Holly's smile softens into something less wolfish and she nods. She gives me a playful shove toward the door a second later.
"Go on. He's waiting for you."
Between the heels and my nerves, walking is nearly impossible. But somehow I totter my way into the living room, where Cruz and Ryker sit, locked in conversation. Seeing Cruz doesn't hurt as much as I expect it to. The usual wave of desire that I feel around him is absent. Maybe I've embraced the fact he'll never be mine. Or maybe my hopeless desire has found a new unattainable target.
I'm shocked to find Ryker in something approaching formal wear. Aside from his work uniform, I've never seen him wear anything dressy. It's usually riding leather, or denim and a loose-fitting shirt. I've gotten the treat of seeing his ass hugged by a washed-out pair of Levi's more than once. It's a guilty pleasure I've come to love. Right now he's dressed in a pair of slacks and a shirt that's a deep red. With the top button undone it adds just enough of a handsome look that it almost undoes me. The lace panties I've donned will be soaked by the end of the night.
His eyes finally fix on me and go wide. His eyes sweep almost involuntarily from my head down to my high-heels and he lets out a shaky breath. Even Cruz is looking at me with a hint of interest, something I never thought I'd see.
"God, Cleo you look..." Ryker breathes.
"Amazing," Cruz concludes with a nod. "I think that's the word Ryker is searching for."
"Fucking incredible," Ryker corrects him.
Heat floods my face at his praise. My guilt can't mitigate the pleasure I feel at being noticed. Ryker stands, slinging his leather jacket over the whole thing. He offers me another, and I recognize it as my own, stored away in my locker at Rapture for months now. It hadn't felt right to wear it after the debacle with Damian. He made it pretty damn clear that I didn't belong and that no one would help me. He'd been proven wrong, but some part of me still clung to the notion.
"Take it," Ryker urged. "Your dress will get soaked otherwise. I planned to take the bike."
My stomach does a nervous flip. I haven't been on the back of a bike since Damian. Call it a stereotype, but there had always been something about a man straddling a bike that made my heart thump and my panties wet. The rugged image of a man on a bike had always appealed to me, and when I'd been introduced to the Spades, it had been a buffet of them. I'd gone for the worst of the bunch. Damian was sweet at first, at least until I moved in. Then the terror had begun.
I should have chosen someone like Ryker or Cruz from the start. How different would my life be now, if I hadn't thrown myself into Damian's arms?
The thought of being on the back of a bike again makes me feel vulnerable. It's an unthinking reaction, tied to Damian.
Ryker scrutinizes my reaction with a frown. "We don't have to, Cleo."
"No, it's fine," I say. It's a stupid reaction. I'm with the Spades. Trying to avoid bikes in the Spades is like standing in the ocean and expecting not to get wet. This is a part of who Ryker is. He's a Spade through and through.
I take the jacket from him and shove my arms through. The jacket is oversized, made so by Damian's father, Trent. It had always made me feel small and dainty to wear it. Now, with the extra pregnancy weight, I'm glad for that. I smile sheepishly up at Ryker.
"How do I look?"
"Fucking incredible," he says again. There's something deep and unreadable in his eyes. I try not to examine it too closely, lest I read more into it than there is. He offers me his arm and I take it, pressing my fingers into the cool leather eagerly.
When we step outside, I'm surprised to find it's only a light drizzle. I can't expect it to last for long, but I'm grateful for it nonetheless. A light mist touches my face, cool and refreshing while Ryker slings his leg over the bike. It's an Iron 883 and just the sight of it makes my heart thump faster. Before Ryker can spot my panic, I hobble down his steps and across the sidewalk, slinging one leg over the space that remains on the seat. It isn't much, and I'll have to cling like a vine to Ryker's back to stay on. Somehow, the thought doesn't bother me.
He hands me a helmet, and I slot it over my head at once before he can read the emotions playing out on my face. Then I nestle my head in the space between his shoulder blades, lifting my legs to clutch the sides of the bike for dear life. The metal is cold, but Ryker's body is blazing hot against my flesh.
"Hold on tight," he warns, just before gunning down the street. The wind feels like cold fingers on what little flesh is exposed and I huddle even further down Ryker's back to avoid the worst of it.
With my heart thundering in my chest, and my arms braced around his waist, I can't deny it any longer. I have to say it now, while I lose my words to the wind and the confining space of my helmet.
"I love you Ryker," I whisper. "God help me, but I do."
Ryker doesn't respond, too busy racing down the drab streets of South Hollens to hear me. And for once, I'm grateful to be ignored.
It's stupid, it's selfish, and it will probably break my heart into a million pieces when it ends. But I love Ryker Fenton.
And the sad truth is, he'll never love me in return.
8
Ryker
By the time we reach the Black Spade Hotel and Casino, my cock is straining against my fly. The feel of her pressed against me, every curve of her body molding into mine makes me so dizzy with pleasure I can barely think. It's almost disappointing to park the bike in the lot reserved for Spade members and dismount. I adjust discreetly and vow to take care of the problem later.
I've been doing a lot of that, late at night when Cleo and Bryan are asleep in the master bedroom. I know this image will be fuel enough for the next few weeks. Cleo decked out in a skimpy black dress that does little to hide her curves and the long, tawny expanse of her legs. If it were up to me, I would sling the long, slender appendages around my shoulders and hoist her against the nearest wall, licking a trail up to her sweet pussy.
