“He also told me that within a few days, I’ll be begging him to fuck me again.”
A slow, mischievous smile spreads across Sasha’s face. “So turn that shit back on him.”
“Actually, I did—by bending over the counter.” I let out a frustrated breath. “But when I straightened up, he was standing right behind me!”
My best friend barks out a laugh. “Sounds like a game of ‘slow-burn roulette.’”
I down the last of my second glass of wine and deadpan, “Don’t I know it.”
THIRTY
ryder
The shop is packedwith clients when I arrive, and I’m grateful for the distraction. But the steady buzz of idle chatter does little to drown out the memory of how Noia’s pupils dilated and her breath caught when I swiped the syrup off her lip with my thumb this morning.
And the way her lips parted just enough that I could see the tip of her small pink tongue? She was practically begging to be kissed.
“Earth to Ryder.” Jax waves a hand in front of my face. “You in there, man?”
I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at the same sketch for I don’t know how long. “Yeah.”
“You’ve been spacing out all day.” He leans against my desk. “Is it that writer chick again?”
“Her name is Noia,” I growl.
Jax holds up his hands in defense. “Whoa, easy there, Ride. Just asking.”
I run a hand down my face and try to pull myself together. Last night’s nightmare has left me drained, and this morning’sslow-burn with Noia has my body wound tight—so yeah, not the best combination.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “Didn’t sleep much.”
A flash of concern crosses Jax’s face. “Nightmare?”
Even though Jax is one of the few people who stuck by me through the worst of my PTSD and pill addiction after I got out of the Marines, I just nod, not wanting to get into it.
“Have you talked to Claire about it yet?”
“No. It’s fine. Just a rough night. It’s the first in a long time, actually.”
“If you say so.” But he doesn’t look convinced. “Anyway, we’re meeting Claire at The Brew at six to finalize the party details. You still good with that?”
“Yeah, I’ll be there.”
Fuck. Even after talking with my best friend, my dick is still hard.
I adjust myself in my jeans and force my attention back to my work. I have two more clients today and a mountain of paperwork to get through before meeting up with Claire and Jax.
By the time six o’clock rolls around, I’m exhausted, but somewhat more focused.
The Brew is only a couple of blocks from the shop, so I walk, hoping the cool evening air will clear my head.
It looks exactly like I remember it. The converted warehouse has exposed brick walls and high ceilings. Decorated with oxblood leather booths, the rest of the place has wood and metal accents.
The building itself is split in two, with a restaurant on one side and a bar with a dance floor, pool tables, dartboards and a jukebox on the other. Warm amber light floods the space from Edison bulbs hanging from theceiling.
Claire is sitting with Jax at a high-top table near the bar, nursing what looks like her typical drink of choice, a vodka soda. Her purple hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and she’s wearing her usual black jeans and vintage band T-shirt. She’s surrounded by paperwork and talking animatedly to a tall, bearded man I don’t recognize until a memory slams into my brain.
Owen, owner of The Brew.
