Justine
I wake up disoriented and confused. The mattress under me is like a cloud, and the blanket tucked up to my neck is soft and warm and smells like lavender and sunshine. That’s when I know I’m drunk—probably from the last glass of cognac I brought up to my room—because sunshine doesn’t have an actual smell.
Blinking, I take in the room around me and remember where I am. Ryker’s parents’ house. My bladder is protesting, so I slip out of bed into the bathroom and take care of business.
Did Ryker come back from his late-night rescue of a friend?
I don’t know why I care because we’re just friends, but that doesn’t stop me from quietly pushing open the door that leads from the bathroom to his bedroom.
A king-sized bed takes up a portion of the large room, and even in the darkness I can make out a shape in it. Question answered. Ryker came back.
I tell myself I don’t care either way and tug the handle to pull the door closed, but the hinge squeaks in protest and the shape moves.
Oh crap.
A deep voice, husky with sleep, comes out of the darkness as he sits up. “You need something?”
Caught.
“Sorry, got turned around. Wrong door.”
My lie sounds believable, even to me, and I hope he buys it. I move to pull the door the rest of the way closed, but Ryker’s voice stops me.
“Come here.”
Into his room? In the middle of the night?
Bad. Plan. Don’t do it, Justine.
But my bare feet are already following his command, stepping from the bathroom tile onto the wood floor.
“What?”
“Come here,” he repeats.
Now that I’m inside the room and my eyes are adjusting to the light, I can see him more clearly. The sheet and blanket pool around his waist, leaving his upper body bare. There’s just enough moonlight coming through the window at this angle to make out the defined muscles of his pecs and deep ridges of his abs.
God bless men who work out.
What? No. Bad, Justine.
Ryker motions for me to keep coming closer and pats the side of his bed. My stupid body responds to his wordless commands, and I pause beside the bed.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“Sorry for what?”
Our voices are hushed, as if we’re both afraid of waking his father.
“For not being there for you when I said I would be. I’m not that guy.”
They’re the words I’ve needed to hear for months, and they’re finally hanging in the air between us.
“Then why did you? You never even said.” The question has been driving me crazy since the morning I sat on my stoop, disappointment, hurt, and humiliation sloshing in my belly along with the remains of too much liquor.
“I can’t tell you why, but you have to know that it wasn’t something I could avoid or have planned for. I’ve owed you an apology for so long, and without an explanation, I know it’s a shitty one.”
He can’t tell me why. Something about the bullshit excuse takes the strength from my knees, and I sit on the edge of the bed. My T-shirt rides up, and I become acutely aware that I’m wearing nothing but that and my panties.
And I’m sitting on Ryker’s bed.
In his parents’ house.
If that’s not a string of bad decisions sewn together with even worse judgment, I’m not sure what it is.
I press both hands to the bed in a move to stand up, but Ryker’s palm slides over the top of one, pinning it in place.
“Don’t go. I know you’re pissed, and you still have every right to be, but don’t walk away from me again.”
“You can’t tell me why, but you expect me to just forgive you? I sat out in front of my apartment for over an hour waiting for you! Do you know how much that sucks? Do you know how much I regretted what we’d done the night before? It was concrete proof that me turning you down over and over was the right choice.”
Ryker releases a whoosh of breath. “I know. You’re right. I played into everything you think I am, but dammit, Justine, that’s not fucking fair. Things aren’t black and white. Shit happened that I couldn’t control.”
“Shit happens,” I repeat slowly. “Great excuse. I’ll remember that one for next time.”
I push off the bed again, but Ryker grabs my arm and tugs me down. I lose my balance and fall against him. He wastes no time taking advantage of the opportunity, and flips over to pin me to the bed.
“You’re not walking away from this.”
My T-shirt rides up further, and the hot press of his skin against mine clears my brain of any protests I’d been about to make.
“Are you naked?” I ask, my voice unsteady from the booze. The heat of his body is soaking into me, and I’m pretty sure the head of his penis just brushed against my belly. Naked. Skin on skin.
“Yes.”
Oh my God.
I freeze, unsure what to do. Ryker Grant, who I’ve decided I have absolutely nothing going on with, is lying on top of me naked. With a hard-on. And it’s touching me.
And instead of struggling to free myself, my body wants to wrap around him for more contact. Heat builds between my legs, and my panties are damp. In minutes they’re going to be soaked, and he’ll be able to feel it.
“Your heart is pounding, Justine.”
“You’re lying on top of me naked, Ryker.”
“You like it.”
I go quiet. What am I supposed to say? No, I hate it. Get your sexy-as-hell body off me because I need to go back to my room and get myself off before I’ll be able to get any sleep? Yeah. No. Not happening.
“You should probably get off me now.” My voice drops into a whisper.
“I don’t want to move.”
His face lowers closer to mine, and I can feel his breath on my skin. He doesn’t ask for permission. Doesn’t offer to move. Instead, his lips slide along my jaw, leaving tendrils of sensation in their wake.
My panties? Let’s not talk about the state of them.
When his lips hit the shell of my ear and his teeth graze the lobe, I can’t stop my body’s response. My hips buck upward, seeking the delicious friction I need.
And I get that friction by rubbing my clit against the hard length of Ryker’s cock.
I should be embarrassed. Should be horrified. But I’ve stopped thinking, and I’m operating on pure instinct backed by booze-fueled courage. I haven’t had another orgasm as good as the one I stole in the back hallway of the bar—and the good Lord knows I’ve tried. All summer. It’s like I’ve got all this pent-up need burning inside me, waiting for him to unleash it.
“Fuck, Justine. That feels so goddamn good. I can feel those sweet little pussy lips against my cock.”
I’ve never been a girl for dirty talk, or so I thought, but when Ryker voices those rumbling words in the darkness of this room, my nipples harden and I buck harder against him.
I can’t stop myself. I want it, and he’s going to let me take it.
“You like that, baby? Rubbing against my cock. You gonna come for me? Let me hear that sweet sound?”
“Yes.” I moan, and he takes my lips as I work my hips against him.
“Come for me, and then I’m gonna eat that pussy and finally get a taste of what I’ve been dying for all these years.”
It doesn’t take much to send myself over the edge. The orgasm slams into me and radiates outward through my body. I keep up the pressure, the friction, grabbing every little bit of pleasure that I can until it finally fades away.
Only then do I realize that my hands are locked around Ryker’s bare shoulders, my nails digging into the skin of his back.
I release my grip immediately and mumble, “I’m so sorry,” as embarrassment fills me.
What the hell did I just do? I used Ryker as my own personal sex toy and got off dry-humping him like a teenager. Mortification burns my cheeks, and I know if it were light in this room, my face would be red.
“Nothing to be sorry for, baby. And we’re not done.”
He presses his cock against my pussy, setting off aftershocks of pleasure, and a moan escapes my lips.
“I love hearing you come for me. I can’t get enough of that sound.”
He moves down the bed and kneels above me. My eyes zero in on his cock. It’s thick and long and rises up to almost touch his belly button. The dick print didn’t do it justice, because apparently he’s a shower and a grower.
My mouth, which has never watered at the sight of a penis before, floods with moisture, and all I can think is how badly I want my lips wrapped around the crown. I know from the touch of it against my belly, the skin is smooth and hot.
Since when have I ever been desperate to put a dick in my mouth? Since never. It must be the haze of orgasm messing with my head.
But I can’t get rid of the thought. I’ve got two choices—get the hell out of here, or stay.