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Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

GABBY

Gabby: When are you coming to visit me?

Bower: Shouldn’t you be teaching right now?

Gabby: Lunch break.

Bower: Oh, duh.

Gabby: Answer the question. When are you coming to visit me?

Bower: When do you want me to visit you?

Gabby: I’d say tonight and spend the weekend with me, but I don’t have a working shower so you’d have to shower at Ryland’s place.

Bower: A shower never stopped me from hanging out with you.

Gabby: Wait, so you’re saying you will come visit me?

Bower: I can leave tomorrow morning and spend the weekend with you. Maybe we can have our very own in-house spa day like we used to do, my treat. There are fancy shops there, right? We can try out all the scrubs.

Gabby: I like that idea. I can go to the general store and grab us a bunch of frozen food like back in the day.

Bower: When you say frozen food, do you mean pizza bites and frozen pie from Marie Callender’s?

Gabby: Obviously.

Bower: Don’t forget the grape soda, Pringles, and cheese puffs.

Gabby: Do you think I actually would?

Bower: No, but it makes me more excited just saying it out loud. Want me to bring the DVD player and . . . the seasons?

Gabby: I think it’s necessary. I don’t think we can get through all of them, though, do you?

Bower: You’re underestimating our ability to do nothing in a weekend. We can get through them.

Gabby: Then bring them all.

Bower: Excellent! And we’re still in agreement that we should skip season five?

Gabby: If you bring it, I burn it.

Bower: Noted.

Gabby: Great! I can’t wait to see you.

Bower: Same.

Gabby: And when you’re here, get ready to be convinced to move.

Bower: I can feel the heavy guilt and rose-colored glasses already.

Gabby: Perfect. See you tomorrow!

It’s sweltering.

I can actually feel sweat dripping down my back.

And if I wasn’t the new teacher on campus with the possibility of one of the students or athletes spotting me, my shirt would be off and tucked into the back of my shorts right now, allowing me to bake in just my bra.

But unfortunately for me, this is a shirt-on establishment at all times.

I bend down and dip my paintbrush in the paint again, wishing this torture would end. Just a few more strokes and I should be done.

During sixth period today, I met the team. It was a little awkward because they were all slightly confused about why a woman would be coaching them, but thankfully, Ryland spoke highly of me and how I helped Bennett get to where he is despite Ryland never seeing me coach.

Now, do I wish my hiring was handled differently? Absolutely.

But am I grateful? Always.

I just believe if David included Ryland, we wouldn’t be in this weird limbo where I have to prove myself. Instead, Ryland would have hired me based on my merit. Now it feels like I have to prove myself to him, which doesn’t seem fair.

Hence why I’m up on a ladder, on a Friday after school, touching up the paint on the foul pole.

It was one of many things on the list Ryland gave me and told me not to worry about, but I thought maybe if I did some of the things, he’d respect me more and notice my dedication to the team.

Next week, we’ll start conditioning with the boys, and Ryland said he expects me to help in all ways. I told him it wasn’t a problem, as I work out myself and keep up on my weight training—even if that means working out with rocks rather than actual weights in the gym—so I could help with anything he needed.

After our conversation last night, I feel like we really have started a new chapter. Seeing how he picked up his sweet niece and snuggled her into him was stupefying. Those muscles of his. How he held her so tenderly. But also finding him sprawled across the floor, his laundry scattered everywhere and him writhing in pain from an itty-bitty Lego? Well, it showed that he’s very human, and that maybe he’s not as intimidating as I assumed. Meaning, I think I can make this work.

No, I know I can make this work.

“What are you doing?”

“Jesus Christ,” I shout. I’m startled half to death, shaking the ladder beneath me with a jump.

“Careful,” he shouts.

But it’s too late . . .

The ladder wobbles, I quickly grab the wet pole for stability as my paint tray tips, it totters, and then with a goopy splash of yellow, it falls off the ledge and right onto Ryland Rowley’s head.

“Motherfucker,” Ryland says as he wipes paint away from his eyes, unable to see.

I wince as I stay glued to the wet foul pole, my legs quivering to keep the ladder in place. But my overcompensating only makes it worse, and before I can stop it, the bitch of a ladder crashes to the ground.

