My chest tightens, my eyes stinging even as pleasure practically blinds them. And he doesn’t let up, pumping into me mercilessly, hitting my G-spot dead-on and stealing every thought from my mind. A man of his word.
“I’ll fuck you however you want, Ana, you know that by now. My cock can’t stand down if I’m anywhere near your orbit, and I’ll serve it up to you any way you wish.”
I clench around him, his words causing the involuntary response, and his groan vibrates against my back. His arms wind around my torso, gathering me close. Pressure builds in my core as my head clouds with delicious images of Ryan yielding to my desire whenever I want. A misty, senseless thought bubble forms—you can have him forever—before dissolving like a contrail in the sky.
“I’ll make you come until your legs give out.” His breath is hoton my neck, a shadowy undertone to his hoarse voice. “Even if that’s all you want from me.”
His hand snakes down to rub my swollen clit, the sensation combining with the storm on my G-spot to bring on an orgasm that’s more wallop than wave. The impact is so shattering that a scream rips from my throat, muffled in the mattress as I clutch futilely at the sheets. He crushes me to him as he shudders through his own release, as though he needs every inch of my skin against his to be able to come, as though our bodies can snuff out the words that hang both said and unsaid in the air.
Chapter 15
The soft rustle of sheets. Diffuse light seeping through sheer white curtains. The scent of hotel soap, brought to life on Ryan’s skin, both provocative and comforting.
It’s this recognition that stirs me awake.
“Good morning,” he says from the other side of the bed.
“What time is it?” I ask, my voice sleep-logged.
“Early,” he says. “Not even six.”
He looks tired. His vibe is…different than usual. Wary.
“Couldn’t sleep?” I ask.
His hair rustles against the pillow as he shakes his head.
“Off your usual routines,” I posit.
A beat passes. “You could say that.”
I rub my eyes. “Don’t publicists tour around promoting books all the time?”
“Not as much as you’d think.” He hedges. “And that’s not the most unusual thing about this past week.”
Behind him, the room is spotless. Because it’s Ryan’s room, and Ryan is orderly, neat. Everything in its place.
Except for my clothes, strewn haphazardly across the carpet.
I am the odd thing out here.
“Don’t usually have casual sex with your authors?” I ask, trying for lightness. Even batting my lashes in the effort.
“Don’t have casual sex at all,” he says softly.
Maral called it, as usual. And despite the fact that he should be in the museum of impossible things (a man from New York City, with that masterpiece of a body, who couldpullbut chooses not to?), I can’t help but admit it tracks. Ryan is serious, mature, loyal. He gave up his young adulthood to raise a child who wasn’t even his own. He devotes himself fully to everything he does—it makes sense that he’d do the same with relationships.
It’s such a vulnerable thing to admit, yet he’s unselfconscious about it. Probably because he’s a fucking god in bed. “You could have fooled me,” I say. “How are you so good?”
His lips tug at the corners. “I’ve been dreaming of making you come for…a long time.”
I huff a laugh. Don’t know if I’d characterize the nine days we’ve been on tour so far—more specifically, since that morning in Chicago when I first caught him drinking in the sight of my legs—as alongtime. But then again, any length of time spent full of unmet desire can feel like forever.
“I’ll admit,” I say, “Ryan Grant, sex god,was not on my bingo card for this year.”
“What was my descriptor instead?”
I make a show of thinking about it. “Ryan Grant, stuffed shirt.”
