Riley
His laugh is low and rough as he lets me pull him through the crowd, past the whistles and catcalls, past Molly's knowing smirk and Tank's booming approval. My heart pounds so hard I swear he can feel it through my fingers.
The hallway to his room feels longer than I remember. Every step is charged, electric, the heat of his hand in mine sending sparks up my arm. When we reach his door, I fumble with the handle, suddenly nervous, suddenly aware of what I'm doing.
Then his chest presses against my back, warm and solid, and his breath ghosts across my ear. "You sure about this, Sparrow?"
I turn to face him, back against the door. His eyes are dark, searching, giving me every chance to change my mind. But I don't want to change my mind. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I know exactly what I want.
"I'm sure."
The word barely leaves my lips before his mouth finds mine.
This kiss differs from the one in the bar. That was a statement, a declaration. This is a question, soft and searching, his lips moving against mine with a tenderness that makes my chest ache. His hands cup my face as if I'm something precious, something he's afraid to break.
I reach behind me, twist the handle, and we stumble through together.
The room is dark except for the streetlight filtering through the blinds, casting everything in silver and shadow. He kicks the door closed and we're alone — really alone — for the first time since that moment in the garage.
I pull him closer, fingers fisting in his shirt, and the kiss deepens. He tastes of whiskey and something darker, something that makes my head spin. His hands slide from my face to my shoulders, down my arms, settling at my waist with a grip that's firm but careful.
A moan escapes me — small, involuntary — and I feel him shudder in response.
"Riley." My name on his lips sounds like a prayer and a warning all at once.
"Don't stop," I whisper against his mouth. "Please don't stop."
He groans, and the sound vibrates through me, pooling low in my belly. His hands tighten at my waist, pulling me flush to his body, and I can feel the evidence of how much he wants this pressed against my hip.
The kiss turns hungry. His tongue sweeps against mine, claiming, demanding, and I give him everything. My fingers find the hem of his shirt, tugging it free from his jeans, desperate to feel skin.
He pulls back just enough to yank it over his head, and I lose my breath.
He's beautiful. Scarred and tattooed and built like something carved from stone. My hands trace the lines of his chest, the ridges of his abs, the thick ropes of muscle across his shoulders. He watches me explore, chest heaving, jaw tight with restraint.
Then I see something that makes me stop. A fresh bandage placed around his right collarbone.
“What’s this?” I say.
“Job hazard. Nothing serious,” he says. Before I can press more, he kisses me, and words, thoughts, questions — they alldisappear from my mind like exhaust in the wind. Another kiss and another, and then his body is against mine and I’m pinned to the wall in just the right way. There’s nothing behind me except something solid, and there’s nothing in front of me except what I want: him.
“My turn,” I murmur, my hands reaching for the bottom of my shirt, lifting it.
His hands catch mine, stopping me.
"Let me," he says, voice rough as gravel.
I nod, heart hammering, and let my arms fall to my sides. He takes the hem of my shirt between his fingers, slow, reverent, like he's unwrapping something sacred. The fabric slides up my stomach, over my ribs, and I lift my arms so he can pull it free.
The cool air hits my skin and I shiver — not from cold, but from the way he looks at me. Like I'm the only thing in the world that matters. Like he's been waiting his whole life for this moment.
"Christ, Riley." His voice is barely a whisper. "You're beautiful."
I want to deflect, to make a joke, to hide behind humor the way I always do. But the raw honesty in his eyes steals the words from my throat. Instead, I reach for him, pulling him close, and the first press of skin against skin makes us both gasp.
He's warm. So warm. And solid in a way that makes me feel anchored for the first time in months. Years, maybe.
His mouth finds my neck, trailing kisses down to my collarbone, and my head falls back against the wall. Every nerve ending I have lights up at his touch. When his teeth graze the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder, a sound escapes me — needy, desperate, nothing like the careful, controlled woman I've trained myself to be.
