Page 97 of No Good Fight

I hold onto his shoulders while my body adjusts around him. He stays still even though I can feel how badly he wants to move, his control shaking through his arms, his breathing ragged against my skin.

There’s no darkness to hide in. No edge being dangled out of reach. No punishment for wanting too much. Just Ryder above me, watching me like I’m the only thing in the world he trusts himself to touch.

“Okay?” he asks.

I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him closer. “Perfect.”

He moves then, slow at first, giving me time to meet him. I do. Every thrust drags a soft sound out of me, and instead of swallowing them down, I let him hear. His hand slides under my thigh, opening me more, and the angle makes my nails dig into his back. He drops his forehead to mine, eyes open, jaw tight with the effort of holding himself back enough to keep this ours instead of only his need.

I don’t want him to be careful forever. I want his rough, the edges that he tries to smooth just for me. I want everything.

I turn my mouth to his ear and whisper, “I won’t break.”

Ryder kisses me hard enough to steal the rest of the sentence. His pace changes, deeper now, more certain, the bed shifting beneath us while morning light spreads slowly across his room. I cling to him and take every bit of it, every rough breath, every low sound, every whispered curse against my mouth when I tighten around him.

The orgasm builds differently this time. This one isn’t dragged out of the dark. It rises steady and full, rooted somewhere under my ribs where all the things I’m afraid to feel have been gathering since the first time he looked at me like I mattered. Ryder feels it happen. His hand slips between us, fingers finding my clit with practiced attention, and I come with his name pressed into his shoulder while I’m screaming my release.

He follows a few strokes later, burying his face against my neck, his whole body going tight above mine before he shudders and stills. For a long moment, neither of us moves. I feel his weight, his heartbeat, the damp heat of our skin, and the strange, terrifying quiet that comes after giving someone more than I meant to and realizing I don’t want it back.

Eventually, Ryder lifts enough to look at me. His hand comes to my face, thumb brushing along my cheek with the kind of tenderness that makes it impossible to ignore.

“Oh God,” I whisper as my body revolts against me.

His mouth curves, soft and wrecked. “Bathroom?”

I cover my face with both hands. “Immediately.”

“You go do that. I’ll make coffee first,” he says, voice rough. “Then I’ll just live in my inappropriate thoughts.”

“That sounds like scheduling, and I don’t appreciate being managed.” The sarcasm is back with a force, and I can’t stop it.

He sits up the rest of the way, slower now, giving me room to stand. “You’re the one who put coffee and the bathroom first.”

“I’m complicated.”

“You are.”

The words are quiet enough that they don’t feel like a joke. I pick up the flashlight because I need something in my hand, then set it back down before I walk to the bathroom. By the time I come out, Ryder is gone and I can hear him downstairs. Cabinets opening. Coffee starting. The low murmur of his voice, probably checking messages from Remy, or ordering three more cameras, or threatening the weather for having poor boundaries.

Normal should not feel like this much of a gift. But I’m starting to crave it more than anything else. This life. With Ryder.

I borrow another one of his shirts after I shower because my clothes situation has become pathetic, then stand in front of the bathroom mirror with wet hair, bare legs, and a toothbrush in my mouth while I stare at myself like I’m waiting for a verdict. There’s a faint mark on the side of my throat from Ryder’s mouth. I touch it before I can stop myself and feel heat climb my face.

Then I remember the fence.

HE CAN’T KEEP YOU.

The warmth in my chest drains fast enough to make me cold.

Downstairs, Ryder has coffee, toast, my laptop bag, and an expression that says he’s trying not to ask where I plan to be every second today. His phone is facedown beside his mug. I notice because the restraint is loud.

“I’m going to work,” I say before he can turn breakfast into a hostage negotiation.

He butters a slice of toast with careful, even strokes. “Okay.”

That answer is too calm to trust.

I pull a mug from the cabinet I learned yesterday and fill it before looking at him again. “And I need to stop at my apartment first.”