What were we talking about? Easing away, I sit back far enough that no part of me is touching any part of him. My head clears a little, but when I meet his eyes, a tremor runs through my belly. The very thing I’ve been trying for a decade to avoid, to not even think about, has happened.

I kissed him. He kissed me.

And it was so damn good, I’m aching to do it again. This is bad. Really bad.

But I can’t find it in myself to pull the brakes. Because he’s sitting there looking like a fever dream, that big, tight body laid out like a buffet on my couch, a massive bulge straining the soft contours of his worn jeans. I haven’t even let myself touch him. And there’s so much to explore.

“No one can know,” I blurt out.

His nod is sharp and quick. “At first, sure.”

“No, the whole time.”

A small frown wrinkles his brow. “Is the idea of being with me so embarrassing?”

My insides soften, and I shake my head. “No. It’s not that exactly. It’s just…We’ve become this…sideshow in our friends’ lives. I can hear them now, ‘Oh, look, they’re doing it. Let’s take bets on which one kills the other first.’”

Rye snorts eloquently. “They’d be smug as fuck.”

“Frankly, I think we’ve provided them with enough entertainment over the years. They don’t get ringside seats for this.”

“Not that I object to voyeurism in theory, but it takes on a whole other twist when your best friends are watching you have sex.”

“Go ahead, make jokes.”

“Who says I’m joking? You think I want Killian judging my technique? Or Scottie? That bossy motherfucker would probably make me repeat my dismount. Thanks, but no.”

A soft laugh escapes me, both at his exaggerated expression of distaste and the very idea of our friends sitting around a bed to watch us. Unfortunately, that only conjures up an image of being in bed with Rye, and I start to flush under my top.

Rye notices. His nostrils flare on an indrawn breath. When he meets my gaze, his is slightly hazy. He swallows hard. “You’re right. I don’t want or need their commentary. This is ours.”

Ours.

Flutters run riot in my belly. I push past the feeling and focus. “You don’t have to tell me everything you’re thinking. And I certainly won’t be telling you. But, when we do talk, there should be total honesty between us. No lies, no evasions.”

“I can do that.” Rye rests his arm along the back of the couch, his long fingers less than an inch from my shoulder. He appears calm and composed while I’m a twitchy mess, damn it. His chin lifts, a shadow of stubborn willfulness in his eyes. “This means that you have to let me in enough to tell me what you really need.”

The bottom falls out of my belly with a soundless whoosh.

“I know.” It’s a thready whisper.

His gaze narrows. “Everything, Bren. What gets you off. Where you like to be touched and where you don’t. What you dream about but never had the nerve to ask for.” The thick rasp of his voice licks between my legs, and I fight the urge to squeeze them together. “I’ll find out one way or another. But it’ll go easier if you tell me.”

Indeed. I’m tempted to dare him to find out the hard way. Images of him coaxing the truth out of me flash like an illicit peep show through my head. I clear my throat.

“Same goes for you.”

He has to swallow twice before answering. “I thought the objective here was your pleasure.”

That swallow and the flush of color sweeping over his cheekbones has me leaning forward, power and lust swimming through my veins like warm wine. “Thing you should know about me, Rye. If my partner isn’t pleasured, then I’m not going to be either.”

He exhales, and it sounds a lot like “guh.” But then he’s leaning in too, his lids lowering, his hot blue gaze settling on my lips. “If you touch me, hell, if you just look at me like you’re doing now, I’m going to feel good. Really good.”

We’ve drifted back together, not touching but close enough that one shift, one deep breath will bring contact. His voice flows like sticky, hot honey. “I’m so fucking hard for you, it hurts.”

My lids flutter closed, and I swallow down a rush of pure heat. “It can’t happen tonight.”

His gaze snaps to mine. “Why?”

“I have my period.” Damn it all.

He doesn’t move away. “We can do other things.”

I want to do all the things. But I don’t want half-measures anymore. And I know if he touches me, I’ll be left craving more. “When we start,” I tell him. “I want to finish.”

His nod is barely perceptible. Slowly, painfully, he backs off. “Then I’m going to go before I give in to begging and pleading.” His lips quirk. “Maybe crying.”

Despite being horny and turned inside out, a laugh escapes me.

His quick grin is full of wry humor. “I’ll go cry in the privacy of my own home.”

“Yeah, you do that.” I shake my head, smiling despite the sexual tension still bouncing between us.

With a groan, Rye stands. I don’t move. If I do, I might give in and tackle him. When he reaches the doorway, he looks back. “When will you be ready for me?”

So very blunt. I expect nothing less from him. “In three days.”

I can only be thankful I haven’t just started my period, or I’d be tempted to cry as well.

His grip tightens on the doorframe until his knuckles turn white. “Three days, Bren.”

We understand each other perfectly.

A pulse throbs low on my neck. “Three days.”

And then he’s coming for me.

Chapter Eight

Rye

 

Three days. I wasn’t lying to Brenna. I think I might cry. My dick is definitely weeping, and I’ve already stroked it off too many times since I left Brenna yesterday.

Three days.

I don’t know if I can do it. I’ve never been this wound up in my life. The anticipation and impatience coursing through me hasn’t been this bad since Kill John’s first stadium performance. Even then, I had the guys to suffer alongside me. Now, there’s only me. And my damn hand.

My hands cannot take any more physical strain. I shake them out, grumbling under my breath, and climb the stairs up to the editing studio we booked. Mike Ramsay is our mixing engineer for a few tracks, and Danny Evans is our producer on this album. We’re going for a slightly smoother, more experimental sound this go-round, and there’s been a lot of tinkering on the back end.

While Jax and Killian know their shit, they tend to zone out when it becomes technical or we’re having discussions on the minutiae of sound levels, beat speeds, and the like. So they won’t show up until the final run-through to give their feedback. Whip and I, on the other hand, love music production and are more involved as a result.

Danny greets me with a wave as I walk in. He’s already in the booth, talking to Mike. Danny’s arms are flailing around in agitation, which means he’s in a mood. I’m not exactly keen to go straight in there. I drop my messenger bag to the side and grab a Coke as Whip walks over to me.