He’s always so hot and cold with me, and I’m not supposed to even be here. It was only a few hours ago that Jim issued his warning, and yet here I am. Boredom and liquor have once again impaired my judgment enough that I’m making a poor decision. First, Duke in the field. Now, Ryan in this room that looks no better than what I assume could be compared to a motel that rents room by the hour. I try to pull away, but he tightens his grip on my hand, locking me in place, and brings his lips to my ear. “Relax, baby. I know you want this.”
I do want this. I want all of it. If only he could just tell me he wants me, that I should fight to have whatever this is with him, I will. But I need him to tell me he wants me.
“Tell me you want me,” I whisper. The words come out so quietly, I’m not certain he’ll even hear me. But he does. He places his lips on the shell of my ear, his warm breath coating my cheek. His left hand slides down my chest and over my breast, brushing my nipple beneath the fabric of both my shirt and bra in the process. I bite back a gasp that threatens to escape.
“I want to fuck you,” he says, pushing his pelvis into my back. Biting harder on my lip in surprise, I clamp my mouth shut to stop the yelp from escaping. His left hand slides down the front of my belly, over my tee-shirt, landing on the top of my jeans. His warm fingers slip under the thin fabric, rough skin against soft skin.
Flicking the button open on my jeans he whispers, “I want to fuck you. Hard.” It’s not lost on me that he wants to fuck me, but I still don’t know if he wants me. There’s a world of difference between the two.
He takes a gentle bite of my ear and drags the zipper of my pants down. His fingers slide up my cotton panties and then dip inside, just hovering there at the top. A furious pounding escalates between my legs. The little thud, thud, thud builds to a furious roar as my muscles lock and my lungs stall. It’s been so long since I’ve been touched like this—if I’ve ever been touched like this. He moves slowly as his fingers slide past my curls and press against me when they slide back up, one finger slipping between my lips. So pent up with frustration, my skin nearly breaks out in a sweat at the contact. Though brief, it’s powerful, the way he touches me. And he knows it, too. I’m so awkward and ill at ease that he has complete command of me right now. If I had a lick of sense or self-respect in this moment, I’d run.
But I want this.
Turning around despite his firm grip on me, I place my hands on his hips just below his vest, and rub small circles on his jeans with my right thumb. I look up into his bloodshot eyes and blanch. Though his eyes bore into mine, they’re unfocused. It’s like there’s nothing there beneath the surface. He licks his lips and brings his hand behind my head. Before I can stop him, he pulls me in and his lips are on mine. Plush, moist, and demanding, he takes ownership of my very soul.
All fear, and disgust with myself washes away at lust igniting in my body. Bringing my hands up around his neck, I try to pull him closer. As if I could consume him. As if he would let me. Our lips slide against one another, my nails clawing at his neck. Turning us and bringing my back up against the wall, he reaches out and places his hand over my beating heart. His eyes suddenly come alive, and his lips turn downward at the corners.
“Why did you do it?” he asks. Confused, I stare at him without an answer. “Why did you tell that cop where to go?” I blink back at his words. Though they’re formed as a question, they sound more like an accusation. And this is a topic I’ve steadily avoided for two months now. I can’t talk about this with him—or anyone, really—because the truth isn’t pretty.
“You must have had a reason,” he says in a pained voice. Tears pool in my eyes, and I slap away his hand on my chest. He pushes on my sternum in protest, keeping me against the wall. “Just tell me you had a reason.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” I bite out in anger. Unable to look him in the eyes while we’re talking about this, I focus on the patches on his vest. Nic said the patch owns them, and I guess it does. Like the oath Tony took to my father’s family owns him, the patches Ryan wears on his vest own him even after he takes it off for the night.
“Try me,” he says, shaking his head. I scrunch my eyes shut and let the tears fall down my cheeks. Not here. I can’t do this here. But he isn’t giving me much of a choice, so with trembling hands and lips, I try to explain. Beyond any sense of humility and reason, I want Ryan to want me. Not just to fuck me, but to want me. And I don’t know if he ever will.