Exposed (VIP Book 4)

by Kristen Callihan

  It turns me on so much, I’m surprised there isn’t steam wafting off my damn skin. The sensation grows as Rye makes a noise of pure masculine appreciation. “Killing me here, Berry.”

  The feeling is mutual.

  The sound of his zipper lowering sings through the close air and has me tensing in anticipation. I feel him behind me, a wall of heat and intention, but I nearly jump out of my skin when he finally touches me.

  He palms my butt, massaging a bit as if to test the firmness. His long middle finger slips between my cheeks and finds the entrance to my ass, and I tense, a quivering mess, my entire attention focused on his touch. He presses there, not breaching, just making me feel it, before he slides away to caress the curve of my hip, back over my cheeks, the touch almost reverential.

  “I want to spank this ass,” he says idly, darkly.

  A little shocked, I toss a look over my shoulder and find him staring back at me with hot eyes.

  He rubs me gently. “I’ve always wanted to see your sweet ass ripple against my palm.” A small quirk lifts his lips. “And I think you’ll like it.”

  Cocky bastard.

  Rye Peterson spanking me isn’t something I thought I would ever allow. Not in my wildest dreams. The mere suggestion should set me off because no way should I be giving Rye that power. Never mind spanking is so not my kink.

  And yet the way Rye looks at me with that impish glint in his eyes. The one that says, Let’s play. The way he bites his lower lip as though he can’t wait to take me in hand and give me pleasure…

  God. A tremor goes up my thighs, and without another thought, I arch my back a little, lifting my butt into his touch. “Do it.”

  Rye is a bassist; his hands are, quite frankly, huge. And strong. He knows his strength. He knows how to use those clever hands. A slap rings out, the contact sending prickling sparks of sensation over my ass, between my thighs. Everywhere.

  I let out a harsh breath, my head falling forward as I lick my lips. “Shit.”

  “Okay?”

  My breath grows short, the tingling heat on my ass glowing. “That shouldn’t feel so good.”

  “But it does.” Not a question. Even so, his warm, questing hand goes still. Waiting.

  “Yes. Yes, it fucking does.”

  Rye makes a noise of amusement. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, palming me.

  Then he spanks me again, a firm but easy slap. I groan, my body jolting with sensation.

  Why does it feel so good? How did he know?

  Unnerved, I shoot him another look. “I’m going to return the favor later.”

  His answering smile is dark sin. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  One more slap and my knees are wobbling. Rye smooths his hand over my hot flesh before dipping between my legs. His finger slides around my messy sex in an indolent circle. “Look at you, all hot and slippery for me.”

  He spanks me again. Right on my clit.

  I jerk in surprise and pleasure. Because it felt insanely good, that slap. I want it again and again. I don’t understand it and try to cover my confusion. “You’re pushing it, buttercup.”

  But there’s no conviction in my voice, and he chuckles, pleased as punch with himself. I can’t exactly blame him for that. He’s playing me like a well-loved song. I tense, anticipating another teasing spank, but Rye doesn’t do that.

  His big hands settle on my ass and glide up my back. It feels so good, so wonderfully tender, that ripples of sweet pleasure run over my body. Slowly he rubs me, along my sides, over my aching breasts. I fight a sob. I hadn’t truly realized how much I needed someone—him—to simply stroke my skin. To just touch me.

  But he knew. Somehow, he knew. And it devastates me.

  Unbidden, a memory rises, of me sitting in a booth, tense and fractious as I confess to Jules.

  It isn’t the same as feeling someone else’s hands on my body, not knowing exactly where they’ll touch me next or how.

  For a second, I can’t draw a breath, and then it returns with a rush of aching affection. He’s giving me what I yearned for. My throat closes in on me, and I swallow thickly, the fine weave of his flannel bedding blurring before my eyes.

  “Rye.” It comes out broken.

  He makes a soft noise of acknowledgment, smoothing his hand over the crown of my head and down the long length of my ponytail. Shivers flow over my scalp. He was right; I love having my hair stroked. My lashes flutter. Without warning, he coils the length of my hair around his fist and tugs. Not hard, but enough to fucking rein me in.

