With a sigh, I roll my stiff shoulders and watch the window for my car. It pulls up, and I head out. I don’t have an umbrella, and ice-cold water pounds on my head as soon as I step outside. Today is gearing up to be an utterly shit day. Shivering, I huddle deeper into the collar of my sweater and pick up the pace.

“Bren.”

Rye’s voice, clear and firm over the downpour, has me halting in my tracks. I turn to find him standing off to the side, soaking wet. It’s a good look on him. The front of his white Henley is so wet, it’s translucent, showing off the swells of his firm pecs and the hard, little points of his nipples. He must be freezing, but he doesn’t move, just stares at me with an imploring look in his eyes.

“What are you doing out here?” I ask over the rain.

He steps close. “Waiting for you.”

Heat flares through my numb limbs, waking them up. I bridge the gap between us. “Waiting for me?”

It’s a stupid thing to repeat. He was perfectly clear. But I can’t help it. No one has ever waited for me.

His hand slowly rises, and he touches a raindrop trickling down my cheek. “I came here for you. Of course, I’m going to wait.”

Before I can answer, he puffs out a harsh breath, like he’s been holding it in until now, and pulls me into his warmth. He kisses me as though I’m dessert, hungry lips and seeking tongue. Right there on the sidewalk in the pouring rain. And I forget about everything else. Here is where I need to be. I’m no longer empty or listless. I’m alive. My senses fire with hot sparks that crackle along my skin.

I stretch up on my toes to reach him, taste more, feel the strength of his big body against mine.

His skin is cold and wet; his mouth is hot and slick. He fists the back of my sweater, holding me tight. Oh, but his mouth is so soft. Soft and seeking. Decadent.

How does he do this? How does he take me apart with just a kiss? I’m grasping at the back of his neck with cold fingers, all but grinding myself against him. I slide my tongue along his with a heady sigh.

Rye grunts low within his chest, comes at me from one direction, then another, reacquainting himself with all the sensitive spaces of my mouth. I’m dissolving like a sugar cube in hot tea. He tastes of lemon cake and dark nights, and all I want to do is get lost in his flavor.

A loud wolf whistle cuts through the haze enough that we pause, our lips grazing. Held in his arms, I stare up at him. I can’t think straight.

Rules. There were rules, weren’t there? “Our day isn’t until tomorrow.”

Rain drips from the ends of his hair, now the color of old bronze coins. His lashes are spiked with wetness, shading his urgent gaze. “We said we could have other days if needed.” His grip tightens on my sweater. “And, Bren, I fucking need.”

I sway, stopping just short of falling into him again. From behind me comes the two short taps of the horn, and I know it’s my driver. The service is well paid to wait, but this is New York in a rainstorm. The driver can’t idle forever.

I turn to acknowledge him with a nod but don’t let Rye go. My hand slips to the side of his neck where his pulse hammers hard and fast. “Come on, then.”

With a flare of his nostrils, he nods and then follows me into the car.

Chapter Seventeen

Brenna

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Rye says. “But you have a shit-ton of products.”

He’s sitting on the scroll-arm bench before the makeup table in my bathroom, picking his way through my things. Wrapped in a white terry cloth hotel robe I nicked years back that barely fits his big frame, he’s a bit like the proverbial bull in the china shop. But his long fingers have the delicate dexterity of a musical artist as he lifts up a perfume bottle and takes an investigative sniff. “Smells better on your skin.”

I pause in the act of brushing out my hair and watch him with a small smile. His interest in my things is cute and sends a wash of contentment and peace through me.

We’d screwed our way through my apartment, starting in my foyer when neither of us could wait, the living room couch when his knees started to ache, and eventually headed for my bathroom when I said a hot soak in the tub would do us both well.

My bathroom is my secret oasis, done up in white marble, muted brass hardware, and shades of rich cream. A chandelier of pink crystal flowers hangs over a slipper tub that is perfectly adequate for my size. But we discovered it’s a tight fit for the two of us. Despite what hot movie bathtub sex scenes would have people believe, the reality is awkward and uncomfortable when trying it with a man as big and tall as Rye.

After a much more accommodating shower, we settled on the window seat bench to dry off. But then I had to have him again; somewhere out there, some lucky person got a nice view of Rye’s sleekly muscled back. And probably my tits. I’m okay with that. Sacrifices must be made in the pursuit of pleasure.

Now relaxed and on a mission to personally investigate all my products, he opens a jar of face mask and wrinkles his nose. “It’s purple.”

“I noticed.”

“What does it do?” A little frown pulls between his brows as he peers at the jar’s directions.

I put down my brush and sit on his lap. It’s a simple thing to do, but it feels significant, like I’m making a claim. I take the jar from his hand. “In theory, it’s supposed to smooth out wrinkles and rejuvenate tired skin.”

Rye’s arm wraps around my waist, tugging me more firmly against him. “You don’t need that. Your skin is perfect.” He punctuates the statement with a kiss on my cheek.

Pleasure hums through me. “Maybe that’s because I have a shit-ton of products.”

A huff of warm breath tickles my neck as he explores the area. “Doubtful. You’d be perfect without it.”

I’ve been complimented before, by lovers, potential lovers, idle passersby. I’ve never been fully comfortable with it. The insecure part of me forged by childhood disappointments stubbornly holds on and insists people are only pandering. But it’s different coming from Rye. His quiet conviction of my so-called perfection skitters and bumps along my skin, trying to find its way into my heart.

I brush a strand of damp hair off his brow. He needs a haircut. And a shave. Rye’s eyes meet mine, and I notice the tired lines around his.

“You should try the mask. It might do you some good.”

A wry smile tips his mouth. “Are you saying I look like shit?”

“Not like shit. But tired.” More than that, in truth.

When I’m with him, he’s either hot and urgent with lust or wearing the contentment of a big cat sunning on a rock. I swear, there are times I can all but hear him purr, a deeply satisfied rumble in that wide chest. But there’s something under the surface that I can’t put my finger on. Something off and pained. I don’t want to push, but I can’t refrain from tracing one of the lines of fatigue that run across his forehead.

In silence, he watches me, not exactly wary but guarded. The moment pulls thick and tight, and then he breaks it with an easy smile. “So put some on me. Rejuvenate my ravaged skin.”

He’s evading. But then, so am I. Too much emotion isn’t smart. I cannot fall for Rye. Not fully. I won’t survive it. I’ll tumble around with him for a while, but I have to stay safely on the ledge.