With catlike reflexes coated in desperation to save myself, I wrap my legs around the pole and cling to the wet, sticky surface.

“I’m going to die,” I say as I stare down at my impending death.

It’s been nice knowing this earth.

I had a rough start, so it’s a shame I have to perish just when things start to look bright.

Isn’t that just the witch’s tit?

“What’s going on?” Ryland asks, unable to see from the paint.

“The ladder,” I shriek. “It’s down.”

“Fuck. Really?”

“Nope, just lying to create an unnecessary amount of drama on a perfectly fine Friday afternoon.”

“Sarcasm isn’t needed,” he shouts, wiping at his eyes still, but the paint keeps smearing.

“Idiotic questions aren’t needed either.”

Huffing, he feels around. “Where are you?”

“Holding on to the pole, staring at my immediate death, where else?”

“I know you’re on the pole.”

“Then why ask?” I yell as my arms start to sweat around the pole.

“I don’t know, I’m stressed.”

“You’re stressed?” I glance down at the ground. “You’re not about to break your spine with one slide down a pole.”

“Christ.” He moves around. “Let me try to grab the ladder.”

“Might be a novel idea.”

I hear him bumble around, swear, then bump into a few things. When I glance down to the ground, I see him on all fours, feeling around for the ladder. At that point, I realize there’s no way this will work out in my favor.

He’s unable to locate a ladder, a giant sixteen-foot ladder. He can find the exact spot inside me that can make me scream out his name, but a ladder? Nope.

Such a freaking man.

“I think . . . I think I’m going to slide down the pole.”

“What, no, you’re going to hurt yourself,” he calls up.

No shit.

“I can’t hold on much longer. I’m . . . I’m slipping.”

“Just give me a second. Fuck, this paint.”

“To the right,” I shout. He goes to the left. “No, the other right.” He moves forward. “Jesus, Ryland. Your right. Your right. YOUR FUCKING RIGHT!”

He fumbles some more.

I slide.

He curses.

More sweat forms between my arms and the pole.

“Ryland, I can’t.”

“Fuck,” he shouts just as his hand connects with the bottom half of the ladder. “Got it.”

But it’s too late.

My grip loosens on the pole, allowing the most intense, ear-piercing screech to fill the silent air, the sound of my skin getting raw-dogged right off the bone as I make it all the way down to the ground.

I land with a thump.

A grunt falls out of my lips.

And a fiery pain shoots up my legs.

“Death,” I whisper as I flop back on the grass and stare up at the brilliantly blue sky, my inner thighs on fire . . . and not in a good way.

“Fuck, are you okay?” he asks as I take deep breaths.

I don’t answer.

Because I’m floating like the clouds above me.

The angels are pulling me into their tunnel of another dimension.

“Gabby.” He shakes my arm. “Are you okay?”

On another whisper, I say, “This . . . is . . . death.”

“You’re not dead,” he says.

He’s right. If I were dead, I wouldn’t be subject to the blistering agony between my legs.

I slightly turn my head to the side to look him in the eyes. Him. He’s the one who did this.

“Why would you sneak up on me?”

“I wasn’t?—”

“Look at us. You’re covered in paint, I’m covered in paint, and I’m pretty sure I just removed all skin from my inner thighs by sliding down that pole.”

He glances down at my legs, then back up at me. “There’s skin still.”

“Probably the thinnest layer.” I scowl at him. “Why did you scare me?”

“I didn’t do it on purpose. Why were you out here alone on a sixteen-foot ladder? That’s not smart, Gabby.”

“Uh, I was painting, checking things off the list that you gave me. I already cleaned out the visitor’s dugout, removed all the gum, and polished the bench. I was tackling this task before heading home.” I sit up to get a good look at my legs. As expected, they’re beet red.

That’s going to be very unpleasant.

Sex was awesome, but I’ll probably never experience it ever again because nothing and I mean nothing is pulsing between these legs.

“I told you not to worry about the list.” He strips out of his shirt, and then uses the back of it to wipe at his eyes. I attempt to keep my eyes off his chest, but I find it really hard as it ripples under the sun, like a Greek god ready to . . . to . . . I don’t know what Greek gods do, but you get the idea.

He’s hot—even when he’s covered in paint.

