“You’re beautiful.” His voice has gone rough yet soft. “So fucking beautiful.”

I break with a jolt and a whimper. He stays with me, holding me close as I let out a sigh. Weak and spent, I lean against him in a boneless heap. Sweat slicks my skin. My heart thuds hard against my ribs. A fine shaking takes hold of my limbs, and I can only cling to Rye and wait for the world to stop spinning.

He places a tender kiss on the crook of my neck—the final note of his perfect solo. My eyes flutter closed.

“Oy!” Jax shouts from somewhere in the apartment. “Did you get lost in that kitchen, Bren?”

The sound of his voice zaps through Rye and me like an electric shock.

“Shit.” I shove Rye away, the fear of getting caught giving me strength, then call out to Jax. “I’m coming!”

That earns me a strangled but weak laugh from Rye. I almost laugh at the irony too, but I’m busy pushing down my skirt. Rye fumbles back a step then runs his hands through his hair. He looks wrecked. With his hair now standing on end, he also looks a bit wild.

We stare at each other in shock. I expected pleasure from Rye. But not this. Not to utterly lose my mind the second he touched me. I let him finger-fuck me to orgasm in my kitchen. Rye Peterson had his hand in my panties and his tongue in my mouth. It’s utterly bizarre. And yet it felt so very right. I wonder if he’s as dazed and confused as I am.

Rye swallows hard. “Your ponytail is falling out.”

With shaking hands, I fix my hair. “You’re all mussed up too.”

We avoid each other’s gaze as we tidy ourselves.

“You go out first,” he says, his voice still rough and cracked.

“Why?” I hop down from the counter. My legs wobble like rubber.

He huffs out a half laugh and gestures to the fat bulge behind his jeans. “I need a moment.”

Heat swarms my cheeks, but it’s not from embarrassment. I want to free that cock and stroke it. Give him the same pleasure he gave me. From the dark look in his eyes, I’m guessing he reads my expression well.

“Go,” he says unsteadily. “Before I forget why hiding this is a good idea.”

Damn it, he’s right. I hurry to the fridge and grab a few beers. I’m almost out of the kitchen when his voice stops me. “Tonight, Brenna.”

Glancing back, I find him watching me with hot eyes. This big, beautiful man who has the power to both rock my world and destroy my peace of mind.

“Tonight,” he says again. “I’m yours.”

For the first time in my life, not only am I tempted to run toward my ruin, I’m anticipating it.

 

 

Chapter Ten

Rye

 

Hell is a dinner party that never ends. I’m convinced my friends are lingering to fuck with me. I nearly ping a chicken bone at Killian when he pulls out a couple of bottles of wine he brought along and opens one. I don’t give a flying pig fuck about his Cabernet Rothschild or whatever the hell it’s called.

Scottie, on the other hand, is in raptures. And now everyone has to have a glass.

Killian frowns when I wave him off. “You don’t want any?”

Considering I’m about ten seconds away from tossing the bottle out the window? “No.”

“But it’s a 1982 Château Mouton Rothschild,” Stella says. “It’s one of the best vintages in the world…Oh, my God, I just said that, didn’t I?” She covers her mouth, her blue eyes wide with shock.

Jax laughs, slinging an arm around her shoulders to cuddle her close. Lucky bastard. Able to touch his woman whenever he wants. “What’s with the horror, Button?”

Her nose wrinkles, but she leans into him with happy ease. “I’ve gone from getting excited about affording a six-pack at the corner mart to gushing over wine that costs, what?”

“About a thousand dollars,” Killian says with a wag of his brow. “Are you more horrified now?”

She laughs. “Yes. Now fill my glass so I can glut.”

God help me.

I grit my teeth and toy with the label on my empty beer bottle. My entire body is humming. I’m like a tuning fork struck by lust. It’s so bad, I find myself twitching every few seconds. All because of her.

I can’t look her way. If I catch sight of her, I’ll end up whimpering. Like I did in the kitchen. I actually whimpered. For the first time in my years of sexual experience, I understand true lust-induced pain. Touching her both inflames it and is the only thing that will make it better.

I shouldn’t have followed her into the kitchen. Being alone with her is too great a temptation. It was a mistake putting my hands on her before everyone left. But I’d seen the hurt in her eyes, even though she’d tried to mask it with anger. I know better now. When I’m a shit, she gets hurt. Call me an idiot, but I never knew that. I’d taken her snark and anger at face value, thinking she hated me enough that nothing I did or said really mattered.

The realization has my head spinning. Everything is upside down. The only thing that makes any sense is touching Brenna again.

Her laugh cuts through my thoughts, and my abs clench so tight, they ache. My only recourse is to breathe slowly and steadily. But her scent is all over my hand. I’d forgotten to wash it, forgotten to taste her, which is a damn tragedy. I’m tempted to lift my fingers to my mouth and suck them. But if I did, I’d probably come on the spot, I’m so riled up.

As it is, I don’t eat another bite of food. If it isn’t Brenna in my mouth, then I don’t want it. Thankfully, no one notices. That’s the strange thing about being the clown, if you’re not talking shit and acting like a fool, people tend to forget about you. I’m not sure if that’s comforting or insulting. At the moment, I don’t care.

Finally—finally—the dinner is over. Somehow, I find myself down on the street, sucking in the crisp night air as my friends pair up and pile into their respective Ubers. I don’t remember if I said goodbye to Brenna. Or if she knows that, as soon as it’s humanly possible, I’m turning my ass right around and coming for her.

“Did you want to get a beer?” Whip asks.

We’re the only ones who haven’t arranged for a ride. Mainly because, while the rest of the guys go home to sleep with their women after these dinners, Whip and I usually go looking for hookups or sometimes play a round of pool. Anything to avoid returning to an empty apartment.

“Nah.” I roll my tight shoulders and lie my ass off. “I ate too much. I think I’ll walk for a bit.”

Weirdly, he seems relieved. “Yeah, I’m not feeling it tonight either. I’m going to catch a cab home.”

Something about the way his gaze slides to the street and won’t meet mine has me paying closer attention. “You all right?”

“Sure.” He does the chin lift thing—a tell that means he’s lying. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know,” I counter. “Why wouldn’t you be?”

Around us, pedestrians flow, cabs honk, and a siren wails in the far distance. Whip and I stare at each other. The thing about Whip is that, out of all of us, he hides himself away the most. He does it so well, no one truly notices they’re not getting the real deal but a shadow. But I know him better than anyone. Something is up.