This irresistible love triangle kicks off the new Ryder Boys series of standalones.
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One tequila. Two tequila. Three.
One wiener. Two wiener. Three.
10:01 and all I could think of at that moment was ... six more minutes. Six more minutes until he came inside me, and we were done. Done until the next time. Well, next Saturday night, just like clockwork.
Darkness surrounded us in our two-bedroom penthouse in the poshest area of downtown Rosendell, Michigan. The only light coming in through the window was from the city skyscrapers outside, the gleam highlighting the movement of his body against mine.
The sweat of his skin was slick against mine. The scent of sex permeated the air.
Sex was always the same—missionary style on our 1200-thread count sateen sheets, with him pumping into me. I closed my eyes and tried to let the sensations wash over my body. For once, I wished he'd call me sexy, talk dirty ... do anything to make me feel as though this wasn't a job that I was expected to perform.
I wanted to feel that connection—like we used to have—and not feel like we’d turned into an old married couple when we were only in our early twenties. Eight years together wasn't a lifetime. Being in a relationship shouldn't seem like a death sentence.
Sadness engulfed me while we were sharing the most intimate moment between two people. I forced down the loneliness before tears could slip down my cheeks.
I knew sex was coming tonight. After dinner, he’d made me a dirty martini. And it was Saturday. For as long as I could remember, he was the horniest at the end of the work week. Like a gourmet meal at a fancy restaurant, Saturday night seduction started with a martini, then small talk, ending with sex as dessert. I yearned for him to bend me over the couch first and then hand me a martini.
At 10:04, his movements turned erratic. He pumped into me faster. His chest heaved in exhaustion. A thin sheen of sweat covered his brow. My leg was cramping, yet I didn't care because I told myself for the millionth time—trying to convince myself—that he loved me. He still loved me. This was what couples in love did. And we were in love. This was making love.
So, why did I feel nothing?
My cheek fell to the side, and I stared at the city through our floor-to-ceiling windows because we had stopped looking at each other during sex a long time ago. Stopped talking after sex. Stopped cuddling after sex. Just stopped.
He didn't whisper sweet nothings in my ear that would send a wave of shivers up my neck, nor did he make me feel wanted for anything other than someone to get him off. The lump in the back of my throat became the size of a golf ball, the same way it had yesterday, and the days and months before when I'd thought of how we'd morphed into some fifties sitcom couple. We might as well have two twin beds in our bedroom.
"I love you," I whispered, all my pent-up emotion pouring out into those three powerful words.
Because I did. I do.
I loved him.
He was the only man I'd ever been with. The only man I'd ever known.
He didn't hear me, caught up in his own moment of getting off, so I said it again, louder this time. "I love you so much."
"Oh, baby, I love you, too." His words had once meant so much, but the meaning had dwindled over time.
He groaned, then he flipped me over, propping me on top of him. My dark brown hair cascaded over my slender shoulders. He’d said the words I wanted to hear, but I questioned whether he’d meant them. Why did I feel such distance between us even when we were in the same room?
His eyes were clenched shut. I wanted to see the spark of fire in his blue irises. Lock my brown ones with his. Feel the connection between us.
Trying something different, I reached for the ends of his light locks, tugging hard, but he pulled my hands down and moved my hips along his shaft.
I shifted until a sensation rubbed against my sensitive nub. I threw back my head as my hands pressed into his chest and I moved against him, my body beginning to let go.
"Oh, yeah. Baby, you feel so good. Does it feel good?"
"Yes," I sighed. I lifted my head, wishing, wanting, waiting for ecstasy, then finally a sliver of sensation spread down my legs.
When he gripped my hips tighter and shifted me, that slightest connection to an orgasm disappeared.
"Wait," I begged as I readjusted myself. The deep-rooted pinch under my belly tingled. Something I hadn't felt in a very long time. "Please." I took his hands in mine and urged him to let me lead the way for once.
And before I knew it, he stilled inside me and a loud moan escaped his mouth.
Done. Jilted. Robbed.
My body rolled off his. I turned my head, so he couldn't read my face, and the first tear pushed down my cheek.
He discarded the condom in a tissue on the side table then kissed the back of my neck.
I glanced at the clock.
My whole body tensed, and I exhaled, half-frustration and half-relief that it was over. I had a week until we'd do it again.
"That was amazing, baby."
"Yes." Amazing for you.
10:08, just like a clock, he flipped over, conked out, and I stared at the ceiling, feeling empty inside as the thought pushed to the surface ... There has to be more to my life than this.
I once loved a boy who grew into a man.
A man that promised me stability, loyalty, and a lifetime of security. I had it all—at least I thought so. Until mere minutes with someone else made me want for more. More than I already had. Forbidden wants that I shouldn’t wish for.
Cade Ryder was everything my Ivy League pedigree should have stayed away from. Every sane part of my existence screamed for me to keep my distance.
Distance from where he worked. Distance from him, his body, and his soul-searing eyes.
But the more I stayed away, the more our lives merged. Now my life—my normal—is unraveled. My heart, my hope, my new future all in the hands of a tall, tatted bartender.
I planned my forever with the perfect man. But sometimes the heart wants more than stability, more than security, more than what others want for you. One thing’s for sure—destiny can’t be planned.
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Most of the time, she can be caught on the train with her nose in a book sporting a cheeky grin because the main characters finally get their happily-ever-after at the end.
She loves reading about happy endings but has more fun writing them.
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