by Morgan Young
Porter doesn’t go all Zoey on us, though. He smiles a little stiffly, and then brings the blankets to the couch. He places them between Ryerson and I—a blockade between our thighs.
“Did you still want to look at the bike?” Porter asks him, pointing to where I assume is the garage door. Porter’s new motorcycle is a huge source of pride for him. Zoey likes it because, as she says, “It’s a vibrator on wheels.” So they go riding pretty often.
Ryerson sniffs a laugh, and gets up. “Yeah, sure,” he says unenthusiastically, and starts that way. Before he leaves the room, he stops and turns back to me.
“Sleep tight, Miss Cheyenne,” he says, and flashes me a little smile before walking out. When he’s gone, I’m still staring at the doorway.
“Uh, you too?” I reply to him, confused. I turn to Zoey, and she immediately laughs.
“He wants you to stay tight,” she says.
“You’re being a dragonlady,” I tell her, getting to my feet and leaving the beer behind. “What’s your problem with him?”
Zoey sighs heavily, puts her arm around me, and walks me toward the guest room. I try not to get grossed out that she’s touching me on the shoulder with her used toothbrush.
“I’m too tired to talk about him tonight,” she says, and yawns. She’s minty fresh. “I need to go fuck my fiancé and get some sleep,” she says causally. I push her off me.
“Yeah, go do that,” I say, motioning to the door.
“Fine,” she says in our pretend arguing voice. “I will!”
“And I hope you enjoy it!” I respond.
“I’m going to!” She smiles broadly, and gives me a quick hug goodnight. “See you in the morning.”
***
The guest room is too warm, and I twist and turn in the sheets, kicking them off. I sit up in bed, dim light trickling in from behind the window curtains, and I pull my curls in a high knot to get them off my neck. I strip off the tank top and sweatpants, and lie back in my dainty white panties.
Still too hot.
There’s a soft knock at the door, and I glance in that direction, and pull the sheet up to cover myself. Zoey must know I’m nearly naked, otherwise she would have just walked in.
“What?” I ask. I glance at the clock and it’s nearly five in the morning. I haven’t slept at all. Maybe she couldn’t either.
The door creaks open, and I just about faint when Ryerson pokes his head in. He holds out a bottle of water.
“Thought you might need this,” he whispers. “It’s hot as balls in this house.”
I laugh, tucking the sheet under my arms. “It’s like the depths of hell.”
He bites back his smile, and enters the room. He closes the door behind him, and I audibly gulp. It’s still nighttime, but not dark enough. Ryerson is dressed in his jeans, no shirt. No belt.
Oh my God. Where is his shirt?
“Here you go, Miss Cheyenne,” he says, sitting down next to me on the bed. I pull my legs underneath me to give him room, and thank him. The water is cold, and it sends a shiver down my skin when I take a sip.
“Refreshing?” Ryerson asks.
“Very,” I say. He doesn’t move from my bed, but he notices my clothes on the floor near his feet. He glances sideways at me, running his eyes over my protective sheet. “You naked under there?” he asks.
I take another sip of cold water. “Not entirely.”
He doesn’t divert his eyes. “Can I see?” he whispers.
An ache starts between my legs, and I can’t deny that his request has hit me exactly right. I’m torn on what to say next—a good decision/bad decision moment.
Ryerson continues to watch me, his dark eyes shining in the light from the window. They’re deep and compelling, dangerous. He licks his lower lip.
I reach over and set the water on the nightstand, and then I lower the sheet to my lap—putting myself on full display. My heart is racing, my nerve at an all-time high. I won’t think of Zoey’s warning, not with someone this hot in my bed. Time for regrets is in the morning. Or at least, much later in the morning.
Ryerson drags his gaze slowly over me, and his chest rises and falls as he breathes, growing rapid. He lifts his eyes to mine, and smiles.
“Those are quite beautiful,” he says playfully. “Mind if I—” He nods toward my breasts, and I don’t know what to say. What to do.