When his eyes are finally clear, he blinks a few times and then makes eye contact with me, a stern set in his brow, as if he’s about to lecture me.

Repeating himself, he says, “I said don’t worry about the list. This was stupid, Gabby.”

“Uh, I was doing fine before you showed up.” His scowl grows. “Plus, I wanted to show you how dedicated I am to this team, and those things had to be done.”

“Yeah, and they’re things I would have made the boys do.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have put them on a list for me.”

He shakes his head and places his hands on his hips, looking so ridiculous covered in yellow paint. “You’re going to be stubborn, aren’t you?”

“Not stubborn, just right.” I attempt to stand but find it hard as my legs rub together.

“Don’t move,” Ryland says as he notices my struggle.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” He drops to his knees and then, in a flash, maneuvers between my legs and spreads them wide.

And here I thought I was never having sex again.

“Uh, excuse me,” I say as I try to squirm away. “You’re kind of invading my privacy.”

His eyes meet mine again, giving me a get real look. “Gabby, I’ve been between your legs in a much more intimate way. I just want to see what we’re dealing with.”

“ We aren’t dealing with anything. I am. So please just leave my inner thighs alone.” I attempt to squirm away from him, but he holds me in place.

“Stop, you’re going to make it worse.”

“Ryland, I can’t just stay seated.”

“I know, but let me at least look at your legs.”

“Why? They’re red, nothing else.”

He grows angrier. “Stop being difficult.” Then he pushes my legs apart again and lowers himself down. Dear God, if anyone saw us, they would think Ryland is getting geared up to . . . well, go down.

“Your legs do not look good. Let me text Abel.”

“You don’t need to text Abel,” I say. “And why would you even text him in the first place?” Thankfully, he lets go of my legs.

“He’s a doctor.”

Not caring that he’s getting paint on his phone, he texts away while I glance around, taking in the chaos. Ryland took the brunt of the paint, but there’s some splattered on the grass, some on the fence, and quite a bit on the ladder. What a disaster.

When he’s done, I say, “I’m sorry about the mess.”

“No need to be sorry,” he says, then stands and starts picking everything up.

“I can do that,” I say as I go to stand, but he whips around and looks at me with daggers in his eyes.

“Don’t even fucking think about it,” he says in such a deathly tone that it keeps me seated.

I watch him carry the ladder, paint pan, brush, and paint can over to the dugout, where he sets them down. He must get a text back because he checks his phone. He quickly types something else, then brings his phone to his ear. Turning away, I can hear him talking to someone, but I can’t make out what he says. When he hangs up, he sticks his phone back in his pocket and walks toward me with determination in every step.

His pecs bounce with his stride.

His eyes are set on me.

His arms flex as he gets closer, and when he squats down in front of me, only to slip his arms around my shoulders and under my legs, I can’t even ask him what he’s doing before he picks me up and stands . . . with ease.

He picked me up from the ground and stood as if I weighed nothing.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Carrying you to my truck to take you back to your apartment.”

“Oh my God, Ryland. It’s not that serious. I can drive home.”

He shakes his head. “No, I don’t want your legs rubbing together. Abel is bringing over some arnica gel and said he would look at the burns.”

“This is getting out of hand. Seriously, it’s not that severe.” I attempt to wiggle, but when my legs touch, I nearly scream.

Okay, maybe he has a small point.

“Did that hurt?” he asks, clearly to try to prove a point.

“Actually, it felt great.”

“Liar.” He takes me to his truck, somehow opens the door, and then sets me down.

“I’m going to get paint all over your seats.”

“Mac has already put them through hell. It’s fine.”

He shuts my door, and from my side mirror, I see him grab a towel from the bed of his truck and then walk over to his side, where he opens the cab door to the back seats. He picks up a water bottle and dumps it over his head. My mouth goes dry as I watch the water cascade down his chest, where each muscle stands out like a siren, beckoning me to stare.

Droplet after droplet drips down his tan skin, curving into his contours, highlighting every beautiful inch of him.

Easily, he’s the most fit, attractive, and burly man I’ve ever seen, with a few scars on his ribs and laugh lines in the corners of his eyes.

When he’s done with the water, he wipes down his body with the towel, then sets everything in the back of the truck. I realize I’ve been staring, so I quickly face forward as he joins me in the cab.