  My eyes snap open, a gasp escaping me.

  “Easy, sweetness.” Rye steps closer, and the thick slab of his cock lies heavy on my ass.

  Heart thudding, muscles trembling, I blink down at the covers. With one hand, he moves his hard dick along my sex, the thick length sliding over my tender slickness.

  The wide head of his cock pauses at my opening, notching just inside. Rye bends over me, blanketing my body with his heat. “You ready for me, Bren?”

  I feel him there, searing hot against my sex, spreading me wide to accept him. Just the tip. Just that alone is so good I have to brace myself against the urge to whimper and whine, to push back against him, make him sink into me.

  Despite my disquiet and the fact that I’m teetering on the edge, a smile breaks free. And I find my voice, strong and sure. “Fuck me, Rye.”

  His grip on my hair twitches, but he doesn’t move. “Tell me one thing first.” Soft lips touch the shell of my ear, his voice dark and resonant. “Who’s your Daddy?”

  Shock explodes over my skin in a wave of heat. My knees buckle. A breath escapes me—half startled laugh, half groan. Sweet hell, I’m so hot, I can barely breathe. My response is thready, needy. “You. Only you.”

  He tenses. I’m not sure which one of us is more shocked I capitulated. But then he’s pushing in—slow, steady, making me feel every inch he gains. I’m stretched, filled, taken.

  We both pause, him deep within the clasp of my sex. Rye makes a noise that sounds almost pained. He mutters something unintelligible under his breath. And then he moves, rolling his hips in a lazy rhythm.

  I can’t see him. He has me where he wants me, one hand fisting my ponytail, the other gripping my ass. But I can picture him, the way he is on stage, feet planted, massive thighs bulging as he thrusts his hips, thick-cut arms and muscle-packed chest flexing as he plays.

  He feels so good, the push-pull of him, the smooth glide and hard impact. Liquid heat flows through my limbs, my nipples tighten and ache, my clit throbs. As if he knows these pleasure points need attention, Rye grunts, and, with one simple move, tugs me up against the sweat-slicked wall of his chest.

  He finds my nipple and tweaks it, while his other hand slides between my legs. I moan as he thrusts up into me, fingers strumming a beat on my sensitive flesh.

  “Fuck, Bren,” he rasps, his lips at my cheek.

  I turn my head, find his mouth with mine. Rye groans, his grip on me tightening. My hands slip behind him to cup his ass—that perfect flexing ass—and he grunts, pumps harder.

  We stay like that, locked together, moving in perfect rhythm, everything coiling tighter, getting a little more desperate. Rye moans, thrusts going deep like punctuation.

  “Beethoven.” The husky whisper escapes his lips. I falter, tripped up by the odd non sequitur. Our gazes collide, his widening.

  Fingers still clutching his sweat-slicked ass, I pause, panting. “Beethoven?”

  Because there’s no denying what he said. Rye’s lips twitch. “I’m trying not to come.”

  We’re still moving, slowly fucking, as if both of us are unable to fully stop. And it feels so good, that big, thick dick shoving inside me, that my lashes flutter before I lick my lips and speak. “And Beethoven stops that?”

  A wry half smile tilts his lips. “Listing composers in my head helps.” His hand slides up my belly. We share the same breath as he pumps into me, and his voice grows rough. “It’s barely wor
king. You feel too damn good, Bren. I’m hanging on by a thread.”

  He sounds so disgruntled by his lack of control that I kiss him softly. “Maybe you should try humming his Fifth Symphony.”

  There’s a pause. Rye stares at me as if he’s trying to figure out if I’m being snarky, then his face lights up, a smile pulling wide. Something impish glints in his eyes. In a blink, he pulls out and flips me onto the bed, flat on my back. I yelp in surprise. Then Rye is over me, pushing inside with a sure thrust. A laugh breaks free from me when he starts humming the Fifth.

  Then we’re both laughing. Fucking and laughing. Rye’s strong body bracketing mine, his face burrowed in my neck. God, it lights me up, laughing with him. I breathe him in, soak up his heat, his strength. I never want to leave this moment; I want to live right here in this bubbling contentment of sex and joy.