I’m usually the aggressor, the kisser, the handsy one. I’ll admit… guys sometimes find me intimidating because of this, but I always figured that meant they weren’t the right guy. Now I’m on the other side of the scenario, and I can barely talk.
“You’re a bad idea,” I blurt out at the same time I lie back against the pillows.
Ryerson lifts one corner of his full lips. “Definitely,” he murmurs.
I lazily reach my arms behind my head, inviting him closer. He moves slowly, drawing out the moment, and I just about die waiting.
He gets on this stomach next to me, propped up on his elbow. He runs his finger across my stomach, and I gasp before meeting his eyes again. He’s watching me, watching my reactions. His stare alone could be enough to make me orgasm.
His fingertip glides up my stomach, and circles the lower curve of my left breast, and then it moves higher and circles my nipple. I moan softly, unexpectedly, and I hear a low growl response in his throat.
He hand moves to cup my waist, and he turns me toward him. I’m so out of breath, out of my mind, clearly, that I don’t expect it when he kisses me fiercely. His mouth is burning hot against mine because of the cold water, and I knot my fingers in his dark hair. Ryerson hikes my thigh over his hip, and presses into me. I moan again, and pull his hair a little harder.
I want him. No, I need him right now. I haven’t been this attracted to someone… well, ever. “Please,” I say, although I don’t even know what I’m asking for. I just want more.
Ryerson pushes me back on the bed, and he holds the side of my neck as his mouth goes to my breast, pulling hard on my nipple, and making me draw in a harsh breath. My eyes roll back, and he spreads my legs with his knees to lie between them. I can feel how hard he is underneath his jeans. How big he is. I reach down to grip him, and he pulls back to look down at me. He looks hungry, beautiful, sexy.
He continues to watch me, his hand on my breast as I reach inside his jeans and feel his whole length. His lips part, his eyelids flutter. I have complete control of him, and I take it. I tighten my grip, and he bares his teeth.
He may have been the aggressor, but he wants me to take charge. I put my other hand on his chest and push him back to his knees, and then I get on mine in front of him. I move my hand quicker, and he moans, and leans forward to kiss my neck, his tongue against my skin.
My grip moves faster, and then he runs his teeth along my earlobe, breathing heavy. In a swift movement, his hand slides over my ass and tears my panties to the side. He rubs between my legs, rubbing my wetness from front to back and I can’t even keep the soft sounds from escaping my lips. His finger dips inside me, and my entire body clenches. Already? We’ve barely started.
He doesn’t stop. He kisses me hard on the mouth, and with each thrust of his finger, I gasp between his lips. He rubs me again, and I need complete release. I need him.
I quickly undo his jeans, and move away from him to lie back. My eyes are heavy-lidded, my entire body shaking, slick with excitement.
Ryerson stays on his knees, his manhood proudly on display. He runs his gaze over my body, laid out for him. He runs his palm flat from my neck to between my legs, pressing hard. I moan again.
He licks his lips, and meets my eyes. “I can’t have sex with you,” he says in his raspy voice. “Zo would kill me.”
“Wait, what?” I ask in between little gasps as he continues to press his hand between my legs.
“I’m going to get you off,” he allows. “But I promised not to sleep with you. I always keep my promises.”
I’m still trying to process what he’s saying,
when he pushes my knees apart again. And then his face is between my thighs, and his tongue is still so hot. The entire room starts to spin, and at one point, I’m pretty sure I lose complete control of my voice because he stops licking for a moment to laugh, and asks me to please quiet down.
I orgasm in a heavy, satisfying wave that clenches and releases me from the top of my curls to the tips of my toes. Ryerson kisses his way up my body, and then collapses next to me, pulling me to lay on his chest. I can’t even move, so I let him.
We’re both panting, our bodies molding together. I find myself snuggling against him, and Ryerson reaches out to undo my knot and let my hair cascade over my shoulders. He leans over to kiss my forehead.
“You’ll sleep well,” he says with a little laugh.
“What about you?” I ask, my voice muffled against his chest.
“Another time,” he says. “The sun’s about to come up. Let’s just say you’ll owe me.”
