The kiss lit me up. I felt it everywhere—in my toes, in my hair, in my belly.
And, deliciously, between my legs.
I ached for him there. I angled my hips closer as we kissed, desperately seeking contact with him. God, how I wanted him. And I didn’t even know his name.
But he knew my body.
He knew my desires.
He held my hands so tightly they might as well be cuffed. In a flash, he changed his grip, holding both my wrists in one hand, keeping them pinned behind my back. He moved his free hand to the front of my dress and found his way up my skirt. He broke the kiss as his fingertips brushed above my knee, touching my stockings and garter. “Are you wet for me, Sophie?”
“Yes,” I said on a pant.
“Are you hot for me?” he asked, racing closer to my heat.
“God, yes.”
“Do you still want to ask me if I’m a good lover?” He flicked his finger against my clit. Ripples of pleasure spread through my body. I inhaled sharply and bit my lip so I wouldn’t cry out loud.
“No. I don’t need to ask you,” I said as he stroked me through my black lace panties.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Because you’re showing me.”
His fingers glided across the wet panel of my panties, stroking faster as I rocked into him. He kept a firm grip on my wrists as I greedily sought his friction. “That’s right,” he said roughly. “I’m showing you, Sophie. I’m showing you exactly what I can do to you.”
He ran his fingers across the wet lace, narrowing in on where I wanted him. I was so close to the edge, and I needed him to keep touching me. I needed his fingers flying across my clit, touching me until I fell apart.
“Beg for it,” he commanded.
“Please,” I whispered in his ear, my knees shaking, desperate for release. “Please make me come.”
He rubbed fast and expertly, and I rocked into his hand as bright white fireworks blasted in my brain, radiating throughout my body. Faintly, in the back of my mind, I heard the song nearing the end, and I knew I’d have to come in seconds to make it to the stage on time.
But seconds were all this man needed.
“I want to taste your lips as you fuck my hand,” he said, then dropped his delicious mouth to mine once more, kissing me fiercely as I rode his fingers. He wasn’t even touching my flesh. He was getting me off through the lace. He was that good. I was that turned on. The tension in my body escalated, rising up like a roller-coaster car nearing the top of the hill. Then I reached it, hovered for beautiful seconds in that suspended state of bliss, then raced downhill as if it were an orgasmic joyride. As my own pleasure crashed into me, he ravaged my mouth with his lips, swallowing my moans, tasting my cries, and somehow it felt like kissing was coming, and coming was kissing.
Only it was more. It was also being held back, restrained—a hint of all that I craved.
I blinked and breathed hard as he pulled away. He arched an eyebrow, and let go of my wrists. My skin burned from his grip. I shook my right hand.
Gently, he brought my wrist to his lips. He kissed it softly, erasing the sting, his lips traveling across the same territory where he’d held me tight moments ago.
“Better?” he asked quietly.
I nodded as he gave the same treatment to my other hand. All these sensations both rattled and delighted me—I didn’t know what to make of this man, and how he could talk and touch so roughly and harshly in the heat of the moment, then become so sweet in the afterglow.
He lowered my hands to my sides, then tucked a loose strand of my hair behind my ear. “Beautiful,” he said, his eyes softer now as he looked me over.
I smoothed a hand over my dress. My legs felt wobbly. My heart roared loudly. My body still sang.
Clapping echoed loudly from beyond the curtains. The song was over. “Thank you so much,” the singer said from the stage.
He tipped his head. “You better get out there.”
I grabbed his tie and tugged him close. “Name. Tell me your name.”
I expected a sly remark. A hint that gave little away.
“Ryan,” he said with a glint in his dark eyes.
I scoffed. “Your name is not Ryan.”
“Why not?”
“Ryan’s a nice-guy name.”
“Are you saying I’m not a nice guy?”
I shook my head and curled my hand around his shoulder. “You’re not a nice guy at all.”
He brought his palm to his chest. “I’m hurt. I’m a terribly nice guy. I saved you from those women who wanted to monopolize you at the bar. And I kissed you when you came so no one heard how loud you were.”
“Then why are you leaving?”
“Because you have to go,” he said, nodding to the stage.
“And why are you giving me your first name only?”
He brushed his lips against my ear. “What are you doing on Sunday at seven p.m.?”
I practically held my breath at the possibility unfurling before me. “What should I be doing Sunday at seven p.m.?”
“Be at Caesars. Outside the Fizz Bar. I want to see you again.” He paused, then added, “Badly.”
I smiled. I wanted to see him too. “I’ll be there.”
I ran my hand along my skirt once more, then gently touched my hair, making sure it was still in place. My heart sped up in worry. I grabbed one of Ryan’s strong arms. “Wait. Is my lipstick smeared?”
He shook his head. “No. It’s all gone.” He softly brushed the pad of his thumb along my cheek. “But you look perfect. Every single thing about you looks perfect.”
“Thank you,” I said, taking a deep breath as I left.
I walked on the stage, flashing a big, bright smile to the crowd. I thanked Heaven Leigh for her performance, praising how talented she was. As I spoke, I scanned the crowd and caught a last glimpse of the man in the suit, the man who’d made me come backstage. He was on his way out, but he stopped briefly and watched me. He didn’t wave. He didn’t chuckle. He didn’t make a single gesture to say we had a secret.
But the way he stared made me tingle all over, and the way his lips curved up in a grin said he knew he had that effect on me, and that he had every intention of doing it again.
7
Ryan
I gripped the large tree trunk that had fallen on the roof, as my brother finished slicing through the last section of the wood. The chainsaw buzzed loudly in the midday air, then Michael turned it off.
After I let go of the wood, I grabbed the hem of my T-shirt and wiped the sweat from my brow. “You think it feels hotter, since we’re closer to the sun, being on the roof and all?” I asked my brother.
“Absolutely. It’s a proven scientific fact that working on someone’s roof equates to a ten-degree increase in temperature,” Michael said as he set the chainsaw on the tiles, resting it by his feet so it wouldn’t topple into the yard.
I rapped my knuckles against the pile of wood we’d chopped from a large tree branch that had fallen on our friend Sanders’s roof during a recent windy night. Sanders Doyle was a friend of our father’s from long ago. Nearing retirement and damn ready for it, he was a mechanic at the limo company where our father had worked the last few years of his life.