by A. S. Teague
She whimpers. Then she grips the back of my head and takes control of the kiss, her tongue thrusting into my mouth. She doesn’t ask my permission, and that’s just fine by me.
A low growl rumbles at the back of my throat, and I return her kiss, sliding my tongue against hers. Her mouth is warm and soft, and this time, I let my body take the reins, telling my mind to take a seat.
Grabbing her around the waist, I blindly feel around for the doorknob, the only thought on my mind being to get her inside and then get inside her. When I finally make contact with the knob, I turn it roughly, relieved when the door swings open.
I lift Rebecca, and she wraps her legs around my waist before I make my way into her house. I kick the door shut and make a beeline for the couch, dropping her onto it before following her down.
I kiss my way down her neck, taking note of the sexy moans she makes when I lick across her collarbone. I trail my mouth down her body, pulling her shirt down as I go.
I sweep my tongue across the top of her breast, teasing her along the line of her lacy bra. Rebecca moans loudly, and I glide my left hand along the outside of her thigh, wishing she were wearing a skirt instead so I could feel her skin beneath my fingers. She writhes beneath me, her hips torturously rubbing against my throbbing cock. We both gasp at the friction.
I curl my fingers into the top of her bra, and just as I begin to tug it down, a shrill beeping goes off, causing me to jump and Rebecca to let out a scream.
“What the fuck is that?” I grumble, not moving from atop her.
Rebecca’s eyes focus on me, and she sighs, “It’s my alarm.”
I glance over at the clock and see that it’s 3:55 in the afternoon. “You have an alarm set for the middle of the day on a Sunday?” I question.
“Yep,” she says, wiggling into a sitting position.
“Hey, where ya going?” I ask. “Come back here.” I tug on her shirt, but she swats at my hand and giggles.
“Sorry. But it’s wine time. New Zealand calls,” she tells me, sliding out from under me.
I’m on all fours on the couch, my dick still hard as a rock and my balls rapidly turning blue. Unsure of how we went from nearly getting naked together to her pouring a glass of wine, I shake my head and stand up. Keeping my back to her, I adjust myself and then saunter into the kitchen.
“Who’s this Kim Crawford and what’s she got on me?” I ask her, holding the bottle up.
She takes a sip of her wine, her lips turning up around the glass. “Well, let’s see. He has about twelve and a half percent alcohol, for starters. A huge vineyard down under. And the best cheap wine my lips have ever tasted.”
Hanging my head, I mutter, “Sorry, guys. Maybe next time.” I look back up and quirk an eyebrow. “So, why exactly do you have an alarm set for wine?”
Rebecca laughs and looks pointedly at my crotch. “Yeah. Sorry, boys. Although I was rather pleased with what sprung up.” She wiggles her eyebrows at me before turning serious. “Although it was probably a good thing the alarm went off. I’m still not totally convinced I even like you.”
I snap my head up and squint at her. “Oh, really? I have no problem trying one more time to convince you that you do, in fact, like me.” I pull her to me, kissing along her neck once more.
She moans, pressing her breasts against my chest. I run a hand down to her ass and squeeze, pulling her into me, my dick jumping at the contact. She moans again, and then, using the hand that isn’t holding her wine, she pushes away from me.
She sighs and then answers my question. “Sunday is cleaning day. I pretty much would rather have the stomach flu than clean, but”––she waves an arm around the room—“obviously, my house needs it. Especially since I’m trying to sell the damn thing. So, as motivation, I set an alarm and when it goes off, I get to drink.” She holds her glass up and then takes a sip. “Today was an exception since we went to lunch with Gram, but I still deserve the wine, right?”
I chuckle to myself at how damn cute she is and nod. She deserves whatever the hell she wants.
“You want some help cleaning?” I ask her. Cleaning isn’t my idea of a good time, but there’s something therapeutic about it.
She shakes her head and tells me, “No way! Sweet of you to offer, but uh, that would be kinda weird. I’ll get to it later. Want a beer?”
It’s my turn to shake my head. “Can’t. Driving.”
“Ah, yes. Your driving rule. One beer isn’t gonna hurt.”
