Her thumb hovers over the send button, the screen’s glow painting her fingertip blue. Two words. I’m alone. They sit in the text field like an indictment, or an invitation—she isn’t sure which is worse. The ghost of his touch is still a physical memory between her legs, a slick, aching reminder. She presses send. The whoosh sound is obscenely loud in the silent room.
Three minutes later, a soft knock. Not on the main door to the suite. On her bedroom door.
Her heart stops. She’s standing in the middle of the room, hasn’t moved since she sent the text. She crosses the space, her hand unsteady on the knob. She opens it.
He’s there, leaning against the doorframe. His gray-blue eyes sweep past her, taking in the bed, the unpacked boxes, the window, before landing back on her face. He’s wearing a worn henley, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He doesn’t speak.
The space between them crackles. She can smell him—clean cotton and something darker, masculine. Her own breath feels shallow, tight in her chest.
“You texted.” His voice is a low rasp. A statement, not a question.
Emma nods. She steps back, a silent permission. He pushes off the frame and enters, closing the door behind him with a soft, definitive click. The room shrinks. He doesn’t touch her. He just stands there, looking at her, his gaze a physical weight.
“Where’s Chloe?”
“Library.” The word comes out thin. “She said she’d be hours.”
Ryan’s eyes drop to her mouth, then travel slowly down the oversized sweater she’s drowning in, down to her bare legs. His jaw flexes once. “This your bed?”
He nods, once. A slow, deliberate dip of his chin. Then he closes the distance.
His hand comes up to cradle her jaw, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. He doesn’t rush. He studies her face for a heartbeat—the wide dark eyes, the parted lips—and then he kisses her. It’s not like the first time, against the wall. This is deeper, slower, a claiming that starts soft and sinks into her bones. His mouth is warm, insistent. He tastes like mint and something faintly bitter, like coffee. Emma’s hands come up, her fingers curling into the worn cotton of his henley at his sides. She can feel the lean muscle of his torso beneath, the heat of him.
He kisses her until her knees go weak, until the only solid thing in the world is the press of his body against hers and the firm hand still holding her face. When he finally pulls back, just an inch, their breath mingles. His gray-blue eyes are dark, pupils swallowing the pale irises. “Yeah,” he says, his voice rough. “It’s your bed.”
His other hand slides around to the small of her back, under the hem of her oversized sweater. His palm is hot on her bare skin. He walks her backward, the two steps to the edge of the mattress, his mouth finding hers again on the way. It’s less a kiss and more a taking, his tongue sliding against hers, a low sound vibrating in his chest. The backs of her knees hit the bed frame and she sinks down, pulling him with her.
He follows her down, bracing himself over her, one knee between hers on the rumpled comforter. He breaks the kiss to trail his mouth along her jaw, down the column of her throat. Emma arches into it, a soft gasp escaping her. Her fingers find their way into his dark ash-brown hair, the strands soft and thick between her fingers. He nips at the sensitive spot where her neck meets her shoulder, and her whole body shudders.
“Ryan.” His name is a whisper, torn from her.
He lifts his head, looking down at her. His gaze is heavy, intent. He shifts his weight, settling more fully between her thighs, and the hard ridge of his erection presses against her through his jeans. A fresh wave of heat pools low in her belly, a slick, answering ache. He sees it—the flush on her fair skin, the way her dark eyes go hazy. His jaw flexes.
He lowers himself onto one elbow, his free hand sliding up her side, under the sweater. His calloused fingers skate over her rib cage, bypassing the bra entirely, and close over the soft weight of her breast. His thumb finds her nipple, already peaked and tight against the lace. He circles it, once, twice, a slow, maddening pressure. Emma bites her lower lip to keep from crying out.
“You’re already wet for me.” His statement is a rasp against her ear. “Aren’t you.”
She can only nod, her cheek rubbing against the pillow. The scent of her vanilla lotion is everywhere, mixed now with the clean cotton and male heat of him. He watches her face as his hand leaves her breast, trails down her stomach, over the waistband of her shorts. He doesn’t look away when his fingers slip beneath the elastic, when they slide through the damp curls and find her soaked, swollen flesh.
Emma’s eyes screw shut. A broken sound catches in her throat. His touch is not gentle. It’s precise, a firm stroke that has her hips lifting off the bed, seeking more. He lets her move against his hand for a moment, lets her feel the building tension, before he stills her with the weight of his body. “Look at me,” he says.
She opens her eyes. His face is above hers, flushed, his breathing uneven. The controlled intensity is still there, but it’s fraying at the edges. He’s holding himself back, and the strain of it is in the corded line of his forearm, in the tight set of his mouth. He doesn’t move his hand. He just keeps it there, a hot, intimate pressure, while he watches her come apart from the inside out.