Make love. I’ve never even considered the idea of what that might be or feel like. I’ve only ever fucked. I’ve fucked long and hard and good; I’ve never made love before today.
I cradle her beautiful face and silken hair in my hands—how is she so powerful and so delicate all at the same time?
How does she have this effect over me?
Her eyes, her deep, rich, earthen eyes hold me, mesmerize me. Her lips engage mine and she breathes against them, “Ryder.”
Her fingers squeeze me everywhere at once—my arms, my back, my waist—skimming my ink, pressing seductively into muscle and branding me wherever they touch.
I realize that the word love isn’t strong enough to convey what I’m feeling. I don’t know what other people experience when they fall headlong into the force of another person, all I do know is that it’s never happened to me until her.
I fought the emotions when I had to leave her in Shreveport—putting them aside so I could think straight. I struggled for weeks to leave her alone once I knew she was safe, to not contact her, to not give in to the building pressure in my soul.
But she’s made me a believer, converting me from an emotionally dead, unfeeling, closed-off skeptic to a man willing to expose his wounds and hold his hands out for the healing I feel in her touch.
It’s pure.
Authentic.
None of my combat or spiritual training can stand against it—and truthfully, at this moment, I have no desire to fight it.
And although I loathe the conditions that brought us together, I’m eternally grateful she’s come into my world.
I’d die for her.
My dick explodes inside of her, pulsating, while her satin milks me delirious.
Overcome with the highest satisfaction and deepest gratification, I lovingly lay beside her, gather her in my arms and hold her.
No words need to be spoken—we both feel the power coursing between us.
Soon, I listen as her breath softens and becomes even as she falls asleep, emotionally and physically, there in my protection.
And protecting her is a mission I will not fail.
Rachel
When my eyes open, the soft late afternoon sun sets its glow over the walls. Ryder is hanging from his knees over a bar that spans the bathroom doorway. He’s shirtless and barefoot and only in a pair of blue denim jeans. His arms are folded over his chest in an X as he comes halfway into a hanging sit-up—the ripple and bend of his stomach and back muscles as they flex taut with the action mesmerizes me. He throws quick, rigid jabs, twisting at the waist. Sweat drips from the back of his neck, and his shorn hair glistens.
He’s beautiful—I’ve never known any man like him.
His cell on the bedside table rings, startling me. He sets his hands on the floor, brings his legs down and is swiftly on his feet.
When he notices I’m awake, he touches my leg with a “Hey” as he grabs the phone.
“Axton.” He listens then says, “One fourteen” before ending the call.
My eyes search him quizzically—that’s our room number.
“My partner is coming up,” he tells me. “I think we need the numbers, and Miguel won’t know him.”
“Okay.” I nod. “I’m going to take a quick shower.”
Before anything emotional can transpire, I wrap myself into the sheet and rush to the bathroom, but the door won’t close because of the bar. Ryder glances up sympathetically and has his equipment dismantled in a less than a minute.
“It’s going to be okay, Rachel,” he assures me with a tender thumb over my cheekbone.
I swallow the lump that’s formed in my throat. He kisses my forehead slowly, longingly, and I sink into the sensation until I think I’ll burst. Then I step back so I can close the door.
Stepping into the water, I can hear only the low murmur of voices in the other room. Through the haze in my mind, I visualize several emotional choices. Ironic, right? Usually you feel an emotion and go with it. I could easily fold my body under the hot, running water, curl on the tile and become a basket case, sobbing. Actually, that’d be real fricking easy.
I could move forward, frightened as a mouse, shaking and unsure of my every move.
Then I realize I can choose power.
Choose power.
My little sister is being held by a monster and I’m her only hope of survival.
It doesn’t matter what this partner of Ryder’s, or even Ryder himself, says or thinks. What matters is simple—I need to save my sister, no matter what the cost.
I press my lips into a line, and my brow creases—I feel angry.
Anger is good—so much more useful than despair or fear.
Washing quickly, I finish up and see a bag of clothes Ryder must have set inside the door once I got in.
Listening to their voices as they talk in hushed tones about the situation at hand, I shimmy on the jeans and pull myself through the red t-shirt. At the bottom of the bag is the purple eye mask Ryder showed me earlier, with gold fringe hanging down to cover the cheekbones. It’s a very beautiful, very simple mask. I lift it with a delicate hand from the bag.