I’m not sure I want to owe him anything, but he’s right. I’m completely spent, completely at ease. And I don’t realize when I drift off against him.
Chapter Four
I wake up alone in bed, sun streaming in the windows. I’m spread out on the sheets, and as my eyelids flutter open, I realize I’m not alone. Well, I’m alone in bed. I’m just not alone in the room. I sit up with a start, naked other than my underwear, and find Zoey sitting at the desk drinking coffee. She glances over.
“About time,” she says like it’s totally normal for her to be in here while I’m asleep mostly naked. “It’s almost noon.”
“What are you doing?” I ask, pushing my curls away from my face.
“I was bored,” she says. “Porter went to work, Ry went back to wherever he came from, and you were sleeping. I almost made you an omelet, but then I remembered that you’re a better cook.” She grins.
Oh my God. I totally had oral sex with Ryerson last night. Some other stuff, too, but that’s the important part.
“What?” Zoey asks, like she can read my filthy thoughts.
“Nothing,” I say, and quickly get out of bed, reaching down to grab my shirt and pull it on.
“Yeah, right. Ew… are you thinking about Ryerson? Do you actually like him?”
“Uh…”
“Shut up!” she says. “You do! He is pretty hot.”
“I thought you said to stay away from him,” I say.
“Oh, you definitely should. He’s bad news. But fantasizing is okay.”
“Right,” I say like I understand.
She narrows her eyes, and looks me over. “Did you…?” She taps her finger on her bottom lip, trying to read my body language. “No.” She shakes her head. “You have the afterglow, but not the triumphant grin. What’s the deal?”
“No deal,” I say, my voice annoyingly high. It’s a dead giveaway.
“What the fuck, Cheyenne?” Zoey says, actually pissed. “What did you do?”
“I… didn’t have to do much.”
“Okay…” She crosses her arms over her robe. “What did he do?”
Now I smile, and she throws her head back and groans. “How good was it?”
“So good.”
“Best ever?” she asks, glaring at me.
“Quite possibly the best head I’ve ever gotten.”
“Fuck me,” Zoe says, pushing her coffee away. “That’s it, then. You’re a lost cause. A guy who’s good downstairs is going to crush your soul. He’s a player. He’s like… a fox in a chicken coop or whatever the hell it is.”
“Hen house, I think.”
“Who cares?” she asks like I missed the point. “He’s in there, eating everything, getting all the hens worked up. You know what happens after that?”
“They’re… dead? I’m sorry, I really don’t get this analogy.”
“No, they’re not dead. Okay, maybe they are. But the point is, the fox is in control. He can get those little hens to do anything. Destroy their lives. And I can’t let that happen.”
I furrow my brow. “So… are you like, the farmer with the shotgun in this scenario?”
“Obviously that’s Porter. But damn it—you can’t get involved with someone like Ryerson Banks. I know I like to pretend we’re both badasses, but this guy—he’s for real. He’s going to hurt you. Break your heart.” Her expression softens. “He’s bad news, Cheyenne. For real.”
“For the record,” I say. “We are badasses. But I will be careful,” I say. “We didn’t even have sex.” I don’t mention that it was his idea.
“I feel like I shouldn’t cheer for that part, but I’m grateful,” she says. “And if you really want a Banks brother, Porter has three others that are not felons.”
“What was his felony?”
“Huh?” Zoey asks, looking away.
“Ryerson. What did he get arrested for?”
“Not just arrested. He went to prison, Cheyenne,” she says.
My stomach sinks. “What?”
“Okay, not like, real prison. But juvenile detention, or something. I don’t know. Porter doesn’t talk about it.”
“Jesus, Zoey,” I say. “You can’t say prison if it’s not—”
“Hey,” she interrupts. “You’re over him, remember? Let’s change the subject. What are you going to do about Frankie Miller? Don’t you usually work on Sundays?”
“I do,” I say, chewing on the inside of my lip. “But when he told me he was marrying Rayanna, I sort of… I kind of quit.”
