Page 124 of Ryker
What she means is, “Don’t fuck it up like you have all my other relationships.”
Swallowing my pride, I force a smile onto my face. “I will, Mom. I’ll be perfect.”
“Annnd she married William a month later,” I say.
“Jeez.” Ryker’s leaning on his side, his tatted hand propping his head up. “That’s wild.”
“I’ve spent my entire childhood moving around, shaping myself to be whatever my mom wanted, so her boyfriend, fiancé, husband, or whatever would love me. And when things would go belly up, she’d blame it on me.”
“Fuck, Tara. I’m so sorry.” He runs his hand over my leg. “And now she’s married a real asshole.”
“She doesn’t care as long as she gets her own black card.” I lean back on the pillow. “And she’s already moving on. I saw her fucking that guy Travis in the Mercedes when we left.”
Ryker’s nonresponse means he saw it too and just wasn’t going to mention it.
We’ve laid in bed, talking, touching and petting each other for a while now. It’s nice. “What time is it?”
“Going on midnight, I think.”
My yawn’s so big my jaw pops. “Man.”
“Get some rest, Tara.” Ryker kisses my forehead.
I keep my eyes open long enough to watch him get up and turn the lights out around the room. “Are you going to leave?”
He pauses by the bedside table. “Is that what you want?”
“No.” I bury my face in the pillow and close my eyes. “I still want you to fuck me.”
The mattress dips and the heat rolling off him feels good. “Sleep,” he orders, lying next to me. “And let me just hold you for now, Butterfly.”
I drift off, hoping if he won’t fuck me while I’m awake and begging for it, then he’ll fuck me when I’m asleep so I can wake up with him already inside me.
Chapter 41
Ryker
I’m not leaving Tara, even though there are a million things that need to be done. It’s late, the club is packed, and I feel guilty for staying locked in this room with my gorgeous woman, while my staff are busting their asses downstairs.
Christ, I’m so attached to her, someone will have to dismember me if they want to pry me off my girl.
Running a hand over the slope of her hip, I love how soft Tara is. How pristine. How opposite of me. I’m a canvas of fuckups, scars, and ink. She’s a blank canvas. I’m all hard, rigid lines. She’s soft curves and dips. I’m a razor. She’s a rose petal.
Peppering her arm with tiny kisses, I stroke her thighs, sweeping my hand down between her legs to see if she’ll open for me. Her thighs spread, and she rolls onto her back in her sleep. “Mmm.”
“Shhhh.” I crawl on top of her, kissing her neck, collarbone, left nipple, and work my way down until I reach her pussy. She takes deep, even breaths as I sink my finger into her pussy. Her body instantly grips my digit, and she moans again. Her body wants me even while she’s dead to the world.
I flick my tongue against her clit like a deviant.
Tara sucks in a breath before sinking into a deeper sleep. Her breaths are even and heavy.
I lie to myself and say I just need a taste. That’s what addicts do, right? Lie and bullshit about their actual intentions? Tara’s my motherfucking drug, and I’ll happily overdose on her.
Someone should cut my dick off for this.
I pull my belt off without waking her. Then I unzip my pants and shove them down to my knees. Kneeling between her legs, I grip my hard dick and stroke it.
She’s so innocent. So pure. So perfect and whole. I want to feel those things too.