He fists my hair, gently at first, then tighter as I hollow my cheeks around him. The taste of him is dizzying, bitter and salty and utterly Ryder. I work him with my tongue and lips, watching the way his jaw clenches, the way his free hand goes white-knuckled on the bar, as if he’s keeping himself from shattering.
He curses, a low bark of “fuck” that sounds half wild, and it rips through me, raw and honest. I can tell he’s seconds from giving in, but he holds himself in check, jaw flexed, head thrown back.
I ease up, letting him slip from my lips, and look up at him with one eyebrow cocked. I stand, body humming, ready for him.
He watches me with that feral hunger, then gestures to the barstools. I straddle one, legs parting for him. His strong hands grip my hips and lift me, repositioning until I’m on the very edge, back arched, aching for him to fuck me.
“I can’t believe you’re real,” he growls.
He rolls his thumb over my hipbone and hitches me closer.
When he thrusts inside, the shock of it, full and overwhelming, knocks all sound out of my lungs.
The world contracts to pain, heat, the pulse of his body inside mine. I swear we’re suspended in time, everything else in the universe shrunk to just this, his arms caging me, the taste of whiskey and sweat and desperation, the scent of us shrouding us. I hold his gaze as he moves.
It’s… exquisite.
Relentless. Each thrust builds a pressure in me that’s both pleasure and ache, the two blurring until I can’t distinguish one from the other.
He buries his face in my neck, exhaling a shaky breath, body straining, trying to crawl inside my skin. I grip his hips, nails digging in, and match him for rhythm, for intensity. It’s a battle and a surrender, a silent conversation in motion and sweat. The bar trembles under us.
Glasses shudder as he slams his palm down, knocking over an abandoned shot glass. The clatter is sharp and bright and thrilling. There is no room for shame, not even the polite kind—every part of me is awake, howling.
I surrender to him and, at the same time, I take what I need. And what I need is more. I pull him closer, thighs clamped, and ride the heat climbing through my gut. When his hand snakes up, tugging my head back, the nerves in my neck sing.
"You need to come for me," he says, teeth gritting, and the command settles between my lungs, heavier than gravity. “Then I’m going to fuck you from behind.”
I can’t talk; I can only hold. The tension coils and tightens, and then, blinding, it snaps. The barstool threatens to topple, and I scramble for balance, but Ryder holds me still, bracing my back as the whole world blows apart behind my eyes.
I'm nearly sobbing with relief and pleasure, my body liquefied, trembling. I want to bask in it, float on the aftershocks forever, but Ryder barely gives me a moment.
He pulls out, spins me, bends me over the bar, and hikes my hips up so fast I don’t even have breath to react. I feel the brush of his jeans against my skin, the dry, rough heat of his hands clutching my waist, and then he’s inside me again, deeper than before.
I arch my back, the wood biting into my sternum, my cheek pressed flat to the cool bar. He moves, an animal rhythm, likehe’s going to fuck the words right out of me. He gathers my hair in a fist, forces my head back, and I moan, sharp and unguarded, my voice echoing through the empty bar.
I can’t see anything but blurred bottles and streaks of light; I can’t even say his name. The world is awash in sensation: the creak of the bar, the slap of skin, the feral growls in his throat turning every thrust into a promise.
I’m going to splinter apart. I want to, and when that second orgasm rolls through me, I do: everything shatters and reforms, the bright white of it lancing up my spine and through my skull. The bar shakes so hard that bottles topple behind us, thudding to the floor, but I’m gone, so far gone it feels my soul is a fistful of confetti scattered over a canyon.
Ryder’s grip on my hips bruises as he slams in deeper.
My mind goes white. My vision, blue spots, the taste of metal and salt. He fucks me with purpose, with bone-deep intent. No pretense. He wants to fill me, mark me, and when his hand wraps around the curve of my hip, thumb digging in, I swear I can feel the shape of his will in my bones.
His climax hits fast and ruthless. He groans, hoarse, and holds himself inside, shuddering, rutting once more before collapsing forward so his chest braces the length of my back. I taste blood from biting my tongue.
Or maybe I’m tasting the sharp, electric inside of his name.Ryder, Ryder, Ryder,pinging around the hollow of my mind like a coin flung at a bell.
For a while, we don’t move. Just breathe.
Our bodies stacked, trembling, softening around each other. The bar is a mess behind us, but none of it matters. The only thing that exists is the heavy drag of his breath against my shoulder and the way his hands are still gripping my hips like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
Slowly, he eases his hold.
There’s no wildness now.
No feral edge.
Just heat.
