“No,” I say. “Not today.” He nods and steps into the large kitchen. Pulls a bowl of soup from the fridge and starts heating it, and pouring us both tea. He’s efficient and brisk in his movements, a graceful poetry in motion doing something so simple and mundane.
But there is nothing simple or mundane about Rike. He’s gorgeous, with his shaggy black hair and the beard that is growing on me. The tattoos curving on his long, strong arms and licking across the skin over his fingers.
He’s everything I never expected to want, but this feels familiar. He’s who I chose. This unconventional, beautifully confusing life.
Scott and Lindsay.
They are the life I chose.
“How did we get here?” I whisper, and Rike’s gaze snags mine. I shake my head, helplessly. “This isn’t what I pictured, Rike. This is nothing like I imagined my life. And I understand that it’s what I chose. But I don’t remember, and I can’t reconcile it.” His expression falls, and I make a tiny noise, reaching for him. “I am trying, Rike. I just—it’s a lot.”
“I know,” he whispers. “I want to help, but I don’t know how. I don’t know how to give you the space you need when all I want is to bring you home.”
I reach for him and catch his hand, twisting our fingers together. He stares at our fingers, until the microwave dings and it jerks both of us out of our thoughts.
The soup and crusty bread he brings out is delicious, creamy potato broth with a spicy sausage. But the tension between us strings tight and uncomfortable, and it makes my stomach twist, until I finally put the food down.
Rike is waiting, because as soon as I stop eating, he shifts, gathering the bowls and taking them to the sink.
“There’s some stuff in your office. I think you should look at it. Will you come upstairs with me?”
I nod, and he grins, shifting over to me and lifting me up from the chair.
“What are you doing?” I breathe out as he cradles me against his chest.
His eyes are so close, so blue I could get lost in them, and I have to look down, because I can’t get lost. Not yet. Not until I’ve found myself.
“Stairs, sweetheart. I’ll carry you up.”
The loft is captivating. Half-finished canvases sit on easels, a sketch and tiny cut piece of papers waiting to be assembled cover a large table, and sculptures clutter a corner in various states of finish. A stained glass window filters light in, beautiful and ethereal, and I feel like I’m in a church. Like this is where I am supposed to worship, and where everything is right. Rike sets me on a deep red leather chaise lounge in a corner of bookshelves and I shiver. The table next to the chaise holds a notebook.
He follows my gaze. “You wrote constantly. Sometimes it was things you’d share with me or Linds, but it was usually just for yourself, and it was incessant.”
“Do you think that reading the journals could help me remember?” I ask.
He nods without hesitation. “Yes. And they’re yours. Please. Go through them.”
I nod and shift back, getting comfortable against the chair, and he smiles, his eyes soft. “I remember when I bought that chair for you. It was right after we moved here, and we had been out, downtown. You saw it at this tiny place that sold art and you fixated. Brought it up every few days for weeks. So I went down and picked it up one night after I finished a pretty big piece on a client. Surprised you with it. It was like watching a kid on Christmas morning. I fell in love with you a little more that day.” He laughs, a little, at himself. “I fell in love with you a little more every day, Peyton.”
I make a tiny noise, and his gaze snaps to me.
Later, when I think about it, I’ll be sure he moved first. But the truth is we moved at the same time. I reach for him at the same time he wraps a hand around my neck, lifting me up.
His lips meet mine, and the world explodes. Everything is about him, about the rough urgency of his lips against mine, and his hands that shift me, just the right angle to my head. His tongue licks over the seam of my lips and I gasp, and he’s everywhere, his tongue tangling with mine.
He’s not just kissing me. He’s devouring and conquering, claiming me. And I make a tiny little noise, almost a mewl, and let him.
His body comes down, knees on either side of me, and I want more of his weight, more of that maddening lazy tongue, more of his clever fingers, brushing over my skin, everywhere and nowhere.
“More,” I gasp, and he grins against my lips.
“More what, perfect girl?” he murmurs. “Tell me what you want.”
Tell him what I want? How the hell am I supposed to do that? I shake my head and his lips skate down my jaw, over my throat in wet, nipping kisses that have me aching. He pushes my shirt, a blue button-down over a white, lace-trimmed cami, aside, and his fingers are on my breasts, circling and circling, endless torture. “Do you want my mouth here?” he murmurs, and I flush.
Why can’t he just fuck me? Why must he hear it? His fingers ghost over my nipple, pinch sharply, and I gasp, “Yes.”
Rike makes a low growl and yanks my cami down, shoving aside the pale pink bra cup and I moan as the wet heat of his mouth closes over me, pulling hard on my nipple. His teeth rake over it and I almost come off the damn chaise. His hands are moving, one cupping my breast through the clothes, the other skating lower, sliding under the hem of my shirt to play over my torso. His tongue circles my nipple, slow and lazy, and I jerk on his hair, pulling him up and kissing him. He groans, and I can almost feel him fighting to pull away. His gaze is clouded and hungry when he demands, “What do you want, Peyton? Do you want my fingers”—he brushes against me over my jeans with his fingers and I shiver—“or do you want my tongue?” I shudder, my head falling back. A low chuckle rolls over me. “Tell me, sweetheart. Tell me what you want. Tell me how bad you want to come riding my lips.”
I shake my head and he unzips my jeans, and slips a hand inside. I scream as his fingers slip through me, playing over me, and his thumb rubs over my clit.
“Say it, Peyton,” he demands hoarsely. “Say what you want.”
“You,” I whimper.
He curses. “Not enough. Tell me you want me to tongue-fuck you. That you want to taste yourself on my lips when I’m inside you. Tell me.”
His fingers move again and I growl, “Fucking do it or don’t. Get me off or don’t but don’t fucking toy with me. Yes, goddammit, I want you to eat me out until I come.”
He grins, and moves, faster than I can really process. One second he’s hovering above me, and the next he’s between my thighs, my jeans hanging around my ankles as he lowers his head and then nothing matters. There is only the glide of his tongue against me, the fluttering pressure as he tongues my clit, and the slow thrust of his fingers. He licks at me, the tip of his tongue circling, until I have my hands in his hair and my body is moving, writhing against him as he uses lips and tongue and teeth to drive me fucking insane.
My whole body is tight, and I gasp when he thrusts into me with his tongue, my vagina clenching down when he pinches my clit, a delicious agony.
His fingers are against my ass, smoothing over my cheeks as his tongue fucks into me, and he slaps me, a sharp hard slap, and I splinter, screaming as I come, a wave of sensation that rips through me. He’s rising before my heartbeat slows, and he kisses me.
And despite the tiny voice screaming at me to stop, I lick at his lips, at the taste of me on his tongue.
He slams into me while we’re kissing, and my body goes tight, arching off the chaise against the delicious pressure, the exquisite fullness of him inside me. He groans, and drops his head down against mine. I fucking love the feel of his beard bristling against my breast as he struggles to catch his breath.
“You’re fucking tight, baby,” he whispers.
I shift, my hips moving in a tiny circle and he groans. “Don’t,” he begs. “Go slow.”
“Fuck slow,” I snap. “Fuck me.”