“No, it wouldn’t. I could probably drink a six-pack and be fine. But I promised Gram I would never drive after drinking. Even just one.”
Her face softens. “Oh, well. I suppose you can’t break your promise to Gram.”
“I never break a promise, Rebecca. To anyone.” Clapping my hands together, I turn and squat in front of her sink. I pull the cabinet doors open and rummage through the contents before taking out a bottle of bleach cleaner and a pair of purple rubber gloves. I stand and set the cleaner on the counter. Then I pull the too-tight gloves onto my hands.
“What are you doing?” Rebecca exclaims, an amused smile on her face.
I hold my hands up and say, “What’s it look like? Protecting my delicate hands from the harmful effects of chemicals.”
She doubles over, dissolving into a fit of laughter. “You’ve lost your mind,” she says as her laughter dissolves. “You’re really gonna stay and help me clean?”
I wave a hand, which is now sweating inside the rubber glove, around and tell her, “Look at this place.”
She scrunches her face and puts a hand on her hip. “Hey! It’s not that bad.”
I widen my eyes at her and tilt my head. “Doll, there’s a bottle of wine on the table that I know for a fact was there last weekend, seeing as I was the one who brought it over.”
Rolling her eyes, she admits, “Yeah, you’re right. It’s pretty bad.”
My face splits in a wide smile, and I clap my hands together. “Let’s do this!”
She giggles again and then grabs a remote, pushing a few buttons. A moment later, Steve Perry’s voice fills the room, singing about a wheel in the sky.
She drops the remote and smiles. “Lemme pour a glass of wine and I’m ready.”
I’m in serious trouble. Smiling to myself, I realize I’ve never been happier to be in trouble in all of my life.
After Ryker left last night, I pretty much sat around drinking and trying to figure out how the hell I’d ended up getting hot and heavy with him on my couch.
He was right when he said that we had a mutual attraction. He is hot as fuck, his muscles and tattoos always teasing me under those skintight T-shirts he trains in. His dark hair is just a little bit too long, curling up on the ends––the perfect length for running my fingers through. His green eyes sparkle mischievously every single time he spoke to me.
And his relationship with his Gram. It’s clear from our lunch yesterday that he adores her, and the feeling is mutual. It reminds me of my relationship with my parents, and that bond makes him that much more endearing.
I wanted to pry, the curiosity of why Gram had raised him nearly killing me. But I figured he would get around to telling me. And, if it isn’t soon, then I’ll do some digging.
Despite the obvious chemistry we have, I am still harboring those memories of the nasty things he said over three years ago. It may have been ridiculous of me to still hold it against him, but I’ve never been the forgive-and-forget type. That is more of Tripp’s personality, obviously, since it seems he and Ryker have formed some sort of strange friendship.
His laughter when I finally told him––against my will, at that––didn’t help me warm up about it. Admittedly, it sounded a bit silly once I’d said it out loud, but my feelings were what they were, and I was entitled to them. His dismissal of what he’d said made me want to kick him in the shins, but once he realized I was serious, he wasted no time setting things right.
It was hard to stay mad at him when he was so damn
sweet, telling me how beautiful I was. It was all I could do to keep from humping him on my front porch, even though he did say that I was crazy.
I’m lost in memories of the way his lips felt on my neck when the bell above the door chimes, shaking me back to the reality that I’m at work, fantasizing about a guy who is essentially my coworker.
My head snaps up, and I see Ryker and Tripp come through the door together. They are laughing, and I roll my eyes at their camaraderie.
Ryker’s eyes find mine, and he lifts his chin at me. My stomach flips at the gesture, even though I’ve always found the alpha-man act a bit irritating. I’m not some spineless chick a man could boss around. But, when Ryker does it, fuck me—it is hot as hell.
“Tripp, what did you do this weekend?” I ask, realizing I didn’t hear from him at all. We spend time together every weekend, so not getting so much as a text from him is unusual.
He claps his hands together and wags his eyebrows. “Saw Aly.”
I groan. “Oh, God, not again. Please tell me you two are not back together.”
