30. Gemira
Gemira
The tavern is loud and lively, but still not enough to distract me from the thoughts that have been circling my head all day.
When we finish this, I promise you—you won’t be able to think straight.
I take a long drink of ale, but it doesn’t help.
Ryewood and I claimed two stools at the bar earlier. Our empty stew bowls have been pushed aside in favor of fresh ales. The band has drawn most of the crowd toward them.
He’s watching me. I can feel his steady, patient attention that sets my skin on fire.
I make the mistake of looking at him. He’s unfairly beautiful tonight with his dark shirt open at the collar, revealing tan skin stretched over hard muscle.
His sleeves are rolled past his elbows, and his forearms flex every time he lifts his drink to his mouth, and all I can picture is him pulling me close and pinning me down with those huge arms.
And his deep green eyes are fixed on me with an intensity that makes heat pool low in my core, and I need to squeeze my thighs together under the bar. He hasn’t even touched me yet, and I’m already coming undone.
I set my ale down and turn to face him. If he’s going to look at me like this, he can deal with the consequences.
“You’ve been awfully quiet tonight, Ryewood.”
“Have I?” His voice is easy, like he’s got all the time in the world.
“Mmhmm. I’m starting to think you forgot about your little promise.”
His eyes darken, and my heart pounds.
“I haven’t forgotten anything.” He leans closer, and his fingers trace circles along my arm, where it rests on the bar. “I’ve been thinking about it all day, actually.”
The heat spreads, turning dangerous and hard to ignore.
“Thinking about what, exactly?”
“About making you lose.”
A laugh escapes me, half-nerves, half-want.
“Bold of you to assume I’m going to lose.”
“Bold of you to assume you have a choice.”
Fuck. I catch my lower lip between my teeth without thinking. His gaze drops to my mouth and stays there, and when his eyes lift back to mine, they’re burning, like he’s barely holding himself back. The heat turns to need, but I hold his gaze, refusing to look away first.
“And how exactly will we know who wins?”
He shifts closer. His huge, warm hand cups the back of my neck and pulls me possessively toward him until his lips brush the shell of my ear.
“We’ll know.”
My eyes flutter shut. Cedar and moss flood my senses. His breath is hot against my skin, and I have to dig my nails into my thigh to stop the sound building in my throat.
Fuck. Two words…and I’m already falling apart. I refuse to lose this easily. I pull back, putting space between us, and wave down the bartender.
“Two whiskeys, please.”
Ryewood watches me with that infuriating half-smile, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
While we wait, I let my eyes wander the room. The crowd is thick near the band, bodies swaying and laughing. The tables along the wall are full. And there, tucked in the back corner, past where the bar curves into shadow, hangs a dartboard. Secluded and hidden from the rest of the room. Perfect.
The shots arrive, and I throw mine back without waiting for him, relishing the burn, letting it settle my nerves.
“Darts?” I say, nodding toward the corner.
His eyes follow mine, and when they come back to me, there’s a knowing glint in them.
“Lead the way.”
I slide off my stool and head toward the shadows. His hand finds the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd. His thumb traces a slow circle against my spine, like a promise of what’s to come.
The corner is dark and quiet, the kind of place people come to not be seen.
Ryewood reaches past me to pull the darts from the board, his chest brushes my shoulder, while his hand stays on the small of my back. He hands them to me and lets his fingers linger against mine.
“Ladies first,” he says, his thumb still tracing slow circles against my spine.
“Shall we make this interesting?”
“I’m already interested. But go ahead.”
“Loser buys the next round.”
“Done,” he says with that infuriating smile again.
I turn to the board, take aim, and throw intentionally wide. The dart hits the outer edge.
I glance back at him.
“I’m a little rusty.” The lie tastes sweet on my tongue. He sees right through me; I can tell by the way his mouth curves, but he plays along anyway.
“Here,” he says, moving behind me, pressing his chest against my back. “Let me help.”
His hands are everywhere, my hips, my waist, sliding up my arm to adjust my grip.
“Like this,” he says into my neck.
I press back against him and feel him hard against me. I can’t help myself; I lean back more.
Fuck. The length of him presses against my ass, and my breath catches. Hard isn’t the right word. He’s massive, thick and long and straining against his pants.
“You look affected, little fox.” His voice is a low rumble against my ear. “Should we call this already?”
No. I absolutely will not lose this easily. I roll my hips, slowly, grinding back against his length.