“Get a good show?” he asks as he buckles up, and I do the same.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say as I look out my window.

“Okay,” he says, not believing a word I say.

“And that’s pretty rich, coming from someone who just gave me a gynecological exam out near right field.”

“Gynecological? I barely even had your legs spread a few inches.”

“Uh, you had me wide open. You could have fit the entire team between my legs with how wide you were spreading me.”

“Wow, exaggerate much?” He roars the truck to life and pulls out of the parking spot. “We can get your car another time.”

“It’s fine,” I say. “My friend Bower is coming to visit this weekend. She can help me get it.”

“Okay . . . cool.” He’s silent for a moment as he makes the short drive from the school to the house. “So your friend is visiting?”

“Best friend,” I answer, still looking out the window because I can’t trust myself to keep my eyes off him. “I’m trying to convince her to move here.”

“Oh yeah? Are you winning?”

“Not at the moment, but I have a fair shot this weekend.” I spread my legs a touch farther apart because the burn is real.

“Well, here’s hoping you can accomplish it.”

“Thank you,” I say softly. As we pull down our street, I realize just how quiet it has been. “Hey, are you supposed to get Mac?”

I glance toward him, and I see the frown on his face. “Do you really think I’d forget about my niece?”

Ooof, I can see how that sentence came off.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that to be insulting.”

“I don’t need you checking up on me.”

“I wasn’t,” I say quickly, feeling the tension immediately. “That came out wrong. I’m sure you know where she is at all times.”

He clears his throat and turns into the driveway. “I do,” he says before he puts the truck in park and hops out. I’m about to do the same when he rounds the front of the truck and opens my door.

He goes to scoop me up, but I stop him. “I can walk.”

“No, you can’t,” he says, more sternly than before.

“Really? You haven’t even seen me try.”

“Trust me when I say you can’t.”

“I can,” I say, growing irritated with him. “Watch.”

I push at his bare chest, ignoring how rock hard it feels against my fingertips, and I shimmy out of the truck, keeping my legs spread as far as they will go. Then, in a crouched position, legs spread, almost freaking walking around like a chimpanzee with their arms out, I wobble over to my apartment stairs . . . stairs that look like they’re one hundred flights up.

Oh boy, this is going to hurt.

I attempt the first step and find it incredibly uncomfortable. So I grab the rail and attempt the second, but before I can even plant my foot firmly into the step, I’m lifted off the ground and whisked over to Ryland’s house.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I ask. “I was doing just fine.”

“You looked like a grandma deciding on where she should go to the bathroom.”

“No, I did not,” I protest as he takes me inside his house. “Uh, my place is that way.”

“Yeah, and last time I checked, you didn’t have a working shower,” he says, once again right. It’s incredibly annoying.

But instead of taking me to the downstairs bathroom, he makes his way through the living room and starts heading up the stairs.

“Uh, I recall my shower being downstairs,” I say.

“Yeah, and I recall your shower not having a tub, and according to Abel, you should soak.”

Dammit, right again.

“Well, I don’t have my towel or my soap.”

“All things that are not nailed down to the bathroom,” he says in a dry tone, clearly annoyed with me.

I don’t bother arguing anymore because when he carries me into what I’m assuming is his room, I’m caught off guard with just how . . . not unpacked it is.

There are bed pieces stacked up against the wall off to the right, a mattress on the floor in the middle of the room, and unpacked boxes lined up under the window. But the room itself . . . gorgeous. Three square stained-glass windows are above the bed, offering light and creating a kaleidoscope of color against the opposite white walls. A window seat is the focal point of the room, covered in dark-stained wood but accented with light, creating an ethereal space where if I were the occupant of such room, I’d spend every waking moment there, especially since it looks out toward the large oak tree in the backyard. Just stunning.

Pushing forward, he moves us through a door and right into a large primary bathroom. The first thing I notice are the floors—penny-tiled marble without a stain in the grout, pristine, immaculate. Then there’s the rustic vanities with black hardware. The wood has dents and scratches, making it seem purposeful like the vanities have been passed on from generations.

Absolutely gorgeous.

He sets me down on the cool countertop, then walks over to the main piece of the bathroom—the large claw-foot tub.

Dear God.

