5. Ryan
CHAPTER FIVE
RYAN
Usually, by the time I step out of the elevator and into the hallway of my apartment building, the city is just distant noise.
But now, the hush presses in, so thick I can feel it ringing in my ears, closing over me like a fist. My keys drag down my pocket, heavy as the exhaustion grinding deep in my bones, every step toward my door slow and shadowed by the memory of Rory on her doorstep, lips parted, blue eyes round and startled, her shock a perfect echo of my own desperate need.
I told her I wasn't pretending. The words had torn loose before I could think to stop them, hanging between us, sharp in the damp Seattle night. I don’t regret it.
But the way she looked at me, like I was a puzzle dumped onto the table with no warning, clamps around my ribcage, brutal and relentless, squeezing every last drop of air from my lungs.
My apartment is all sleek corners and cold, expensive pieces, everything laid out too perfectly, too precisely, like nobody’s been living here at all.
It’s the kind of place a guy picks out when he’s waiting for his real life to show up and rescue him from all the silence.
I toss my keys on the marble countertop, and they hit with a sharp, lonely clatter that echoes throughout the whole open-plan space.
No need for lights. The streetlamps outside spill in through the floor-to-ceiling windows anyway, stretching long crooked shadows across the hardwood, making everything feel vast and a little haunted.
I need to get my shit under control. I shed my suit jacket, letting it fall onto a leather armchair, and tug at my tie until the silk slithers free. My skin feels too tight for my body, a restless energy buzzing in my limbs that even a triple-overtime game couldn't exhaust.
The bathroom is cold, all slate tile and chrome fixtures. I kick off my shoes and strip, my movements jagged and impatient. When I catch my reflection in the mirror, I see a man very close to losing control.
I step into the shower and crank the handle to the left, waiting for the water to scald. It hits my back in a punishing spray, but it’s not enough to drown out the image of her. Rory. The way her curves filled out that dress at dinner. The way her genuine laugh lights me up from the inside out.
I lean my forehead against the wet tile, closing my eyes.
Big mistake. Behind my eyelids, she’s right there.
I see the way her eyelashes fluttered when I leaned in.
I feel the ghost of her palm against my chest, the heat of her skin through my shirt.
She’s all soft edges and sharp wit, a combination that’s currently wreaking havoc on my nervous system.
My hand finds its way down, my fingers wrapping around the thick, heavy length of my cock.
It’s rock-hard, aching with a pulse that matches the thrum of the water against the floor.
I groan, the sound lost in the steam, and start to move.
I’m not just horny; I’m starving for a woman who thinks we’re playing a game of make-believe.
"Rory," I breathe, the name a jagged prayer. I picture her in this shower with me, the water slicking down her skin, making those incredible breasts glisten. I imagine her pinned against this very wall, her legs wrapped around my waist and those blue eyes dark with the same hunger that’s currently eating me alive.
I increase the pace, my thumb rubbing circles over the sensitive head, catching the beads of pre-cum that smear against my palm.
Every stroke is a memory of how she felt against me at the door.
I want to fuck her. I want to sink into her until I don't know where I end and she begins. I want to hear her scream my name, not because there’s a camera nearby, but because she can't help it.
The friction is goddamn torture. I’m close, the tension coiling in my gut like a spring being wound too tight. My breath hitches, coming in ragged gasps that fog up the glass door. I can almost feel her hands on me, her nails digging into my ass as I drive into her pussy, hard and deep and real.
I hit the edge and go over, my body jerking as I explode into my hand.
The release is violent, a series of hot pulses that leave me shaking and hollowed out.
I stand there for a long time, watching as the water washes the evidence of my desperation down the drain with my chest heaving.
It didn't fix anything. If anything, the ache in my chest is sharper now, a dull roar of realization that I won’t be happy until Rory is mine. Forever.
I eventually kill the water and step out, dripping onto the mat.
I wrap a towel around my waist and walk back into the bedroom.
My phone is sitting on the nightstand, its screen dark.
I pick it up, the glass cool against my damp palm.
I shouldn't text her. It’s late, and this isn’t a real relationship.
I unlock the phone anyway. My thumb hovers over her name.
Me
Just got home.
I stop myself before hitting send and stare at the words. Too casual? Too much? I delete them. Maybe I should say, “That was a hell of a dinner.” No. I settle on something simple, something that doesn't demand an answer but leaves the door cracked open just enough for her to slip through.
Me
I had a great time tonight.
I hit send before my brain can catch up with my thumb.
I toss the phone onto the bed and walk to the window, staring out at the Space Needle piercing the clouds.
My heart is doing that erratic double-thud again, the one it only does when I’m about to take a hit or when she’s in the room.
I expect to wait. I expect the silence to stretch into the morning.
My phone buzzes, and I dive for it, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug. It’s her. My lungs feel like they’ve been packed with dry ice.
Rory
Me too. We forgot to set up our next date. When are you free?
I sit on the edge of the bed, a smile tugging at my mouth for the first time all night. She’s ready for another date. I fist-bump the air before I’m able to stop myself. Then I turn back to my phone.
Me
Are you available to attend a Knights game on Tuesday night? We can grab dinner after the game.
Rory
That works for me.
Me
I’ll arrange for you to sit in the family section. I’ll send over the ticket tomorrow.
Rory
Sounds great. Goodnight.
I set the phone down, but I don't move. I lie back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. The conversation was short, but I feel more connected to her than I have to anyone in years. It’s terrifying.
I’m a man who lives by stats and schedules, by the predictable physics of a puck on ice.
Rory Fox is a variable I didn't account for, a storm surge that’s washed away my foundations.
I try to sleep. I really do. I close my eyes and try to focus on my breathing, on the familiar rhythm of my own heart. But every time I drift, I remember the feel of her soft, curvy body pressed against mine. I can picture the catch in her breath when I told her I wasn't pretending.
I roll onto my side, the sheets cool against my skin, counting down the hours until I see her again.