“Get over yourself. And stop pretending you were unsettled by thoughts of me with Marshall when you are…reeking of her.” I wrinkle my nose. “Just go away. You stink.”

He gives me a long, considering look, then stands abruptly. Without another word, he walks out of the room, leaving me to gape after him. I didn’t think he’d actually leave. I should be relieved. Instead, I’m oddly disappointed. I don’t know why, since I’ve been trying to push him away from the moment I saw him through the peephole.

Thing is, I don’t hear the front door open or shut. I hear water running. Refusing to go look for him, I stuff a few more Pringles in my mouth and take a healthy sip of my wine. It’s gone warm and is almost finished. I itch to get up, top off my glass, or maybe find Rye. No. I won’t do that.

I’m reaching for my remote, about to turn my movie back on in a sad attempt at distraction, when he strides back into the room in the process of tugging on a brand-new Kill John concert tee. I’m treated to a glimpse of truly killer abs arrowing down into low-slung jeans before the shirt settles.

“Good thing you had these promos hanging around,” he says.

By “hanging around,” he means stacked in my home office. The guys scoff at me for having so many, but I like to send them out to various sites and people when needed.

The black shirt stretches tight over Rye’s shoulders and strains around his biceps. Clearly, he needs an extra-large, but I usually keep only medium and large around.

Hiding my surprise at his return, I smirk. “How’s it feel having Killian on your chest?”

The image we used for this shirt was of Killian, shot from the back, a guitar in hand, blue and red stage lights shining in the smoky atmosphere of a club. It was the cover of Volver, the first album the band did when they got back together after their hiatus.

Rye glances down at his chest and grins. “I noticed you don’t have any awesome Rye Peterson shirts on hand.”

“Because there aren’t any.”

His grin grows cheeky. “We need to remedy that.”

“Sure. As soon as you actually commit to a photoshoot, I’ll get right on that.”

Rye runs a hand through his damp hair and sits back down next to me. “I washed and changed my shirt. Can we please talk now?”

My lips twitch. Damn it, the big oaf is cute when he wants to be. And now he smells like my guest shower gel, fresh and citrusy. That he didn’t invade my private bath but used the guest room one is a nice touch. I haven’t seen him try this hard in well…ever.

“And before you start in,” he adds, “I left the brunette back at the party. I wasn’t feeling it.”

Using my words against me. I grunt in response, hiding behind the act of eating another chip and staring at the French poodles prancing all over my pink pajama pants. He seems pleased at this and moves a hair closer. Over the years, I’ve developed the power to gauge exactly where Rye’s body is in proximity to mine. It’s like a superpower I never wanted.

“I can give you what you need,” he says starkly.

I feel that claim like a stroke on my belly, and I lift my gaze to his. He’s utterly serious.

“I mean it.” He rests a hand on the back of the couch cushions, his fingers an inch away from my bare shoulder. “I might be the only one who can.”

“The arrogance,” I rasp with a laugh. “You think out of all the people in the world, only you can fix my ‘little problem.’”

His blunt chin lifts a fraction. “At this moment in time? Yes.”

“Oh, God.” I laugh again. “How on earth do you figure that?”

“Because I’m here. And I know you, Bren.” He says it so emphatically, I go still inside. Rye’s gaze moves over my face. “I know you get cold if it’s lower than seventy-five degrees out, which is why, when everyone else is sweating, you manage to look cool and professional. I know that you can’t wear synthetics because they irritate your skin and you break out in a rash. I know that your calves cramp almost every day at exactly one fifteen in the morning…” He quirks a brow. “Which, by the way, is weird as shit that it’s always at that time, but we’ll chalk it up to one of the endless mysteries of the body.”

I’m outright gaping as he slides an inch closer, and his knee brushes the side of my leg. “I know that you love having your hair touched and stroked, but for some reason you never admit to needing that, much less letting your hair down.”

“How the fuck…?”

“Because I know you,” he says softly, firmly. “I’ve spent years trying not to learn you, and failing.”

Slowly, giving me time to pull away, he reaches out and lightly runs his fingers along my braid. Even though my hair is locked up tight, I feel it, and pleasurable little tingles chase along my scalp and down my spine. I fight the urge to close my eyes and whimper. My heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest, and the room has become too warm. I’m far too aware of my braless state now. My girls aren’t big, but my nipples are tight and doing their best to poke their way through my tank.

Rye isn’t looking at them, though. His gaze holds mine. “I’m good, Bren. I’ll do whatever you want, for as long as you want. I’ll make certain you’re taken care of, and I won’t tell a soul.”

Jesus. I can’t breathe.

“So selfless,” I murmur. “And what do you get out of all of this?”

“You.” His fingers stroke my braid. “I get you.”

Shit. Licking my dry lips, I try to think of something, anything, to say. But he keeps talking.

“I want to fuck you, Brenna. I want that so badly, I’ll do whatever it takes to have you.”

“Oh, Jesus.” I rub a shaking hand over my sweaty forehead. “I don’t know how to handle this one-eighty.”

His smile is small but wry. “The attraction between us was always there. You can deny it if you want, but it’s true. We’ve been like two magnets facing south, repelling because we can’t do anything else. Then I overheard what you needed, and I flipped north. Toward you.”

My head flops back on the couch, and I peer up at him. He’s sitting closer to me than he’s ever dared. And though I know his face as well as my own, I see the faint lines of age and weariness around his eyes, the small, almost-faded scatter of freckles at the edges of his temples, an old, white, sickle-shaped scar on the crest of his left cheek. They’re flaws, but they don’t make him any less gorgeous. Only more real.

“For all our differences,” he says, “we’re very much the same. Neither one of us has the time or the inclination to go looking for a real relationship, but we both need physical release and the pleasure of touch or the isolation of our lives starts getting to us.” He’s starting to make too much sense, and he clearly knows it. He presses his point before I can say another word. “We both know what’s at stake if what we’re doing gets out, and we both know exactly what this is going into it.”

“Rye…”

“I’m safe, Bren. I swear.”

Safe. Ha. He’s anything but. Rye is my one weak spot. The person most likely to do the greatest damage if he wanted to. But if he doesn’t understand that by now, I’m certainly not exposing my underbelly by telling him.