  His deep chuckle reverberates through my bones. Soft lips brush over my pulse and press there like a statement, telling me he’s right here with me in this joy. And like that, everything turns unexpectedly tender. It catches us unaware, and Rye’s grip changes, deepening with intent. Something in the way he moves makes me melt. There’s no other word for this liquid wash of pleasure and heat, or how my body wants to meld with his until there’s no space left between us.

  I don’t know how we go on like this. I can’t think straight. There is only him and the need for more. Always more. And maybe I sigh the word. Or maybe he simply feels it.

  Rye turns his head slightly, and our gazes tangle.

  I’m not prepared.

  I never put much stock into the whole idea that gazing into someone’s eyes could truly affect a person. But it does. Those dusky blue eyes reach into me and tug something free.

  Without my permission, without warning, I’m coming in long, rolling waves that have me whimpering. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t stop moving within me.

  “Bren.” His voice breaks on my name. Then he shudders, quietly coming in the same gasping, wide-eyed way. He clings to me, so much strength, but weakness too, as if I’m taking him apart and he trusts me to put him back together.

  The tips of my fingers dig into the hard curve of his butt as we tremble and pant, both of us incapable of more than a few small jerks of the hips before he sags against me, totally spent. Rye lowers his forehead to my temple and exhales in a gusty sigh.

  The sound brings a smile to my lips, and I cup the back of his head in a half hug. For a beat of breath, he seems to lean into my touch, but then a new tension takes over his body, as though he’s afraid to move any farther and break the spell. But it’s already broken because we’re both aware now.

  Carefully, like he’s afraid he might accidentally crush me, Rye eases back just enough to slip free from my body. I miss the fullness of him immediately. He curls up at my side, one long, thick leg lying heavily between mine, a warm hand on my hip.

  For a long moment, neither of us says a word. But it’s in the air, hovering like a dark cloud: how I’d pushed him out last time, how he’d easily left. I don’t know what to do. Should I act as before? Get up and get dressed? For all my fears, I know with certainty that I don’t want to go. But what does he expect?

  In the heavy silence, Rye’s gaze searches mine. His expression gives nothing away. I stare back at him, trying to keep my cool. Then he lifts his hand to gently stroke my damp hair back from my face.

  “Stay,” he says.

  Want tightens my stomach. “I should probably get back to work.”

  I don’t sound too convincing. Something Rye immediately capitalizes on.

  His words tumble out, tripping over themselves. “You shouldn’t leave with only two orgasms. I can give you more. Or we don’t have to fool around. I did promise you a foot rub.”

  I can’t stop myself from tracing the strong line of his brow or cupping his cheek where his beard is springy. His eyes close as if by reflex, but he forces them open and watches me.

  “You did promise me that,” I say, my voice embarrassingly husky.

  A smile lights his eyes. “And there are all those cookies and tea you brought.”

  I laugh softly. “You’re going to make me tea?”

  “Sure,” he murmurs, his lids lowering. “I’ll make you anything you want.” But he doesn’t get up. He gently nudges my legs farther apart before easing over me and making space for himself. His body is still hot. His dick is hard again, a meaty weight on my inner thigh.

  Rye gives me a lazy kiss, slowly delving into my mouth. It steals my breath. Like that, I’m melting again. “You sore?” he whispers.

  I am. Wonderfully, achingly sore. Doesn’t stop me from flushing hot as he cants his hips and slides his hardness higher. Humming, I rock my swollen clit against his cock just enough to send a tremor through me. “I feel empty.”

  “Yeah?” His lips part mine, just a little, a soft, suckling kiss. “Can I fuck you again? Nice and slow. I’ll be gentle, Bren. So gentle.”

  The wide tip of his cock is at my entrance, not pushing in, but hot and hard and waiting. I spread my thighs wider, meet his gaze and hold it. “Okay, but I still want that foot rub.”

