There were things he’d never tell her, would never tell anyone. His father was one sick bastard. Ryder was lucky he’d run off when he did. Lucky to still be alive. Lucky someone had killed his old man in a bar fight before his father hurt anyone else. There were times Ryder could have killed him, wished he’d had the guts. But he’d just been a kid. Now? He wouldn’t blink about doing it. But back then he’d lacked the courage.
Angelique grasped his hand. He tried to pull away, but she clung tight. He decided to let it be, figuring she needed it more than he did.
“I decided in order to survive it, I needed to become just like him. Hard, mean, a tough sonofabitch. So I did.”
“But that’s not who you are,” she said.
“You don’t really know that, do you? You don’t know me at all, Angie. You don’t know what I’ve done, where I’ve been.” How many I’ve killed. How much I enjoyed it. Enjoyed inflicting that final blow, just like his father.
She shook her head. “No, I don’t. But I know what you’re capable of. And you have the capacity for tenderness, for protectiveness and for caring. Did your father?”
For some reason it pleased him that she thought those things about him. “I don’t remember. I guess he must have at one time, or my mother wouldn’t have married him. Maybe something went haywire in his head, or some kind of anger caught hold of him and wouldn’t let go.”
She shifted, sat on her heels, and leaned forward enough to clasp her palm to his cheek. “You’re afraid you’ll end up just like him.”
He stared up at her. “Do you dabble in psychology when you’re not digging up bones?”
She let out a soft laugh. “No. It’s pretty easy to follow your train of thought.”
“So, you think I’m simple.”
Now she threw her head back and laughed hard. “Ryder, there’s nothing simple about you. You’re one of the most complex men I’ve ever known. You’re like an intriguing puzzle. Trying to figure you out is like trying to find buried treasure. You know it’s there somewhere, just waiting to be discovered, but you just can’t decipher the damn map. That’s what I like most about you.”
“Keep saying those things about me and I might get a swelled head.”
“Really. Let’s see.” She pulled back the covers and reached for him, wrapping both hands around his quickly hardening flesh.
“Angie.”
He’d said her name the last time, but that was when he’d warned her to stop. Now it was a guttural plea to continue.
And maybe it was because he didn’t want to continue their conversation. He didn’t want to talk about his past, about his father. He’d done it to make her feel better, but it dredged up things he didn’t want to remember.
Now he wanted to forget, and being with Angie made him forget everything else.
He lifted his hips, pumping into her hand, watching every stroke in the hazy darkness of the dimly lit room.
She celebrated his body with slow, measured movements, worshiping him with her hands, and then her mouth, bending over him, her hair splayed out over his thighs and stomach.
She was a goddess, a temptress, and he gave himself over to her, releasing the last of his restraint and letting her have everything. He drowned in the softness of her hair, the lush heat of her mouth, her tongue, the way she captured his senses and completely owned him. When he released, she didn’t let go, taking him all in, gripping his thighs when he bucked against her and groaned.
Damn.
If she was a demon, then he’d just taken a step over onto the dark side, and loved every minute of it.
She raised her head, smiled at him, and licked her lips. His cock twitched, still alive and eager to feel her heat surrounding him.
“Come here, darlin’.”
She climbed onto his lap again, this time straddling his legs and wrapping her legs around his back, her sex positioned over his throbbing cock. She laid her palm on his chest and he shifted, sliding down the pillow and grasping her hips.
“Ride me.”
She did, mounting him and covering her body over his. Her eyes drifted closed when she eased down on top of him, engulfing him in a tight vise. His balls quivered as she seated herself fully on his thighs. Buried deep, he was completely connected to her via their bodies and their eyes.
Oh, man, she was beautiful. He wished he’d turned on the light next to the bed so he could see her body as she rocked back and forth against him, but he saw enough. The way her breasts moved along with the swaying motions of her body, the softness of her hair as it fell over her shoulders when she leaned forward to plant her hands on his chest, the stark look of surprise and delight on her face when he lifted his hips-yeah, he saw plenty, and felt even more.
He swept her hair away from her face and cradled her face in his hands, pulling her forward, needing the contact of her lips against his. The first touch ignited a spark from his tongue to his balls, a shock of heat that burned him from the inside out.
That flame continued to grow as she increased her movements, digging her nails into her shoulders. He tangled his fingers in her hair and held on tight as she rocked them both, raising up and sliding back down on him until he felt his spine tingling, a rushing wave of climax building that he couldn’t hold back.
He pulled his lips from hers, pushed on her shoulders so he could see her face.
“Come on,” he coaxed, holding on to her hip with one hand, directing their movements with an upward stroke. “Let me have it.”
She gasped, moaned, then ground against him, tilting her head back as she let out a cry of delight that made him shudder. She was lost then, climaxing against him, around him, tightening and pulsing, raining her pleasure down on him until he let go inside her with a torrent of his own that left him shaking.
She fell against his chest, her breathing out of control, her hair damp with perspiration. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head, realizing how easy it had been to let her in.
Sex had always been just a physical thing, a momentary gratification of getting his rocks off and easing the tension. Then he walked away.
He’d always walked away. And never once looked back, because he’d never cared. Of course, neither had the women. He’d always chosen women who weren’t in it for a relationship, who only wanted sex. It worked well for both of them that way. They both got what they wanted. Scratch an itch and move on.
It was different with Angie, and he couldn’t deny that everything since the beginning had been different with her.
For a guy who’d spent his entire adult life steeling himself against emotional connection, he was doing a piss-poor job avoiding it with Angelique. It was as if he didn’t have a choice with her. She was embedded, and he couldn’t do anything about it.
The odd thing was, he didn’t want to change anything. Dammit, he was enjoying this contact with her, needed it like basic sustenance.
Ryder was a realist. There was no point pretending the emotion didn’t exist. It did; he had to accept it.