“Wait here,” he says after examining the tub and leaving me alone to look around.

To dream about what it would be like to live in such a house. Never in my life have I ever seen anything like this. I come from very meek dwellings. Nothing so elegant or with so much charm. It’s so perfect. So beautiful. Something you’d see in a Pottery Barn magazine but never in real life.

When he comes back into the bathroom, he’s holding a bag of Epsom salts. But then he pauses and looks at me. “Do you have any open wounds on your legs?”

I glance down and barely have a second to see before he’s spreading my legs again and doing his own personal exam.

“You know, I can look myself.”

He just ignores me as his fingers lightly trail over my skin.

“Let’s not risk it.” He sets the salts down and starts the bath. “We need to clean your legs with some mild soap and then dry them well.”

“We?” I ask with a raise of my brow.

“Yeah, we.”

I shake my head. “I can do it myself.”

“Gabby, I’ve seen you naked plenty of times. It’s not a big deal.”

“Says the guy who doesn’t have to be naked.”

“Do you want me to get naked so you feel more comfortable?”

“No,” I say quickly. “That would . . . that would not lead to good things.”

His eyes go dark as he says, “Pretty sure it has led to great things.”

“You know what I mean.” I sigh and hop off the counter. He’s quickly taking my arm and helping me over to the tub. “I can do this myself, Ryland.”

“Just at least let me help you get in the tub. I won’t look. Promise.”

“Ryland, that’s not?—”

“Please, Gabby,” he says with more force. “This was my fucking fault, just let me . . . let me fix it.” His chest grows heavy as our gazes mix. “Stop arguing, and just let me fix it.”

I can see the desperation in his eyes.

The need to be the one who corrects the wrong.

And I can feel that deep in my soul. As the older sibling, the one who’s supposed to be the protector, I know what it means to have this undeniable, itching need to make sure everything is okay.

So I let him.

“Okay,” I say softly.

“Thank you.” He lets go of my hand. “Hold on, let me grab you a towel.”

I stay where I am as the tub fills up. He heads out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, where I hear him move some boxes around. When he reappears, he has a tan towel in his hand that looks about thirty years old.

Looking embarrassed, he says, “I, uh, I haven’t gotten to cleaning all the towels.”

“You can always grab mine from the bathroom,” I say. “But that works too.”

“Right, yours, that’ll be better.” He places the towel at the base of the tub and then takes off downstairs.

Wanting to help, I remove my shirt and my shorts. They’re decorated in paint, giving me the sneaky suspicion that these will now be my permanent work clothes. I take my time with my shorts because of how sensitive my flesh is, so when Ryland returns to the bathroom, he finds me standing in my underwear.

His body language immediately shifts.

“I thought I’d get started on the undressing,” I say, not sure how else to address the fact that I’m in my underwear. “I hope that’s okay.”

He sets my towel down and nods. “As long as you didn’t hurt yourself.”

“I didn’t.”

He nods in approval, then tests the water. Seemingly happy, he turns it off, grabs some soap and a washcloth, then brings it over to the tub. “Uh, I should have grabbed your shampoo while I was down there.”

“I can use whatever you have,” I say. “As long as you’re cool with that.”

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

From his shower, he grabs his shampoo and no conditioner. For a moment, I consider asking him to grab my bottle from my shower, but I have some spray-in conditioner I can use later—at least that’s what I tell myself so he doesn’t have to go back downstairs again.

“Well, the water is ready,” he says.

“Okay.” I shift uncomfortably. “So I should just get naked?”

“That’s usually how baths work,” he replies.

Right.

Wanting some privacy, I turn away from him and remove my bra, letting it join my clothes on the floor. I don’t know if it’s the slight chilliness in the air or the fact that Ryland is behind me, but my nipples are hard as stones. With one light breeze, a very feral moan might fall past my lips.

I work on my thong next, slowly lowering it and avoiding contact with my legs. When I’m done, I say, “Okay, I’m naked.”

He clears his throat behind me, causing me to look over my shoulder. He’s staring at the floor, his neck muscles tense. “Give me your hand.”

I slide my fingers across his palm, and he lightly clutches my hand as he helps me into the tub, guiding me to sit. When I’m settled, he asks with his eyes closed, “You good?”

