Ryker kissed me.
Not gentle. Not careful. This was possession and absolution, tangled together in a clash of lips and tongue. His lips moved against mine with an urgency that made my chest ache, and I realized what I was really tasting: acceptance.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. The anger that had blazed in his eyes minutes ago had transformed into something molten, something that made heat pool low in my belly.
His hand fisted in my hair, tilting my head back as his mouth found my throat. My back hit the hallway wall as his hands bracketed my face, holding me still as he devoured my mouth. My fingers clawed at his shoulders, pulling him closer, needing to erase every inch of space between us.
“Ryker,” I gasped when he finally let me breathe.
“Say it again.” His teeth scraped along my jaw, sending shivers racing down my spine. “My name. Say it like you mean it.”
“Ryker.” This time, it came out as a moan when his hand slid down to grip my hip, grinding me against the evidence of how much it meant to him, that I’d exposed every vulnerable fragment of my heart. How much more he wanted me for it.
We stumbled toward the bedroom, unable to stop touching, tasting, taking. My back hit the doorframe. Then the dresser. Each impact punctuated by his mouth on mine, by my hands tangling in his hair, by the desperate sounds we couldn’t hold back.
The world narrowed to just this: the taste of him, the solid warmth of his body, the way his fingers tangled in my hair, like he was afraid I might disappear.
My hands found the buttons of his shirt, working them free with trembling fingers. “Too slow,” he muttered, yanking the fabric over his head, buttons scattering across the floor. “Don’t care. I’ll buy a hundred shirts if it means I get to touch you now.”
I laughed, breathless, running my palms over all that ink and muscle, the broad planes of his chest, delighting in the way his breathing had gone shallow.
I pulled my shirt over my head. The fabric fell away, and I fought the urge to cover myself, to hide the road map of my survival written across my skin. His eyes tracked every movement as I stripped away each layer until I stood before him in nothing but skin and scars and the vulnerability I’d spent a lifetime hiding.
“So fucking beautiful,” he breathed. “You’re a masterpiece, Faith. Every mark tells me you survived. Every scar says you’re still here. Still fighting.” His hand splayed across my stomach, covering the worst of them. “You survived it all.” He bent and pressed his lips to the raised tissue. “Warrior.”
Tears burned my eyes.
Then his hands were on me, mapping every curve, every angle. He walked me backward until my legs hit the mattress. I sat, then lay back as he followed me down. The weight of him settled over me. Familiar yet entirely new.
His mouth found my throat, kissing a path down to my collarbone. “Every part of you,” he murmured against my skin. His lips traveled lower, and I gasped as he kissed the space between my breasts. “All of you.”
“I will always love every part of you. The good, the bad, the parts you think are too ugly to love.”
His words from earlier echoed through my mind as his mouth closed around one nipple, then the other, lavishing attention until I was arching into him, fingers raking through his hair.
“Dream about this every night,” he confessed against my skin, his voice wrecked. “About having you under me, over me, around me. About making you fall apart just so I can put you back together.”
“Ryker …” My voice broke on his name.
“That’s it. Love hearing you say my name like that.” His mouth traveled lower, teeth grazing my ribs, tongue tracing patterns only he could read. “Going to make you say it a thousand more times before we’re done.”
He kissed down my stomach, then along my inner thighs, pressing them wider.
When his mouth finally found my center, I cried out. His tongue moved with purpose, with knowledge, like he’d studied exactly how to unmake me. It moved in slow, deliberate circles, building pleasure with a patience that bordered on torture, and as he did, every nerve ending sparked to life. My hands fisted in the sheets as he worked me higher and higher until I was trembling on the edge.
“Look at me,” he commanded, lifting his head just enough to meet my eyes. “Want to see you when you break for me.”
I forced my eyes open. The sight of him between my thighs, mouth glistening, eyes wild with desire, nearly undid me right there.
“Please,” I whimpered.
“Please what?” He pressed a kiss to my inner thigh, then bit down gently, marking me. “Tell me what you need.”
“You. Just you. Please, Ryker, I need …”
“I know what you need.” His mouth returned to my center, two fingers sliding inside me, curling just right. “Let go. Stop thinking. Stop hiding. Just feel.” His mouth was on me again.
We face everything together.