Ryker looks back and forth between us, “Who’s Aly?”
“Tripp’s on-again, off-again, gold-digging bitch of a girlfriend,” I explain, my stomach turning at the thought of having to see her again. “They met at a nightclub three years ago, and it’s been the worst three years of my life!”
Tripp puts his hand to his heart and says, “Please, Rebecca. Do tell us how you really feel about the love of my life.”
“Ha! Love of your life? More like piranha that’s trying to bleed you dry.” I walk around to the front of the desk. Placing my hands on his shoulders, I look him in the eye. “Please, Tripp. Please tell me you are not seriously seeing her again. She’s bad news. And I, for one, am tired of seeing her hurt you.”
He sighs and rolls his eyes. Then he mimics my moves by putting his hands on my shoulders. We’re standing arm in arm, and if I were not seriously upset over the fact that my brother is about to start up the relationship from hell—again—I would laugh. We look like we are at a middle school dance, leaving enough room for Jesus between us.
“I appreciate your concern, little sis, but I’m a big boy. I know what I’m getting myself into.” He cuts his gaze to Ryker and then back to me. “What did you do this weekend?”
I drop my arms and step out of his grip. “Uh, nothing,” I mumble and then turn, making a dash for my chair.
“Uh!”
I look up and see Ryker with his hand over his heart.
“I’m wounded. My girlfriend here met my Gram,” he tells Tripp, pointing in my direction.
I let out a strangled cry. “Girlfriend?” I scoff. “I’m not your girlfriend.” I turn my head toward Tripp and repeat, “I’m not his girlfriend.”
Tripp stares at me, an amused look on his face as he says, “Meeting the family already, huh?” He claps Ryker on the back and then makes matters worse by saying, “We’re having a cookout at our parents’ house Saturday afternoon. Why don’t you come?”
My eyes widen, and I shoot Tripp a warning look, but he ignores me.
“Rebecca’s responsible for the potato salad,” he informs Ryker. “But hers sucks. See if you can’t pick some up from DiPasso’s on the way, why don’t ya?” He gives me a wink and then saunters off.
My cheeks redden, and childishly, I shout after him, “You’re gonna regret that, big brother!”
“Potato salad, huh? Gram makes a mean warm potato salad. I’ll have her whip some up.” He smirks and settles on the edge of my desk. “What time should I pick you up Saturday?”
Cutting my gaze to him, I flop down in my chair. There’s no getting out of it now.
“Three,” I groan.
His smile grows. “I’ll have to check my schedule. See if I can pencil you in.”
I glower and then shove him off my desk. “Don’t you have a client coming soon?”
Instead of walking toward the locker room, he comes around the desk.
I freeze, equal parts watching his mouth and wishing he’d leave.
Placing his hands on the arms of my chair, he leans forward and kisses me.
I blink, surprised at the public display of affection, but once his tongue slides across my lips, my lids flutter shut and I open my mouth, letting him in. His kiss is slow and sweet, nothing like the frenzied make-out session yesterday, but every bit as good.
When a client comes through the door, he suddenly releases my mouth, and I whimper quietly.
Moving his lips to my ear, he whispers, “Beautiful as always, doll.”
He pushes off my chair and stands up, and I admire the way his muscular arms flex from the movement. I’ve been around plenty of athletic men, both as an Octagon Girl and working in the gym, but Ryker’s body is by far the hottest I’ve ever seen. And I haven’t even seen all of it yet.
I rake a nail across his abs, giggling when he sucks in a breath. He growls and says quietly, “Keep that up and I’ll be canceling all of my clients for the day.”
I shouldn’t tempt him. The last thing I need is him to follow through with that threat. But, before I can help myself, I look up, a sultry smile on my face, and dart my tongue out. I run it across my lips, teasing him. My hand is still on his stomach, so I trail a finger down to the waistband of his shorts and hook it into the elastic.
He lets out another low growl and begins to speak, but then Tripp shouts across the gym.
“Yo, Ryker! Quit eye-fucking your girlfriend in the middle of my gym and get to work.”