“I am, thank you.” Then I cover my breasts with one hand and say, “You can open your eyes, Ryland.”

“You sure?”

“I’m covered.”

He opens his eyes, and I watch in fascination as his Adam’s apple bobs while his eyes roam down my body, to my toes, and then all the way back up where my arm is pressed into my breasts. I can see the disappointment in his eyes, but he masks it with a slight lift of the corner of his lips.

“Are you comfortable?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Because I can get you a towel to rest your head on or?—”

“I’m fine, Ryland.”

“Okay,” he says as his hand absentmindedly scratches his chest. I’m not sure why I find that move so incredibly sexy, but I do. “Um, want a drink?”

I almost chuckle at how uncomfortable he looks, but I hold back because there’s something else I want to do.

I drag my finger through the water, then look him in the eyes. “I wanted to apologize.”

His brow pulls together. “Apologize for what?”

“For asking where Mac was. I don’t want you to believe I think you’re doing a bad job parenting her or anything like that. That’s not my impression of you at all. It was just . . . it was a question. A stupid question at that. Nothing negative behind it.”

“Yeah . . .”

“Hey,” I say, pulling his attention. “I mean it, Ryland. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be in your position. You’re doing a great job. She’s a wonderful kid.”

He clears his throat, making it obvious just how uncomfortable he is with the conversation. I’m not sure this man knows how to take a compliment, a serious one. It becomes more obvious that he doesn’t when he says, “Well, if you need anything?—”

“Wait.” I reach out and grab his hand before he can walk away, but I use the hand covering my breasts, causing his eyes to narrow in on me. “Shit, sorry,” I say, covering up with my other arm. “I didn’t want you to leave just yet.”

He wets his lips, looking down at me now like I’m a piece of steak ready to be devoured. “Why not?”

Yeah, why not, Gabby?

You should let him leave.

Let him give you your privacy.

But . . . God, I want him around.

I want him near me, with me, talking to me.

I swallow my nerves. “I want to make sure everything’s okay between us. That you’re not mad.”

He looks off to the side, his jaw ticking.

“Ryland,” I say softly. “Are you . . . are you mad?”

When his eyes return, he says, “Yes, Gabby, I’m mad.”

“Why?”

“Because you got hurt,” he replies tersely. “You shouldn’t have been painting by yourself. That was incredibly dangerous. I wrote it down because I was just trying to be a dick. I didn’t think you’d actually follow through with it.”

“If you ask me to do something, Ryland, I’m going to do it.”

He drags his hand over his face. “Well, I’m pissed about it, okay?”

Whoa. Okay.

He’s not just mad. He’s really mad.

I nod. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize. I’m pissed at myself.”

“You don’t need to be pissed with yourself.” I pick up the washcloth on the side of the tub and wet it. “As we move forward with working together and living next to each other, I need you to know something. I can take care of myself. I’m tough. I don’t need someone watching over me, helping me, attempting to take care of me. I’ve been on my own for a very long time. I can handle anything that comes my way. So please don’t tiptoe around me. Please don’t think I can’t handle a task, a fight, or whatever might present itself in front of me. I’m strong, Ryland. I can handle my own.”

“I don’t doubt that,” he says.

“Then why are you trying to shield me?”

“Because it’s in my nature,” he says, placing his hands on his hips. “It’s just in me to care.”

I nod in understanding. “Well, consider me shielded . . . by myself.” I squeeze out the washcloth with one hand and try to soap it up, but find it difficult, so I just say fuck it in my head, uncover my breasts, and start soaping up.

When I glance up at him, he’s staring anywhere but at me. “I want to say I’ll try . . .” Our gazes connect. “But once I consider you a part of my life, there’s no way for me to turn off that switch.”

“You consider me a part of your life?”

He slowly nods. “I do, which means you’re mine to shield.”

“Ryland, I?—”

But he cuts me off as he kneels next to the tub, takes the washcloth out of my hands, and starts cleansing me. “You might not want to be shielded, but you sure as hell will be shielded by me. Don’t fight me on it.”

His tone is final.

There’s no arguing with him.

There’s no questioning.

At this moment, what he says . . . goes.

And I’m so entranced with the way he’s cleaning me that I can’t muster any words. Because he’s so gentle. Because I’ve never had someone do this to me before. No one’s ever cared for me like this.

