Page 12 of Erotic Temptations 2
Ryan’s gaze pinned me. “You can pay me back.”
Hints of a grin, pure mischief. My body answered before my head did.
“Yeah?” My voice sounded rough, full of want.
“Yeah. You can.”
No idea what would actually happen if I kissed him right this second, pressed up against the cold, plastic barrier, in full view of two dozen strangers. But the thought hooked me so deep I could barely blink.
He bent down, noses almost touching. “Later,” he promised, voice low.
Disappointed? Actually, no. The anticipation tasted better than all the cocoa in the world.
* * * *
In the truck, both of us kicked off our boots and crammed into the tiny cab, still humming with cold and leftover adrenaline.
We blasted the heat and left Motown on low.
Ryan’s hand slid over the console, finding mine. His thumb scratched gently at my palm, each drag sparking little points of want.
Nobody spoke. Not until he parked outside my parents’ house, engine idling.
He turned, reached for my cheek, and just like that, our mouths collided.
Not a sweet little peck but a real, hard “I’ve wanted this for years” kind of kiss. His lips captured mine, mouth hungry, and suddenly my core ached with need.
Ryan sucked on my bottom lip, tongue teasing for entry. I opened willingly, fingertips digging into the worn denim at his thigh. Our breaths tangled.
He broke away, only to whisper, “God, I want you.”
My only answer was another pull of his mouth to mine, this one filthier, our teeth clashing.
If he’d said “let’s fuck right here,” I probably would have agreed.
He seemed to sense it, too. He grabbed my thigh, shifted closer, his body bracketing mine. I shivered, hard, and not from cold. The heat was unbearable.
His forehead pressed to mine, sweat beading already.
“Come on. Inside. I’ll make dinner.”
I nodded, because speaking would have ended with me begging to blow him in the front seat.
* * * *
At his place, Ryan held the door for me. Cold air bit at my cheeks, but all I could think of was the way he stared at me, eyes nearly devouring.
He went straight to the kitchen, pulling ingredients from the fridge. I hovered by the counter, desperately casual, while he chopped and seared and somehow conjured dinner out of thin air.
The scent of onions and garlic filled the kitchen, along with the sound of bacon sizzling. Butter was melting somewhere. The kitchen grew steamy, windows fogged from the heat. I leaned back, arms crossed, pretending I didn’t have a front-row ticket to the Ryan Show.
He looked over, grinning. “You want wine?”
“What, not beer?” I raised an eyebrow.
Ryan glanced at me, eyes warm. “Thought you’d be a wine guy.”
I shrugged. “I’m an anything-that-blunts-the-pain guy.”