  His smile is instant and downright dirty with promise as he pushes slowly, oh, so slowly into my slick, sensitized sex. We both shiver, and his voice comes out like rough sand. “Anything, Berry. Anything.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Rye

  The thing about making a deal with the devil is that it’s always for something you want so desperately you pretend the inevitable suffering will be worth it. You make a little deal with yourself first, that you’ll able to handle anything thrown your way.

  I shouldn’t liken Brenna to the devil. She’s not the one who came up with this deal. I did. I guess that makes me the devil here. Whatever the case, it’s becoming harder to pretend I’m fine with things as they are.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m mostly in heaven. Because getting to touch Brenna, to see her laugh, to make her moan and sigh, is heaven.

  We have fallen into a pattern. We go about our days avoiding each other—or at least I try my best not to text or call her—and then we meet up at night and go at each other like sex-starved animals. Or rather, every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday night. Brenna insists on keeping to the three-nights-a-week rule.

  And that? Yeah, that is hell.

  I don’t understand it. I was perfectly fine in a no-sex-with-Brenna world. Not happy, exactly. Who is fully happy with every aspect of their lives? But I was fine. I’d live my days and nights without this fucking clawing need to see her, to breathe the same air. Now, I’m a damn wreck on our off days. I walk around like a zombie, not knowing what to do with myself. A permanent ache has taken up residence in my chest, and my skin feels both too cold and too tight.

  That’s bad enough. But not as bad as having to publicly pretend that we’re still at odds with each other. That I don’t care about her.

  Every time we are together with any of our friends, it gets worse. Maybe it’s just me, but it feels like there’s a spotlight on our shoulders now.

  Killian slides me another sidelong look, and I hold his gaze. “What?”

  He shrugs. “I thought you said you were sick of tea.”

  At my side, Brenna pulls in a short breath, but otherwise she’s completely cool. I, on the other hand, get hot under my shirt, remembering the last time Brenna and I had tea and how that ended with me slowly fucking her for hours.

  I level Killian a look. “Then why did you invite me?”

  With another shrug, Killian reaches for a macaroon. “I invite everyone. You’ve never accepted before.”

  Killian, Brenna, and I are at a small shop that offers high tea every afternoon. I know for a fact that Killian and Brenna like it here because it reminds them of England. Jax and Scottie will join in on occasion. And, yes, upon reflection, it does look weird that I’m here. High tea is not my thing. But it’s Monday, and I suffered through not seeing Brenna on Sunday, so I decided to show up.
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  I’m regretting that. I thought more people would be here. I thought I’d have a bigger buffer between me and Killian’s watchful eyes. As it is, he’s suspicious, and Brenna’s tense as hell.

  “I wanted to see what the fuss was all about.” I pop a tiny goat cheese tart in my mouth and munch on it. The food is surprisingly good, and I guess it’s filling—if you’re a Smurf. “I like it.”

  Brenna snorts into her teacup. “Oh, come on. You hate it.”

  “I do not.” I grab another tart. “It’s…tasty. And there’s a lot of variety.”

  Killian grins. “You make a face every time you pick something up.”

  “I’m squinting because they’re hard to see.”

  Brenna shakes her head. “Why don’t you order a sandwich? I hear they do a mean roast beef.”

  “I do love roast beef. It’s my favorite.”

  “I know.” It’s a clear slip of the tongue, and she hides it by helping herself to a slice of lemon cake. But I heard it loud and clear.

  She knows my favorite sandwich. Why shouldn’t she? We all know one another inside and out. Still, it throws me for a loop. I never thought she paid any real attention to what I was doing over the years. Her style has always been to ignore me as though I’m a blight in the room. At least that’s what I thought.

  Not looking her way, I grab a scone and eat it.

  Brenna makes a pained noise. “You’re supposed to break off bites and put them in your mouth one at a time, Ryland.”

  I love when she says my full name like she’s a harried schoolmarm. I swallow down my scone before answering. “That was a mouthful.”

  Her nose wrinkles, as her eyes light with amusement. “You eat like a pig.”

  “I concede that I can be messy, but that’s only because I thoroughly enjoy eating.”

  Pink washes over her cheeks, and she shoots me a pointed look. I deserve it; I wasn’t exactly subtle.