He’s thorough.

He’s slow and deliberate.

He’s a protector.

I’m transfixed as he moves to the other arm. He washes all the paint off, then rinses the washcloth and adds more soap. When he’s done with my arm, he moves the terrycloth fabric over my chest and around my neck. His touch is such an entrancing sensation that when he reaches my breasts, I lift my chest out of the water so he has a better angle.

He clears his throat again, his eyes focused on the task as he circles my breasts a few times. I tamp down my moan, but I can’t stop my nipples from growing hard, nor can I stop the dull throb erupting between my legs.

After a few more circles, he dips his hand under the water to wash across my stomach and right below my belly button.

God. Yes.

I gulp a quick breath as he lifts one of my legs and gently washes the paint off, avoiding my inner thighs. The terrycloth fabric caresses over my knee and down my shin to my foot. I bite on my inner cheek as I feel a bolt of lust shoot up my leg from the touch. And when he pays the same attention to my other leg, it only increases the need inside me.

The need that I shouldn’t be considering.

That I should be tamping down.

And stuffing away.

Yet when he says, “Spread,” I listen to that dark, dangerous voice and spread my legs wide enough for him to bring the washcloth right to my pussy. He runs it along my slit a few times, and when I gasp from the touch, he pauses . . .

His eyes connect with mine.

My mind begs for his fingers to slip inside me.

My teeth pull on my lip while my chest heaves.

I can see it in his expression, the word “fuck” on the tip of his tongue as his heady eyes fall to my lips.

“Do it,” I beg.

Touch me.

Break the rules and give us both what we want.

But to my chagrin, he pulls away.

Leaving me in a state of bottled-up yearning.

A bothered state.

One where I’m turned on that will require release.

I want to groan.

Protest.

Beg him to return.

But I can’t as he sets the washcloth down, turns on the handheld sprayer, and wets my hair.

Surprised, I ask, “What are you doing?”

“Washing your hair,” he replies as he finishes soaking my long blonde strands.

I should tell him he doesn’t need to, but I want to feel his fingers in my hair because I’m so desperate, and he’s worked me up so much.

He picks up the shampoo, and I hear him squirt some into his hand. He rubs his palms together and gently massages the soap into my scalp.

And it’s the most delicious feeling of my life.

Mmmm, yes.

Thick, strong fingers dig into my head where my neck meets my skull, driving away the tension and the stress I carry there. And I want more. I want him to do this forever, to feel him take control of such a sensitive part of my body and do it with such care, but also with the kind of force making me weak.

It’s making me crack.

I find myself leaning into his firm grip.

Moving my head to feel him in certain places.

Attempting to calm my racing heart as he turns on the water again and rinses all the soap out of my hair, gently stroking the strands to help remove the suds.

When he’s done, he turns off the water and moves to my side. My eyes flutter open, and I stare up at him. “Want to soak a little longer?” he asks.

I shake my head.

No, that’s not what I want.

“You’re done?” he asks, and I slowly nod. “Okay.” He reaches into the water and unplugs the bathtub, letting the water drain, then he takes my hand and helps me to my feet. He keeps his eyes away, but I don’t want him to look away.

I want him to take me in.

All of me.

So I press my finger to his chin and force him to look in my direction.

“Gabby,” he says softly. “I . . . I can’t.”

“I know,” I say as I move my hand up his bare chest.

“Then what are you doing?”

I take a deep breath, and on a chance, I say, “Looking for release.” Then I turn around and bend over, gripping the tub on one side and popping my ass up in his direction.

“Jesus Christ,” he says as his hand lands on my backside, soothing over it. “Gabby . . .”

“Make me come.”

“Gabby . . . we said?—”

“Just one more time, please, Ryland? Just fuck me one more time.”

He wavers behind me, trying to keep our promise while also wanting to give in. The moment he washed between my legs, I was done. I broke.

Snapped.

And now I need to feel him.

“Give me your cock. I need you inside me.”

A low rumble falls past his lips as he moves in a step closer, and his hand glides down over my ass. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’ll only hurt me if you don’t give me release. Just fuck me.”

“Christ,” he says as he steps behind me. I hear him rustle around, and when I look over my shoulder, I spot him pushing his shorts and briefs down, freeing his mouth-watering erection.

