I don’t want to see whether she’s disappointed or relieved.
I’m not sure which would be worse.
“Yes, I know, I just...” I take a deep breath, filling my lungs and steeling the anxiety churning in my stomach. “I’m sorry but I’m used to Ryder now. I don’t do well with change.”
17
Ryder
What the hell is wrong with that girl?
All week, she acts like I’m evil personified, snapping at me any chance she gets, yet she’s inmyapartment, getting ready for the club outinginmybathroom.
She had a shower and the sounds of water and her humming kept me half-hard the entire time. The water’s not running anymore, and the smell of coconut perfumes the air, letting me know exactly what she’s doing behind closed doors.
My head’s full of her... I wish she was full of my head, too.
I sit at the breakfast bar, ready to leave, my knee bouncing, fingers tapping against the marble counter, a glass of whiskey in my free hand. None of it takes the edge off my agitated mind.
The vulnerability in her eyes when I told her she’d be staying at Carter’s hit me harder than Cupid’s arrow could.
My immediate reaction wasrelief. She wants my company; she feels safe with me. Despite how much she infuriates me, I want her around. I want to be the one keeping her safe.
I take another sip of whiskey, glancing at my wristwatch. Arthur’s picking us up in ten minutes and the bathroom door cracks open, but Bianca’s footsteps don’t follow.
“Ryder?” she calls out, a hint of uncertainty in her voice. “Could you... could you help me in here?”
My back straightens, heat spreading through me at the thought of lathering lotion into the parts she can’t reach. I doubt that’s what she needs, but one can hope.
Setting the glass on the counter, I make my way into the bathroom. Bianca’s head peeks through the cracked door, her makeup done, straight hair tumbling down her arms. She opens the door further, one arm draped over her chest, holding her mini dress in place.
My mind soars, tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth in dumb amazement. The burgundy velvet dress istiny, ending a couple of inches below her ass, modestly flared from her waist down, snug from her waist up. It’s strapless, plain, nothing but two inches of silk at the hem to break the boredom.
Plain. Beyond sexy yet elegant in a minimalist sort of way.
Her sun-kissed skin is on display, glistening with the remnants of lotion that hasn’t yet absorbed. Gold jewelry complements the look. Her eyes and cheekbones pop thanks to the earthy-toned makeup, and four-inch stilettos make her legs go on for fucking ever.
Those heels would look phenomenal over my shoulder.
“Can you zip me up?” she asks, twirling around.
Only if I get to unzip you later.
Fuck. She wants me dead.
Her whole back is bare, not a hit of bra. Nothing but smooth, warm skin and a strip of lace further down.
Jesus wept... she’s wearing athong.
My heart hammers in my chest, dangerously close to cardiac-arrest range. She wants me dead, and she’ll get herfucking wish at this rate. Arousal oozes out of my pores, leaks from my cock. The feeling intensifies when I grip the zipper at the small of her back, pulling it up slowly.
Goosebumps appear everywhere I touch.
It’d be so easy to spin her around and taste those pouty lips, painted to match her dress. We lock eyes in the mirror, her chin raised, satisfaction painting her face better than makeup.
“You like what you see,” she states matter-of-factly.
“I’m not blind, Winter. You’re gorgeous.”
