Finally, he lets out a breath and shakes his head. “When you’re willing to tell me what’s going on with you, then maybe I’ll do the same.”

A lump of regret fills my throat. We share everything. Always have. But I can’t share this, and he knows it.

He makes a move to go, and I say the only thing I can. “It’s not my secret to tell.”

“As long as you know what you’re doing.”

I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.

He knows that too because he full-on grins. “Have a good night, then.” He turns to go.

“Whip.” He still hasn’t told me what’s up with him.

Whip stops and glances over his shoulder. He’s not upset anymore, but the cagey bastard just gives me another enigmatic smile. “I’m not ready to tell either.”

With that, he walks away.

“Asshole,” I mutter with a chuckle before I realize I’m still standing outside. With another curse, I run back into Brenna’s building.

Chapter Eleven

Rye

 

The elevator rises, and my thumb beats a bass line onto my thigh. It plays harmony with the insistent thud-thud-thud of my heart. I’m horny as fuck and nervous as a stray cat. I start humming “Stray Cat Strut” and get side-eye from an older guy stuck in the elevator with me. I’d forgotten he was there. With his tweed suit and thin, gray mustache, he reminds me of my English grandfather, and I have to fight the compulsion to stand straight, maybe check my shirt for wrinkles.

It’s enough to make me laugh at myself under my breath.

“Do yourself a favor,” he says with a slight smile. “Don’t sing that song to her when you get there.”

I snap to attention. The hell? Is he a mind reader?

He shakes his head at my apparent ignorance. “Wore that same expression the first night I slept with my now-wife. Knew it mattered, and that scared the bloody hell out of me.” The elevator doors open to his floor. He gives me a small salute. “Good luck.”

The doors slide shut again, and I catch sight of myself in the bronze matte-metal panels. I look…hungry, impatient. Scared.

I have to laugh at myself again. Because I am freaked. Brenna James has me by the balls, and I don’t want her to let go.

The smile is gone by the time I get to the door and she opens it. For a second I just drink her in. She hasn’t changed out of the flowing knee-length skirt made of some gauzy violet fabric. I remember the cool kiss of it along the back of my hands as I slid them up her hot, silky thighs. She has on a white top that doesn’t hide the fact that she’s taken off her bra. The soft knit clings to the small mounds of her breasts, lovingly outlining the hard points of her nipples.

My abs contract painfully as my dick rises. I haven’t yet seen her tits. It’s a travesty. I’ve spent countless hours fantasizing about what they look like, how they’d feel against my hands, in my mouth. Years of dreaming, wanting, waiting.

God knows I want her. But it’s the look in her pretty hazel eyes, soft with desire yet wide with trepidation, that really gets to me. Elevator guy was right; it’s different when it matters. She matters. Of course, she matters. She’s been a part of me for so long, I wouldn’t know how to function if she were gone.

Going after her shifted the foundations of our shared world. She’s right to worry. It is definitely a risk doing this. For the first time in my life, I won’t be able to keep emotion out of the equation. Maybe she can; I don’t know. But if this goes south, I’ll be wrecked.

Maybe she reads the fear in my face because a wrinkle forms between the wings of her brows. “Rye…We don’t have to—”

I step into the apartment, closing the door behind me, then cup her cheeks and kiss her slow and easy. She’s delicious. Perfect. My heart squeezes in the cage of my chest. It flips over when she sighs into my mouth. I kiss her again. Again.

Soft. Light. Just feeling her lips. They’re a revelation.

Letting her go was never an option.

“It’s going to be okay,” I whisper into her sweet mouth.

As if she’s been waiting to hear that, she yields, sagging against me. Her hands slide up my chest, spreading shivers of pleasure in their wake. With a grunt of approval, I lift her in my arms and head for the bedroom. Whatever comment she might have made over me carrying her is lost to my mouth because I can’t stop kissing her.

When I get to Brenna’s room, I set her down by the bed. A single bedside light is the only illumination. I’m tempted to turn more on. I want to see everything in vivid color. But that might break the spell, so I stay where I am, my fingers trailing along the sides of her neck, touching the curve of her jaw.

For all the assurances I made, all my damn bragging about being good at this, now that I have her here, I don’t know what to do. I know how to fuck. I excel at fucking. This isn’t fucking. I’m not sure what to call it. But it’s definitely more.

Brenna stares up at me. Out of her heels, she’s much shorter. I’m struck by the difference in our sizes. She’s tall for a woman, but I top her by at least a foot. Her slim frame is delicate and fragile compared to mine. My hands feel too big, my body clunky. Shit. I’m half afraid I’ll damage her with one wrong move.

“Will you take your hair down?” I ask. She rarely lets it down, to the point that seeing Brenna without her standard ponytail feels like a gift.

Silently holding my gaze, she reaches up and pulls the tie out. Her hair falls over her shoulders and nearly to her waist in a river of deep auburn. My fingers thread through the shining mass, and it slides like silk over my skin.

She closes her eyes, a small sigh escaping. I step closer to massage her scalp, and she tilts her head back with a groan of relief. I kiss the pale arc of her neck. She’s wearing that perfume, the one that smells of sun-ripe peaches, dark honey, and rum. Pure sex on her. My tongue flicks the hollow near her shoulder.

Goosebumps rise on her skin. I brush my lips over them. I need to do this right, take my time to give her the proper attention.

But she takes a step back, her fingers curling around my wrists. “I don’t want slow. Or gentle.”

It’s clear by her tone and the way she’s drawing into herself that she needs a certain amount of distance here. Disappointment kicks me in the chest.

“Okay.” Thankfully, my voice is steady. “What do you want?”

She exhales in a rush before biting the inside of her cheek. “I want to see you.”

God, the anticipatory gleam in her eyes. She wants me naked. A bolt of heat spears my gut. “I can do that.”

Ordinarily, I’d reach behind my head and haul my shirt off. But I know she wants a show. Toeing off my boots and socks, I straighten and slowly tug my shirt up by the hem, flexing every damn muscle I’ve got. I’m suddenly thankful for the hours I put in the gym, the years I’ve spent dancing, sweating, and strumming on countless hot stages.

Her lips part, and she licks them as I toss the shirt aside. Millions of fans have seen me without a shirt. Yet I’ve never felt more seen than at this moment.

She focuses on my lower abs. I’m not going to object. Not when her nostrils flare as I pop the button of my jeans and slowly draw down the zip. I push my jeans and underwear off in one go, and my hard cock bobs free.