“Stop!” She pretends to collapse on the desk, head down on her folded arms. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“I’m not kidding,” I say, embarrassed.
She picks up her head, and looks at me. “Cheyenne, you don’t even like Frankie.”
“I like him,” I say defensively. “But as a cousin or something.”
“So then why are you going to freak out and quit because he’s getting married?” she asks. “That garage is half yours. You helped him start it.”
I laugh. I never wanted anything to do with that garage—it was always his dream. I would never in a million years take it away.
“Frankie might see it that way, but Ray sure doesn’t,” I tell her. “She’s a nice girl, but she will probably drop to her knees and praise Jesus when I’m gone. I wouldn’t want me hanging around.”
“Neither would I,” Zoey says, and I frown at her. “What?” she asks. “You’re super hot. You’re funny and mostly smart. Hell, you got a convicted felon to go down on you with barely a sentence. I wouldn’t want my future-husband around you either.”
“You let Porter around me,” I say. She smiles.
“Yeah, well. I got that shit on lock.”
We both laugh, and there is the sound of a motorcycle engine outside the house. Zoey perks up. “Speak of the devil,” she says. She grabs the sweatpants off the floor, and tosses them at me. “Now get dressed and don’t mention anything about Ryerson,” she orders.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” I mumble. Instead of putting on her pajamas, I get my dress from the party, and go into the bathroom. I brush my teeth with my finger and some toothpaste, and gaze into the mirror. My lips are fuller, a little redder—raw from kissing, I’m guessing. There are no marks on my neck, but there is a mouth-shaped mark on my breast.
I smile to myself, then force it away. I get dressed and go to join Zoey and Porter in the kitchen.
***
They’re kissing. I swear they’ve been attached at the lips since the day we met him. I walk in, and sit at the kitchen table while they make out at the refrigerator. Porter, still kissing, rolls his eyes in my direction. He pauses.
“Hello, Cheyenne,” he says.
“Hi, Porter.”
He kisses Zoey, smiles at her, and kisses her again. The absolute adoration in his eyes makes me ache for that kind of connection. What would it be like to be loved so completely? I’ve never had that. Not with Frankie. Not with anyone.
I’m probably just feeling sorry fo
r myself, but I’m not sure I ever will.
My phone buzzes, and I quickly take it out. Shit. It’s Frankie.
Zoey looks over curiously, and pours a glass of orange juice. Porter starts making a sandwich, and I know I’m infringing on their Sunday routine. I click ignore on the phone.
“I’m going to take off,” I say, getting to my feet. Zoey pretends to pout, and Porter takes a large bite of his sandwich and waves. “Call you later?” I say to Zoey.
“You better.” She flashes me a knowing smile, and I see Porter notice it. He doesn’t miss much. It must be the cop part of him. He opens his mouth to ask what’s going on, but I’m already turned around and heading for the door.
My keys are on the entry table, and I snatch them up and head to the garage. I’ll have to resolve this little… issue with Frankie.
Chapter Five
Frankie Miller was the hottest guy in ninth grade. That may not seem like much, but believe me, when you’re in eighth grade, it’s a big deal if the shortstop of the baseball team buys you an ice cream. Frankie singled me out, and we dated on and off throughout high school. And then my senior year, he took me to prom and told me he wanted to marry me.
I guess it was kind of romantic—I was crazy about him at the time. But he was also doing me a favor. My parents were verbally abusive, at least, mostly verbally, and I wanted nothing more than to get away from them. I had no siblings, no other family.
So when Frankie said he would take care of me, and that I’d never have to spend another night under their roof, I said yes. I gave him a resounding yes.
Married at seventeen. Divorced by nineteen. Frankie and I had spent our young adult lives together, so it was definitely sad to break up. But not because one of our hearts got broken. It was sad because it was over.
Despite not being legally married for the last five years, Frankie and I still hung out. Laughed together. Ate meals together. He’s one of my best friends. Not as close as Zoey, obviously, but we share a long history together. Now I’ll be all alone. A spinster at twenty-four.
