This time, his timbre does carry a suggestive undertone. “Okay, I’ll be over in a couple of hours. Maybe you’ll be able to figure out how you’ll kick my said ass. And good luck, pretty boy, you’re going to need it.”
I hang up before he can respond, and I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. But I don’t think I want to backpedal either. I’ve ignored all emotional sentiments when it comes to Ry for too long, and I don’t want to continue.
9
Ryder
Without a doubt, I’d been waiting for him to call. There has been a shift, and I keep telling myself it’s due to being back as part of his life.
The doorbell rings, and I sprint to it because watching him smile pulls at my heart and other parts of my body.
I take just a beat longer in order not to appear the horny man I am at the thought of spending any amount of time with Crush.
Pulling back the door, I forget to breathe. His gingham button-up top gives him a preppy yet country look. It’s fitting for the man who used to blare Toby Keith and Kenny Chesney. It’s why I know all the words to “Big Green Tractor.”
“Yo, cat got your tongue, pretty boy?” His words hit me, stepping around my body as I’ve not moved. I can’t when his cologne, consisting primarily of pine but also mint and citrus, permeates my senses.
I turn toward his voice, and he has both a duffel and grocery bag in his hands. I realize I’ve not been able to utter a word when the only thing floating around in my head leaves my mouth. “Are you planning on staying a while?” Yeah, this is wishful thinking.
“I can if it helps you sleep better at night. Always been a little scared of the dark, if I remember right.”
His borderline flirtatious tone carries a lot of bullshit. “If I remember correctly,” Crush continues, “you would need me to hold you, so you could get back to sleep.”
In his joke is almost a sensual nature, and I want to hold onto it and never let go. “Yeah, I was being hopeful, knowing I could really rock your world.” I’ll flirt with him, too—if I can.
A red blush creeps from his neck onto his face, and I fear I’ve pushed it too far, too quick. But there’s no awkwardness in the air when he quips, “So, all those times I woke up and the space next to me was warm, it was you?” In his pitch, I know there’s still a teasing atmosphere present, yet if I were to guess, I’d almost say there’s a carnal desire in his words.
I had some fantastic sex with Garrison last week. Am I in need of a good old-fashioned fucking again? I’m horny and need to be laid. It’s the only reason I’m imagining something that doesn’t exist.
“No, seriously, man,” I begin as I pray for common sense to return to all parts of my body. “What’s up with the bags?”
He searches his hands as if he’s forgotten he’s brought stuff over. “Oh, yeah.” He pulls at the grocery bag. “Thought I’d contribute to dinner with this kick-ass salad I make.” Reaching for the duffel, he brings it to my line of sight. “And I brought some swim trunks. Thinking after you kick my ass in video games, I’d kick your ass at something physical because you know it’s where I shine.”
Oh, if he wants something physical, I sure as hell can raise the ante. But then again, here I go imagining shit that’s not there.
“Okay, big guy, let’s get you fed and give you a fighting chance to kick my ass in some way, shape, or form.” He follows me to the kitchen, and something about us has immediately shifted. And as before, I keep telling myself it’s simply due to being back in each other’s lives again. And this is all it’ll ever be.
My sweats are slung low, and every time I turn around in the kitchen to grab ingredients for dinner, I catch him looking at me. Sitting on the counter, he’s far enough away from the stove but just close enough to me that I can smack his arm for some smart-ass comment every once in a while.
He’s already put together a cabbage salad with bacon, cranberries, and a homemade oriental salad dressing with soy sauce, sugar, vinegar, and garlic, or so it’s what he’s told me. Watching him in my kitchen is almost as sexy as when he’s in his skintight pants on the field throwing a football.
“What are you cooking me, pretty boy?” He has an all-American boyish fashion about him, and as he shakes his head of hair, I realize I’d rather have my fingers in his blond locks than to be cooking.
“I’m making shrimp alfredo tonight with a low-fat cream sauce and carb-less noodles. I know it doesn’t quite go with your salad, but believe me, I can’t wait to sink my teeth into both.”
I turn around after the statement, not meaning for it to sound as erotic as it does, and I swear I hear a low guttural moan from behind me where he’s sitting.
I twist toward the noise, and a pained look crosses his face. “Did you say something?”
His features soften at my question. “Um, no, just sitting here being quiet.”
Did I imagine the sound? Did I make it myself when I realized how sensual my statement had really been? I guess it doesn’t matter at this point.
“Yeah, dude, both sound awesome. I can’t wait to sink my teeth into our dinner either.”
Is he messing with me by using my words against me? But when he says it, it sounds almost naughty. I wish some sort of sports emergency in Nashville would bring Garrison back. A good old-fashioned fucking is what I need. But then at the thought of Garrison, his image is replaced with Crush, and that’s when I realize I’m screwed but not in the way I’d like.
I push dinner away, full to the max on carb-less pasta with the oriental salad.
“Still working on your figure, aren’t you?” Crush jests and this normalcy we’ve gotten back to is both natural and fun. It’s something I could get used to—every day.
“Are you telling me you’ve been dreaming of my girly figure for years?” I deadpan.
He leans over just enough to touch, but we don’t. “I can’t tell you how many times I spanked the monkey to your image.” His large grin grows on his face, and he’s always been so crass in his joking. Wait, is he joking?
I’m given a chance to return some affection in the same fun-loving nature. “Hell, I’ve missed your humor and jokes.” And as much as I know the truth, I wish it wasn’t a joke. Changing the subject quickly, I choose something which will make Crush’s day. “So, Brooklyn’s party is next weekend.”
His smile widens at the mention of his daughter. “Nope, it’s in two weeks, but please tell me you’re still coming. You’ve made quite the impact on her.”
“Yeah, but Al isn’t a fan of mine, and I don’t want to complicate matters for you after her bitch attack today.”
Crush pushes his plate back. “The woman’s not a fan of me either, so we might as well piss her off together, you think?”
“I want to try to understand something.” And I’m leaning so close to him that I could cup his face. “So, you never wanted to start something with another girl after your divorce. It’s been what, two years?”