Page 47 of Coco and the Misfits (The Candyverse #4)

COCO

I stand at the window like an Edwardian lady, watching my man go, and shiver. The memory of his beard scratching softly against my inner thighs, his tongue delving inside me, making me come…

Damn.

And let’s not forget the memory of his hard cock in my mouth, his scent, the feel of his release, the sounds he made.

It’s getting too hot in here. I’m one second away from calling him back, to pick up where we left off. But no, that’s a bad idea. We were supposed to talk , for fuck’s sake.

We did talk, I remind myself. Even if we ended up fucking like bunnies.

Not sure bunnies sixty-nine, come to think of it. Fucking like very horny humans?

Anyway, the point is, I lost control of my urges as much as I did with Zach, and now…

Now it’s time to invite Ryder, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t excited about it.

My dark knight. My tattooed alpha. My pierced philosopher.

A snicker escapes me. Okay, I don’t think I’m cut out for poetry, but his cock…

Shaking my head at myself, I grab my phone and scroll for his number. I’m still throbbing down below where Atticus ate me out and rubbed me raw with his beard—an ache I cherish—and I’m writing to the other guy who fucked me and discarded me.

My lips purse. It won’t happen again. If he walks out again, that’s it. I won’t speak to him ever again.

But right now, everything seems possible.

Zach, opening up about his knotting issue. Atticus washing dishes and going down on me. Would Ryder also show me another side to his character?

Have I forgiven him? Have I begun to? Will our meeting be less tense than the last when he apologized and asked for another chance? Can I give it to him?

Will he be a keeper?

And if he is… what shall I do?

* * *

The butterflies start dive-bombing inside my stomach from the moment I shoot off my message to Ryder, and when he replies with an affirmative and a little grinning devil, they start going off like fireworks.

Butterfly fireworks.

Awesome.

You’d think it’s my first time with these guys. That he wasn’t here a couple of days ago, spilling out his heart to me, telling me of his tragic past and leaving without knowing if I’d ever call him back.

That little grinning devil emoji… I find myself grinning, too. Oh no. Dammit. I really am starting to forgive him, aren’t I? That arrogant, cocky bastard.

I shouldn’t let him back into my home so quickly. I should let him doubt and suffer like I suffered when he did that to me.

But just like I let Atticus and Zach back in… how can I keep him out when he makes my heart pound, even when I’m only thinking about him?

Nothing has changed, I remind myself. This is still his second chance, his chance to prove himself to me, and that could take a long time.

He may be cute, but no, I haven’t forgiven him yet. Words are cheap, be they tragic backstories or not. Actions are the only thing that counts.

So he had better act.

* * *

Reassured, I go to work the next day, doing my best to put the evening meeting out of my mind.

It’s obviously impossible, but work distracts me for a while and I’m able to breathe.

That proverbial held breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding?

There’s truth to it, I swear. It’s not so much a held breath as shallow breathing, lack of oxygen from the coiled tension in your entire body.

Yet the moment I turn off my computer, grab my purse and get up to leave work, the breathless feeling returns.

I need to prepare dinner. And myself. Prepare my body and soul for this meeting that’s as likely to send me hurtling into happiness as dump me into hell.

Not knowing these guys means I don’t know if they have allergies, dislikes, hated foods from their childhood. I didn’t ask the other two. Not about to ask this one, either, but I decide on something as neutral as possible.

Can’t beat veggie burgers and smashed potatoes, can you?

Okay, maybe you can, but that’s my current theory. Carrying my provisions home, I catch a glimpse of Atticus across the street. He waves at me, a grin on his face, and I grin back.

“I’m on bodyguard detail!” he hollers and I laugh out loud. “Just so you know!”

“Okay!” I yell back and make my way home, acutely aware of him following me, making sure I’m safe until I’m inside my apartment. I wave at him from the window, he waves again and then he’s gone.

Aw, my heart. He kept his promise to let me know.

Now… veggie burgers and smashed potatoes. What was I thinking? I scratch my head, staring at the ingredients strewn over my counter. I don’t even know why I picked this combo today, to be honest. It’s not sexy, or glamorous, or even cute. My thought about allergies makes no sense.

Then I remember that my mom used to make this dish for me when I was little. It’s comfort food in every sense of the word, and I need it. My little emotional support dish, as I welcome that bad, inked alpha back into my home and, tentatively, also my heart and body.

My dark prince is coming. Beside my silver fox king and my golden boy, he’s a shadow, mesmerizing and slightly dangerous.

It gives an edge to my lust and a pause to my hopes, making everything feel more uncertain and somehow exhilarating; a rollercoaster of emotions.

That rollercoaster doesn’t serve me well as I prepare dinner, of course. I burn the burgers and over-smash the potatoes so that they are practically fried mash.

A sudden desire to cry comes over me, but I fight it.

What am I hoping for, to get Ryder to fall in love with me through my cooking? If he doesn’t want me, no number of perfect dishes will help. And if he’s upset about my cooking, then he has no place being by my side.

Still, the urge to order some pizza rides me— ha! —until Ryder arrives, twenty minutes after my disastrous dinner attempt is set in the oven to keep warm.

Twenty minutes of doubt and nail-biting.

Then my phone dings and there is his name. ‘I’m right outside your apartment door.’

