: Good complicated or bad complicated?
ME: Both? I’ll explain everything when you get here.
SASHA: Now I’m REALLY excited!
I set my phone aside and try to focus on writing, but my mind keeps wandering. What will Sasha think of Ryder? What will she make of my crazy situation?
Around noon, my phone buzzes again.
RYDER: How’s the writing going?
ME: Good. Productive morning. How’s work?
RYDER: Glad to hear it. Work is good.
Then, a couple of minutes later:
RYDER: What are you wearing?
I nearly choke on my coffee. The nerve of this man.
ME: Clothes.
RYDER: What a shame. I was hoping you’d still be naked.
Heat floods my cheeks as images from the night before bounce around traitorously in my head—his big hand squeezing my throat, his hot mouth on my clit and the way he made me come completely apart.
ME: I thought we agreed to slow things down.
RYDER: We agreed to slow-burn. And I never agreed to stop thinking about you. Or stop wanting you. This is me adding slow-burn into the mix.
Despite my best efforts to remain unaffected, my pulse quickens.
ME: You’re really a pain in the ass, you know that?
RYDER: And you’re avoiding my question. What are you wearing, kitten?
I look down at my outfit and sigh.
ME: Yoga pants and a T-shirt.
RYDER: The black ones that hug your ass?
Dammit. Now my face is burning.
ME: Yes?
RYDER: Fuck. Now all I can think about is peeling them off you with my teeth.
I squeeze my thighs together, trying to suppress the pulse of heat between my legs.
ME: Aren’t you supposed to be working?
RYDER: I am working. Just finished a piece on a client’s shoulder blade. But I keep thinking about last night and how your pussy felt fluttering around my cock just before I made you come.
I stare at his words, my breathing growing shallow. This is exactly what I was afraid of—Ryder getting under my skin, making me lose focus.
ME: STOP
RYDER: Stop what? Telling you how much I want to taste you again? How I’m already hard just thinking about the sounds you make when you come?
“Holy shit.” I fan myself with my hand.
ME: You’re seriously playing dirty, you know that?
RYDER: Don’t say I didn’t warn you. How’s the slow-burn working out for you so far?
I set the phone down, take a deep breath, and try to regain my composure. But the damage is done—my body is humming with need, and my concentration is completely shot.
This is going to be a very long day.
The sound of a motorcycle pulling into the driveway makes my heart skip and I glance at the clock.
12:01 p.m.
Ryder is home early.
I hear his heavy footsteps on the porch, then the front door. But instead of coming upstairs to find me, I hear him moving around in the kitchen.
“Noia?” his rough, sexy voice floats up from downstairs. “I brought lunch.”
My stomach chooses that moment to growl. I’ve been so absorbed in writing that I forgot to eat.
I go downstairs.
Ryder is leaning against the counter wearing dark jeans and a tight black Henley. His hair is slightly disheveled, and there’s a smudge of ink on his forearm.
He looks good enough to eat.
“You’re home early,” I state, trying to keep my voice neutral.
“Slow day. Figured I’d come home and we could make lunch together.” He gestures to the counter where he’s laid out ingredients for what looks like gourmet sandwiches—thick slices of bread, turkey, avocado, and some kind of fancy cheese.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to.” His eyes meet mine, and there’s something different about them today. They seem more intense, more focused. “Besides, I figured you’d be hungry. You tend to lose track of time when you write and forget to take care of yourself.”
His attention to detail makes a thrill shoot up my spine.
“We’re going to make them together,” he says, motioning for me to join him. “I’m going to teach you how to make a proper sandwich.”
I roll my eyes. “I know how to make a sandwich.”
“Not like this, you don’t.” His voice is authoritative and full of swagger.
“Fine.”
I move to stand next to him at the kitchen island and, side by side, we begin making lunch.
When I reach for the bread, our fingers brush, sending an electric jolt up my arm. I pull back quickly, but not before I see the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“You okay there, kitten?” he asks, trying to act all innocent and shit.
“Yes,” I mutter, focusing on spreading the mustard.
The length of his body brushes against mine as he reaches across me for the tomatoes. I know he’s doing it on purpose—the subtle touches, the occasional casual brush of his body against mine—it’s all part of his “slow-burn” plot.
Well, two can play at this game.
Instead of asking him to hand me the mayo, I lean across the marble, which puts my ass in the air.
When I straighten, he’s behind me, his chest nearly touching my back, breath warm on my neck.
“Need help with that?” he murmurs, brushing his lips against my ear.
I freeze, knife suspended mid-air, my heart hammering loud enough against my ribs I wouldn’t be surprised if he can hear it.
The heat of his body spreads over mine, and it takes all the power I’ve got to fight the urge to lean back against him.
My voice comes out embarrassingly breathy. “I—”
But before I can finish my thought, he steps away.
“I’ll grab the plates,” he announces casually.
When I exhale, it comes out shaky and my entire body is humming. The spot where his lips touched my ear is tingling, and I have to grip the counter for support.
Damn him and his big-dick energy.
When I look up, he’s watching me with that infuriating smirk of his. The asshole knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
He hands me the plates. “You good?”
“You’re playing dirty,” I accuse, setting the plates down with more force than necessary.
He pops an eyebrow. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. We’re just making lunch.”
“Right.” I cross my arms over my chest in an attempt to hide the fact that my nipples have pebbled beneath my T-shirt. “And I’m the Queen of England.”
His eyes darken as they drop to my chest, then back to my face. “Okay, then, your Majesty,” he says with a mock bow.
Despite myself, I laugh. “You’re such a dick.”
“And you’re just as beautiful when you frown,” he growls.