Total pages in book: 21
Estimated words: 18799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 94(@200wpm)___ 75(@250wpm)___ 63(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 18799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 94(@200wpm)___ 75(@250wpm)___ 63(@300wpm)
"Ryan... please…"
"Come for me, baby. Do it."
He slams into me one last time, pinning my wrists above my head, and I shatter. My pussy clamps down on his cock in rhythmic waves, a tight, pulsing squeeze that has him groaning my name into my neck. I scream, the sound muffled against his skin, as the orgasm tears through me, leaving me shaking and boneless.
He doesn't stop. He thrusts three more times, fast and deep, before he stiffens. His back arches, his muscles locking, and I feel the hot spurts of his cum filling me, wave after wave of heat that makes me feel like I’m being branded from the inside out. He collapses onto me, his breath hitching, his heart hammering against my chest like a trapped bird.
We lie there for a long time, the only sound the fading race of our breathing. The honey-light has moved across the floor, the world outside continuing its march toward Saturday, toward the barbecue, toward the potential end of everything we’ve built. But here, in the quiet of his room, the lie feels a thousand miles away.
Ryan pulls back slightly, brushing a damp curl from my forehead. He looks exhausted and satisfied and entirely too permanent. "We’re going to be fine on Saturday, Rory. I won’t let anything come between us."
Taking a deep breath, I decide to jump in with both feet. I reach out, tracing the line of his collarbone. “I’ve fallen for you, you know. It’s highly inconvenient.”
He stills. The playful light vanishes, replaced by something much deeper, something that makes my breath catch.
"Good," he whispers. "Because I fell in love with you the first time I laid eyes on you."
“I’m glad we’re on the same page.” I close my eyes and drift back toward sleep, settled and content for the first time in forever.
CHAPTER NINE
RYAN
There’s a box of cannoli sitting on my back seat. I bought them from the Italian bakery in the North End, the one Mia swore would earn me a pass into the Fox inner sanctum. The scent of fried dough and sweet ricotta is heavy in the cab of my truck, competing with the crisp Seattle air coming through the vents.
“You didn’t have to stop and get cannoli.” Rory glances over at me. She’s wearing a sundress that does things to my heart rate and causes my cock to wake the fuck up. The blue of the fabric matches her eyes—that impossibly deep, electric blue that has been the only thing I can see when I close my eyes at night lately. “I’m hoping it helps sweeten up your parents.”
She laughs, but there’s a flicker of something guarded in her expression. "Just be prepared. My family doesn't have a volume knob. And my dad can be a little overwhelming."
We pull up outside a large two-story home. I reach for Rory’s hand and bring it to my lips for a soft kiss. “Don’t worry, tiger. Everything will be fine.”
“Famous last words,” she mutters as we walk into the backyard. Damn. It’s like stepping into a different world. A long table is covered in red-checked cloths, weighed down by bowls of pasta salad, plates of sliced tomatoes, and enough bread to feed the entire Knights roster. A large man standing over a massive grill turns as we approach, a spatula held like a scepter.
"The hockey player," he bellows. I see why Rory warned me. The guy behind the grill could pass for a retired heavyweight champ still training for a comeback. He’s easily six-three and broad. He’s got a full head of gray peppered through black. His eyes are the same wicked electric blue as Rory’s.
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t crack a hint of a smile. Just plants himself in front of the grill with his spatula raised, daring me to make the first move.
The lines etched into his face look carved by a lifetime of doing hard, honest work. He’s not the kind of man you bullshit. The set of his jaw says ‘bring your A-game or go home.’
“I’m Tony Fox,” he announces and holds out his hand.
I reach for it, squeeze hard, and stare straight back at those laser blue eyes. I’m not backing down.
"Mr. Fox," I say, holding his stare. "Ryan Coleman. Thank you for having me."
"Cannoli," Tony Jr. says, nodding toward the box in my other hand. He takes it from me and flips the lid. "From Casa Dolce. Smart move, Coleman. You might survive the first hour."
Rory’s mother appears from the house like a whirlwind. She’s small but has the presence of a head coach. Within thirty seconds, she’s hugged me, told me to call her Mom, and asked if I’m getting enough protein. She looks at Rory, then at me, her eyes narrowed in a way that suggests she’s already picking out china patterns.