“Fuck.” The word tears out of him as his head tips back, and it is the most satisfying thing I’ve ever heard.
I do it again, slower, feeling every inch of him.
His grip on my hip turns bruising. “Gemma—”
I turn in his arms, facing him. I slide my hand between us and find his thick length. I wrap my palm around him through the fabric and start to stroke, holding his gaze the entire time.
His eyes go hooded, and his jaw tightens, and I watch him unravel a little more with every pass of my hand. Every sound he swallows and every shift of his body under my touch sends heat tearing through me until I’m burning just as badly as he is.
If I don’t stop now, I won’t be able to, so I rise on my toes, and whisper against his ear, “You look like the one affected to me, Ryewood.”
Before he can respond, I pull away and spin toward the board. I throw the dart and hit dead center. I turn back to him with smug satisfaction.
“I guess that makes me the winner.”
His eyes are hungry and dangerous, with the look of a man who’s already planning his revenge.
I saunter toward the far end of the bar, where it curves into shadow, secluded and hidden from the crowd. I lean against the counter, trying to compose myself. I need another shot of whiskey, desperately. That was bold, even for me.
My hand is still tingling from the feel of him, and fuck, I want him. But I won.
The bartender is busy at the other end of the bar, pouring drinks for a group of rowdy travelers. It’ll be a while.
I feel him before I hear him, the heat of his body and the scent of cedar and moss reaching me a moment before his chest presses against me, caging me against the bar.
“Gemma.” His voice is low and rough, right against my ear. “You didn’t think I’d let you get away with that, did you?”
My heart slams against my ribs.
“I won fair and square,” I manage.
His hands find my hips and pull me back against him, and all I can think about is how badly I want him inside me.
“Fair?” He laughs, and the sound promises ruin. “There was nothing fair about what you just did to me.”
His right hand drifts over my hip, down my thigh, then back up, agonizingly slow, until his fingers settle against the ache between my legs. The touch is featherlight, but still enough to make me gasp.
“Still think you won?” he whispers.
I grip the edge of the bar, trying to remember how to breathe. His fingers press harder, rubbing slow circles that make my knees weak.
“All you have to do is tell me I win, and I’ll stop.”
I should. I should end this now before I lose all control.
I reach back and try to wrap my hand around him through his pants. He shifts, pressing his body firmly against mine, pinning me to the bar so my hands can’t reach him.
“Nice try.” His breath is hot against my neck. “But you had your turn.”
His fingers keep moving, rubbing over the seam of my pants until I’m biting my lip to keep from moaning. This is insane. We’re in public; anyone could see. And I’ve never been more turned on in my life.
“Tell me I win.”
“No.”
He half-laughs, half-groans against my ear, like my refusal just set something loose in him.
“So stubborn.”
His fingers slide up my thigh and find the waistband of my pants. He pauses there, waiting for me to stop him, teasing the waistband. I should stop him, tell him we can’t, not here. But what comes out of my mouth is nothing, because I don’t want him to stop. I want him to ruin me.
He slips his hand inside, torturously slow, every inch of his descent deliberate. Lower. Lower. And then, finally, his fingers find my bare heat. The moan I let out is raw and helpless. His forehead drops to my shoulder, and the low groan he lets out undoes me.
“Fuck.” His voice is shattered.
His finger circles my clit, and my body shudders.
No one has ever touched me like this. It’s like he wants to cherish me and wreck me in the same breath. I’ve never wanted anyone like this, never needed anyone the way I need him right now.
“Admit I win,” he murmurs against my neck.
I can’t answer; I can barely stand. His thick, rough fingers are destroying me.
“Rye—” It’s a plea and he knows it.
“Ryewood,” he corrects, his voice like gravel and honey. “I want to hear you say my full name when you’re falling apart for me.”
Falling apart. That’s exactly what’s happening. He’s dismantling me piece by piece, and I’m letting him.
The circles get faster and harder, building to something that’s going to wreck me. I’m climbing toward something huge, my whole body tensing—
Then his fingers ease to a gentle, maddeningly slow rhythm.
“Heads up, little fox.” His voice is rougher than before. “Bartender’s coming. Think you can hold it together?”
I see the bartender heading toward us. Fuck.
Ryewood’s fingers keep moving, slow and lazy, like he has all the time in the world.
“Go on.” His voice is pure sin. “Unless you want him to know what I’m doing to you right now.”