Little piggy, little piggy, let me come in, I think and giggle inanely to myself, all nerves. Or else I’ll huff and puff and blow your door down.

But when I open the door, he looks nothing like a wolf. All in black, in a sleek shirt and black pants, his golden eyes sparkling, he looks like a young god of the underworld.

The bouquet in his hands is pink orchids and black dahlias, as unique and arresting as he is.

He thrusts it toward me, his faint smirk holding that same edge he always carries about his person. The edge that cuts me and makes me swoon. “Good evening, my pretty.”

“Come in.” I have my arms full of bizarre flowers—hey, the only normal flowers are roses, right?—and I walk backward, feeling a little like a flowering bush. “You know the way.”

He chuckles, a delicious sound as I bump into a wall, then manage to find the kitchen door and step inside, finally able to turn around.

“I’ll just put these in a…” I glance around. “Um…”

“No free vases,” he says from the living room. “Too many flowers in here.”

“Right…” So I dump the pretty bouquet on the kitchen table and lift my chin. “Right. So I hope you’re hungry.”

Because I made my childhood comfort food and I have no wine, and how did I plan tonight’s dinner so badly? What an idiot.

“I’m starving,” he calls out. “Been waiting for days for your message.”

“And you ate nothing all those days?” I mutter distractedly, getting the food out of the oven, then screaming when I turn around and find him lounging against the kitchen door. “God, you scared the shit out of me.”

“Let me help you.” He makes a grab for the dish and I stumble backward. “Coco?—”

“It’s hot.”

“I like it hot.” He grabs a towel. “Let me.” He wrestles the dish with the burgers off my hands and waits until I grab the potatoes. “To answer your question, I didn’t eat much since I was last here. I was… anxious.”

I glance at him as we make our way to the dining table to catch his expression and I almost stumble. He looks… rueful. Pained. Painfully honest.

I feel the stupid urge to apologize, and it spills out of my mouth before I can stop myself. “Sorry for the humble fare. I wanted a taste of my childhood tonight. You’re probably used to a finer cuisine.”

“You think I grew up rich?” He sets the burgers on the table and takes a seat. “I could eat mac-and-cheese every day. The cheapest brand. You know the kind.”

“I do.” I’m smiling very big now. I serve him and take my seat across from him. “So this is okay?”

“I love what you cooked. And above all…” He takes a huge bite, swallows, and smiles. “I love that you cooked for me. It feels… like a hug.”

On impulse, I get up, rush around the table and throw my arms around him. He gets up, letting out a surprised breath, then grabs me and wraps himself around me.

“Candy girl,” he whispers, a little choked. “Fuck’s sake. You’ll make me cry.”

“That’s fine,” I sort of wail. “You made me cry, too.”

“Shit, I’m sorry, princess. I’m unforgivable.”

“Don’t say that!” I wail some more. “I’m working on it, okay?”

“Okay.” He kisses the top of my head. “Does it mean you want to give it a try? Give me a try?” He’s gazing at me with those amber eyes, all earnestness, all attention. “Give us a chance?”

“Yes, let’s try. Let’s.”

“Darling.” He pulls back to cup my face. “You mean it? You’d take me for a drive, tragic origin story, bastardly behavior and all?”

I snort. “You’re not a car.”

“Maybe I’m a Ducati, roaring through the night.”

“Maybe.” I look up to meet his blazing eyes. “But I won’t be riding you tonight.”

If anything, his eyes blaze hotter. “Not tonight. But one day.”

“Awfully sure of yourself. Moments ago, you were wondering if you’d get a second chance with me.”

“And I’m still anxious and I’ll work on making you forgive me. I’m not throwing this chance away, baby girl. I’ll work hard and I’ll have you riding me one day soon. I’m fucking confident about that. But now…”

“Now?”

“Now I’ll show you other ways of taking your pleasure from me—and other ways to ride me.”

* * *

He wasn’t kidding.

His name may be Ryder but I’m the one currently riding—his mouth.

I’ve done stuff, fooled around, had sex before these guys. I’m no blushing virgin. But I admit I’ve never hovered over someone’s face before, my legs spread, their warm breath on my aching center.

And then…

Then he unleashes a beast on me. His beast. The ring in his lip drags over sensitive flesh as he presses his mouth to my pussy, and then his tongue laps at me, explores my clit and toys with it, spears into me, leaving me begging for release.

Like Zach and Atticus had done, yet different, more aggressive, more sure of himself.

God, every single one of them is so unique, and I want them all.

And then… the attack eases, gentles. He licks as I shudder, allowing me to come down. He presses kisses to my inner thighs before slowly pushing me down to sit on his chest. I scoot back on legs like jelly and he pulls me into his arms.

It’s different from the last time. So different. And although I won’t deny I crave being pushed down and taken, being held and made to accept the pleasure, this… this is also nice. Not only nice, but important. This is what relationships are built on, this gentleness, this care.

Don’t confuse gentleness in intimacy with gentleness in other aspects of life, I warn myself. The bed—or sex zone, anywhere that might be—is different from everyday life. It obeys different rules. If he was aggressive in sex that wouldn’t mean he’d be the same in everything else, and vice versa.

And yet… and yet, it counts. If he’s capable of this… then yes, I can give it a try.