He’s so hard, which is just what I had hoped. He turned himself on while doing the same to me.

“Yes, fill me with your dick. Make me scream.”

“Fuck, Gabby,” he says right before offering my ass a solid spank.

A surprised sound falls out of my lips before a smile crosses my face. “Yes, Ryland. More. Make me come hard.”

He grumbles, then brings the head of his cock to my entrance. And with one solid thrust, he bottoms out, making me cry out his name. My head falls forward and my stomach hollows as he hits me in that spot only he has ever touched.

“You’re huge.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “So fucking big.”

He slaps my ass, and I tense around him. “Shit,” he grumbles.

“Again. Spank me again.”

He slides his hand up my back, then down, and when he reaches my ass, he spanks me a little harder, causing my inner walls to shake.

“Shit, that feels amazing,” he says. He does it again.

And again.

And again.

And one more time until I can feel my arousal start to drip because this is what I need. What I want. Sex with Ryland. It’s rough. It’s erotic. It’s raw. There’s no finesse, it’s just us trying to make each other come as quickly as we can, and this time, he has me on a short leash.

“I’m close,” I say as he spanks me again. “So close.”

“Let me get there,” he says, and then he starts pumping inside me. I take that opportunity to squeeze every time he pumps inside. The first time I do it, he cries out my name. The second, he goes feral.

“This fucking cunt,” he says, gripping my hips and pounding into me. “It will kill me.” His fingers dig into my skin, and he rocks me so hard that I focus on holding the tub, not letting him budge me. “Take my fucking cock. Every inch.”

I bite down on my lip as my orgasm climbs higher and higher. The way he’s rocking into me, bottoming out with every stroke, hitting me in just the right spot, filling me up so much that the room starts to spin.

The light starts to dim.

And pleasure starts shooting up my legs, down my arms, pooling in the base of my stomach.

“Fuck . . . I’m . . . I’m there,” I say.

“Then come, come all over my goddamn cock.” He spanks me, letting a large snap to sound through the room. It’s all I need as I squeeze around him, and my orgasm races down my spine and right between my legs.

“Oh my God!” I shout. “Ohhhhhhh, yes, Ryland. Yes.”

I squeeze his cock, creating such a tight friction that he slows his pace and intensifies his grip on me.

“Uhhhh, fuck,” he moans right before I feel him pull out. The sound of his hand riding over his length fills the room right before I feel his hot cum fly over my backside. “Fucking hell,” he says softly, his breath heavy as he tries to catch it.

We both remain still for a few seconds before he picks up the washcloth and wipes himself and me.

When I’m cleaned up, he tosses the washcloth to the side, then lifts and turns me around. He lifts my chin, forcing me to look him in the eyes. When I do, there’s concern in them.

“Did I hurt you? I fucking forgot about your legs.”

I shake my head. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

He lets out a deep breath and then surprisingly, pulls me into a hug. “This wasn’t supposed to happen again.” His hand lightly caresses my back.

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

To my surprise, he doesn’t let go. He keeps holding me. “This can’t happen again.”

“It can’t,” I agree. “This was a one-off.”

“Definitely a one-off. No more.”

I shake my head against his chest. “Definitely no more because we are friends without benefits.”

“Exactly,” he says. “And we need to remember that.” His hand smooths down my back, just above my ass.

“Yes . . . we do.”

He sighs, then releases me. After helping me away from the tub, he wraps me up in my towel, tilts my chin up, and says, “I’m going to shower. But first, dry off.”

He moves away from me, and I watch his fine, tight ass trail into his bedroom. If he weren’t here, I’d melt to the ground and place my hand to my heart as I try to regain all the feeling back into my body, but unfortunately, I don’t have the privilege to do that as he heads back into the bathroom with a shirt in his hand.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“It’s for you,” he answers.

“What do you mean it’s for me?”

“To change into. Unless you plan on me carrying you to your apartment in a towel.”

“Are you really going to carry me?” I ask.

“Yeah . . . I am.” And with that, he sets the shirt on the counter and moves toward the shower before turning toward me. “If you leave this bathroom, you won’t like what happens.”

And just like when he told me to take his cock . . . I listen.

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