Like two kids caught under the bleachers, I scramble away from him and shout back, “I’m not his girlfriend, asshole! I don’t even like him!”
Ryker lifts his eyebrows and chuckles. “Yeah, doll, you are.” He turns on his heel and then jogs away, leaving me shamefully turned on.
Girlfriend.
As much as I want to deny it, I like the way it sounds coming from his lips.
I scoot my chair back to my desk and attempt to focus on work. After reading the same sentence for the fifth time, I give up, deciding that maybe some fresh air will help.
On the way to the door, I pass by the cage Ryker’s training a kid in. He’s shirtless. And his skin’s glistening under the fluorescent lights, a thin sheen of sweat covering his rock-hard body.
My mouth begins to water, and I sigh. I’m so screwed.
***
It is well past closing on a Wednesday night, yet here I am, still at work, trying to tie up a few loose ends for the charity exhibition the gym is putting on Friday night.
After the way he and Sidney had met, Breccan started doing celebrity appearances and donating the proceeds to the Make-A-Wish Foundation. When he and Tripp got the gym up and running, they decided to have a semiannual exhibition to raise money for the charity that was so near to his heart.
I love being a part of the events. With Sidney’s organizational skills and my contacts, we’ve put on successful exhibitions for the last two years, having raised over a million dollars and having made countless kids’ dreams come true.
I’m just hanging up with one of the sponsors when Ryker waltzes through the door, his hands full of bags.
“I brought dinner!” he exclaims, holding the plastic grocery sacks up.
My stomach growls loudly, and I offer him a wide smile. “Thank God. I’m starving, and it looks like I’ll be here a while longer.”
He drops the bags onto my desk. Then he grabs a chair from the waiting area and pulls it over. Once he’s settled next to me, he begins pulling Tupperware containers from the bags. After throwing the empty bag under my desk, he pulls a bottle of wine from the second bag.
“Is that wine?” I squeal.
“Of course. I know what my baby likes,” he teases, but his proud smile tells the truth.
I grab the bottle and wrinkle my nose when I see that it’s my least favorite brand. I’m not a wine connoisseur by any means, but this is probably the cheapest bottle at the store, and it tastes like it.
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Plastering on a smile, I tell him, “That was so, uh, thoughtful of you. You even remembered what kind I drink.”
Obviously, I’m not doing a good job hiding my disdain for the wine though, because he arches an eyebrow and asks, “Something wrong?”
Shaking my head, I tell him, “Nope, nothing.” I rub my hands together and change the subject, “What’s for dinner?”
He’s still eying me suspiciously, but he says, “Gram was feeling good today. Her arthritis was better than it’s been in weeks.” He pulls the lid off the first container, and the scent of sweet potatoes fills my nose.
“Oh my God,” I gasp. “Is that sweet potato casserole?”
He beams at me. “Yep.” He opens the rest of the containers, and I have to hold myself back from digging in with my bare hands.
“Holy shit, Ryker. Is it Thanksgiving? Fried chicken, mac and cheese, and sweet potato casserole. I’m gonna have to spend two hours on the treadmill tomorrow.”
He hands me a plate he’s filled and nods. “Yep. But it’ll be worth it. She sent dessert, too. Peach cobbler.”
I take a bite of the casserole and moan. “Mmmmm.” Not caring how much of a pig I may look like, I shovel the food in my mouth at an alarming rate. When half of my plate is empty, I glance up to see him staring at me.
“What?” I ask, my mouth full of chicken.
“I never thought I’d say this, but you make eating sexy as fuck. I may have just developed a new fetish.”
I was too busy shoveling food into my mouth to notice that he hasn’t made himself a plate. Suddenly self-conscious, I put my fork down and grab my napkin to wipe my face.
“You’re not going to eat?” I question, peering into the bag to see that the containers are empty.
He shakes his head. “Nah. I ate with Gram earlier.” He cuts his gaze away when his stomach grumbles loudly.
I tilt my head to the side and purse my lips, but just as I begin to question him, the phone rings, which causes me to jump.
“Team Undisputed,” I answer after grabbing the receiver.
