I swallow, unable to ignore the feel of his sweet, heated breath tickling every muscle in my weakened body as he rests his lips against my ear and whispers, “But even if I’ve fucked any chance of being with you, I can’t say either kiss is something I’ll soon forget. I’d kill to experience them over . . . and over . . . and over again.” With his hands still pressed to the refrigerator, he pulls his head back slightly, his eyes moving across my face. He smiles again, and it nearly stops my heart a second time. “Our lips fit perfectly together, and I’m pretty fucking sure you know it. Felt it. Want to feel it again as much as I do. I see it in the way you’re looking at me. Those gorgeous eyes hide nothing. Neither does your body. The way your breathing’s picking up. The way you’re shaking just enough to let me know you want another taste of what I have to . . . offer. But you wanna know something about me, peach?”
Before I can conjure up words that make sense, he runs his tongue across his teeth, winks at me, and dips his mouth to the curve of my jaw.
Lightly pressing his lips to my heated flesh, he continues, his voice a low, sexual taunt. “My timing wasn’t perfect. I can tell when a girl’s been fucked, and fucked very well. Earlier, you weren’t what I consider completely off-limits. Sure, you were halfway there, but you were still on equal playing ground.”
A moan slips from my throat as he drags his hand along my ribs, stopping on my waist, his grip nothing short of dominant.
“The game’s changed since I last saw you. You’ve sealed the deal with my friend. Now I have no choice but to play by the rules. You’re legitimately Brock’s girl, and because of that, I’m no longer allowed to fuck with ya. And I won’t. Ever. Again. Though it may be impossible to believe, no matter how . . . hard it is for me, I do have certain barriers I won’t crash through. You’re now one of them.” Smile replaced with a look akin to loss and hands held up in surrender, Ryder slowly backs out of the kitchen, his stare burning a hollow ache into my chest. “It was fun while it lasted, momma. Make sure you take good care of my friend.”
Without another breath, he vanishes into the living room. On shaky legs, I move to the center island and set down the bottle of water, my mind racing in a million different directions as I try to talk myself away from the dangerous cliff Ryder makes me want to jump from.
CHAPTER 8
Brock
STARE LOCKED ON Amber, I watch as she fidgets with the hem of her skirt, her nervous attention honed in on the airport doors as she gnaws on her bottom lip. A grin ticks the corner of my mouth, my finger lazily drawing our names on her thigh as we await the arrival of her foster parents. There’s something different about her today, a light effervescence exuding from her pores.
Christ. No doubt I’m in deep, this girl the owner of every filthy, twisted beat of my heart.
I can’t remember ever using the word “effervescence” to describe a goddamn thing, but hell if this moment doesn’t merit it. This beautiful creature—one who has fallen victim to the darkest cruelties of life—is excited to see the only two people who’ve ever shown her a speck of humanity, a slice of what it feels like to be loved.
Body heating, I take in the undeniable beauty encompassing Amber. The girl who bolted into my life like lightning and has, over the last several weeks, infiltrated every devious desire and jacked-up breath I’ve breathed. Sitting in my Hummer, her inky black hair’s trailing over her shoulders, her fingers clenched in anticipation as she continues to focus on the arrival terminal at BWI. This woman, this mysterious soul, has managed to do what no other has before her.
She’s penetrated my hardened shell, wrangled me to her will, and stripped my mind of all control.
When Amber told me Mark and Cathy were coming to see her, I suggested we take them to dinner. I’ve never met a girlfriend’s parents before. Never felt the need to. None of them mattered enough. Not in the pure way Amber does to me, at least. But with Amber I want more, crave more. Meeting her folks seemed like the next step in our relationship. And to be honest, I want to crawl into every crevice of this girl’s life, burrow myself so deeply beneath her skin, she can’t ever let me go. I’ve grown to need her in the same way my “clientele” chases after the coke I supply them.
Amber Moretti is my blow, my need for her the best and worst kind of addiction.
When I brought up doing the dinner thing with her parents, Amber immediately asked if we could include mine.
My first thought: Hell fucking no. Not happening. Ever.
I can’t stomach the thought of her being in the same room as them. I tried to sweet-talk my way out of it, insisting they would never show. That they had prior commitments scheduled weeks in advance. I fed her every line of bullshit my pathetic mind could conjure up in an effort to delay her coming in contact with the people who created my worthless being. The truth is: my parents hate me, loathe the fact that they mated and bore what they—and most of their elite circle of friends—consider the devil’s spawn. Why would they want to have dinner with a son who destroyed their family and a girlfriend they would never approve of? In their eyes, I don’t deserve happiness, don’t deserve to be loved.
Fuck, to them and their minions, I don’t deserve my next breath. It’s a gift, something that should’ve been stripped from me the day Brandon, possibly, took his last.
But Amber . . . Christ, Amber’s stubborn, relentless when she wants something done her way. She didn’t want to hear a word of what I had to say. The girl flat out doesn’t subscribe to the Brock Cunningham world of bullshit. Call me crazy, but in a realm of its own, it’s one of the many reasons I’ve fallen on my pussy-whipped ass at her feet. She gets me. But even when she gets me, every so often, she gives me more crap than I can handle.