3. Ryan

Chapter 3

Ryan

So that’s why her house was dark when I went over to surprise her last night. She’s not even living there.

I guess a lot has changed since I saw her last, but not the way she bites her bottom lip when she looks at me. And definitely not the way my cock perked up as soon as I saw her walk in tonight.

I throw an arm around her shoulder and pull her closer while we walk. “I’m really proud of you, by the way. Your own touring business? You did it. All your dreams came true.”

“Not all of them,” she scoffs, jabbing me in the ribs with her pointy elbow. I yelp and rub the sore spot there.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugs and rolls her eyes. “How’s Hollywood?”

“Work is work.” I love my job, but I don’t want to talk about it while I’m here with her.

“Cameron seems nice,” she says. “What's his deal?”

“We work for the same studio, but then he’s got this mad side gig that makes him loads of money. It was him who flew us both out.”

“It’s not foot stuff, is it?”

“I thought we weren’t supposed to kink shame?” I tease. Kayla stops walking, cocks her head and gives me the same look I always get when she’s had enough of my shit .

I give her the lowdown on Cameron's audio erotica alter-ego, Mac'n'Please , and hope to god she isn’t one of his fans. I don't fully understand it all, but I know he records stories about his sexual exploits and puts them on the internet where thousands of women pay for the pleasure of listening to him moan.

I didn't think I could understand how people get turned on by just a voice, but hearing Kayla's Scottish accent again is proving me wrong.

“Oh, that's hot. He has a sexy voice.”

I scoop a little snow from the roof of a car and flick it in her direction. “You heard him say five words in a noisy bar.”

“So? I can tell. And you know how much I love dirty talk.”

“Still as much as before?”

“Maybe,” she says, storming off ahead of me. “Maybe more.”

I’ve never met a woman with a mouth like Kayla’s, in more ways than one. She might look like this sweet angel, all blonde hair, blue eyes and strong thighs built from miles on the mountain. Underneath it all, I know the real Kayla has a filthy side.

She wasn’t lying when she said her apartment wasn’t far. We round one corner, then another, then we’re at her building. I follow her inside, dumping my sledge by the door and kneeling to unlace my boots. When she bends over to do the same to hers, I get a perfect view of her ass. Her boots stop mid-calf and take a lot longer to remove than mine, so I take full advantage and stand behind her, holding her hips to keep her steady.

“Where’s your bedroom?”

“Don’t you want the tour first?” she says, smacking my hand away. What I really want is to cup her hard between the legs.

“Not especially.” She pulls her second boot off, then shoves me back against the wall.

I don’t get it. She invited me back to her place, but she keeps pushing me away. Literally. Usually the talking comes later, but I’m in no rush if she needs to move at a slower pace this time.

“OK, fine, show me around.”

It’s the shortest tour in history. One corridor, two bedrooms on one side and a bathroom on the other.

“You live with someone?”

She shakes her head. “My office. It’s mostly full of equipment, but it’s nice to have a space if friends want to visit.”

The rest of her house is open plan. It’s not a flashy place like the chalets her parents own, but it’s all Kayla. Soft blankets and cushions scattered on the sofa, a box of her favourite chocolate cereal on the counter that separates the kitchen and living room. A large sectional sofa takes up one corner of the room, facing a small TV and a bookcase spilling over with romance novels. I pick one up and recognise it’s the same one my sister has had her nose buried in since we arrived.

On one wall, she’s pinned a bunch of photographs. Pictures I recognise from spots we’ve been to together, a few I assume are with her friends from back home in Scotland. There’s a cute one of her making cookies with her grandma when she was little. One with me carrying her on my back, her legs around my waist, snow in her hair. I forget who took it.

I pull back the long curtains to see what she can see from her window. The tops of other buildings lower down the mountain, twinkling lights and then darkness.

“Nice view.”

“Mine’s better,” she says. Turning, I find her hopping up onto the counter across the kitchen, her crooked finger beckoning me. I make her wait, taking time to saunter over, stopping to fold my jacket and hoodie neatly over the back of one of her dining chairs .

I’m dying to kiss her. Don’t know how I didn’t drag her out of Rico’s bar the second I laid eyes on her. Kayla is, hands down, the best kisser on the planet, and I know once I start I won’t be able to stop.

She parts her thighs and I step in between them. It’s been too fucking long, the longest we’ve gone without seeing each other, but standing this close, it feels like it’s been no time at all.

She’s still the same Kayla. Still wears three gold studs in each earlobe, and the dainty snowflake necklace that sits at the hollow of her throat. Her hair is still long, styled in thick braids she once trained me to weave for her. She still has the same sun-kissed freckles on her cheeks and her nose, the same full lips I’m going to take advantage of.

“Nice beard,” she says, tipping her chin.

“You like it?”

“I like it.”

Her eyes search mine for a few seconds and then she leans in, our noses brushing slowly from side to side. I pull back and she lets out a frustrated groan.

“I will headbutt you if you don’t hurry up and kiss me.”

I dart my tongue out to lick her lips, my fingertips tugging up her sweater, toying with the button on her jeans. I nudge it open and watch her eyes flare when I pull her zipper down ever so slowly.

“Lift your hips.” She does, and I hook my fingers inside her clothing and tug hard. She gasps loudly when I pull it all off in one go, and toss it aside, leaving her naked from the waist down. My hands drift to the backs of her toned calves, stroking them up and down. Fuck, I’ve missed this body.

The scar on her shin I always trace with my thumb, evidence of the winter she took a nasty tumble, shredded her ski pants and twisted her ankle. We were thirteen years old. I chased the ski patrol stretcher all the way down the mountain, and refused to ski again until she could, too.

I squeeze just above her knees, then again and again, inching my way up her firm quads. She’s always had an athletic body, but she must ski every day now she’s here full time, and it shows in the taut muscles that twitch in response to my touch.

Kayla tries to push her knees back together, but I know it’s all for show. I can see in her eyes how much she’s aching for my touch. Know how wet I’ll find her when my thumbs reach the top of her thighs and spread her aching flesh. I know every inch of this woman, because she’s mine.

When she tries to push forward and grind against me, I grip her hips and hold her in place.

“You got a wishlist?”

“I didn’t think you were coming, so I didn’t see the point,” she pouts.

“Hmm,” I sigh softly, bending to press a kiss, an apology, to the top of her knee. “Mine’s a mile long.”

With only two weeks in the Alps each winter, three if we’re lucky, we’ve gotten good at making the most of our time together. There's no wasting time on pleasantries and getting reacquainted. Instead, we used to arrive armed with lists in our heads. All the things we wanted to do, shit we only trusted each other with.

With hushed voices and hurried hands, Kayla and I have done a lot over the years, but always while sneaking away from our families. Now, in an apartment, with plenty of time and nobody to walk in on us, I don’t even know where to begin.

“Ryan…” she whines, my thumbs stroking the softest lines just outside where her underwear would have been. Hearing her get needy and desperate is the best sound in the world, and I’m curious to see how far I can take it.

“What’s up, Bunny?”

“Please, can you make me come?”

“I’ll get you there. Let me play with it first.” I push her ankles wider and lift them up to the lip of the kitchen counter. “Hold these up.”