In Plain Sight by Hope Anika
Chapter Twenty-One
If you make me regret saying yes, I’ll cut out your heart and feed it to you.
A lot of men would run from a woman who used words like that.
Not Rye.
That’s my girl, he’d thought when he heard them.
And it was almost true. She was getting closer.
Arguing with herself; beating back her fear.
Letting hope take hold.
Rye knew because he could see it in her eyes when she looked at him.
She missed him, just like he missed her.
Her talk with Max had been long overdue, and he was glad they’d finally come to some kind of terms.
But he knew it wouldn’t be enough.
She had to jump; she had to trust him to catch her.
She had to believe, just like he did. And she wasn’t there.
Not yet.
So he had to be patient.
Slow and steady wins the race.
He just needed time. And for this thing with Selena to be over.
The kid had found her voice that afternoon, and the change in her went beyond the new haircut and leprechaun dye job. The simmering, repressed darkness she carried had ebbed, and while Rye knew it would never truly leave her, she seemed more at ease. Ares, he figured, had gotten an earful.
Like Max got an earful.
When Rye had pressed him for details about his ongoing mole hunt, his friend would say only that he’d finally discovered who it was he sought.
Won’t be long now. That son of a bitch is mine.
Grim and certain; it hadn’t been a straight answer, and it hadn’t told him anything.
Rye had a bad feeling. About everything.
But all he could do was keep moving forward.
“Keep calm and carry the hell on,” he told himself.
The sound of his voice echoed around him, underscored by the steady downpour of rain against the metal roof of Fiona’s stock truck. The deluge had started an hour and a half ago. Lightning and thunder had soon followed, and Mick had reluctantly bent to the will of the festival committee and shut down the show for the night.
No one was happy, but he was king. And what he said was law.
Rye had the feeling that under different circumstances, he might actually like Mick. The guy worked his butt off, commanded respect from both his crew and his vendors, and he watched over Fiona with a fierce protectiveness Rye couldn’t help but appreciate.
The rain had provided an unexpected downtime. Selena and Ares were in Fiona’s trailer, playing Scrabble. Mort and Mona had disappeared into town for dinner; Tex, unsurprisingly, had failed to show up at all; and Fiona had disappeared in search of Thea.
So Rye had climbed into the back of the stock truck to replace several of the shelves that were beginning to dry rot. It was a welcomed distraction, and it felt good to use his hands.
To be useful.
He ran another screw to secure the new shelving and told himself that if he proved useful enough, Fi would keep him.
“You don’t have to do that,” she said suddenly from behind him.
A glance over his shoulder found her standing just inside the truck. She wore faded jeans, a purple fleece, and scuffed hiking boots. Her hair was damp and curling; her cheeks were pink. In the faint golden light emitted by the cheap light fixture overhead, her hazel eyes glinted like polished amber stone. The faint scent of her—vanilla and rain and woman—wafted to him, and his hands tightened around the impact driver.
He wanted to kiss her again.
So he turned away and ran another screw. “I don’t mind.”
The boards that lined the floor creaked as she walked toward him. Tension crept through him. He didn’t like denying what he felt or swallowing words he wanted to say. Pretending.
He knew she needed time, that she had to come to him.
Or this would never work.
But, hell.
“Did Max tell you anything?” she asked as she halted beside him.
He grabbed another screw. “No.”
“Me neither.” She sighed softly. “I’m scared for him.”
“I know.”
“You’re not going to tell me it will be okay?”
He shrugged. “It will be whatever it is.”
“That’s not very helpful.”
“Platitudes are lies.” He met her gaze. “I’ll never lie to you.”
“I know.” She studied him. “It’s one of the things I like about you.”
That pleased him. “There are others?”
“Maybe,” she said.
He ran another screw, the sound of the impact driver screeching into the space between them.
“He said he wants his family back,” she said when the sound died.
Rye leaned down and grabbed another screw. “I told you: he loves you.”
“I just…didn’t expect it.”
She stood close. Too close; not close enough. “What are you going to do about it?”
“I’m going to try.”
Satisfaction slid through him. “Good.”
He ran another screw.
“Rye,” she said, and he looked at her.
She blew out a breath. “We can…we can take things slow, can’t we?”
He went still. “We can do whatever you need to do.”
“I don’t…I don’t know what I’m doing, and I’m not sure…I’m not sure I can do it.”
He put down the impact driver.
“But I thought, if I’m going to give Max a chance, I might as well…” She offered him a hesitant smile. “Go all in.”
Everything inside of him squeezed with painful intensity. “You need to be very sure.”
The air between them seemed to vibrate. Blood pounded through him, exquisite pulses that fired along his veins.
“Will you…will you kiss me again?” she whispered.
He clung to control; the avid, impatient, needy thing within him rose and pressed against his skin. “This is about more than just a kiss.”
“I know.”
“I want everything.”
“I know.”
He stepped closer. Her breath touched him, unsteady surges against his throat. “I won’t settle for what you decide to give. I’m going to take every part of you.”
She shivered. “You don’t ask for much, do you?”
He reached up and stroked her mouth; pliant and damp, trembling at his touch. “It’s not a one-way street, honey. I’ll give everything, too.”
She stared at him with that pensive look, her eyes glinting. “I might need some incentive.”
A surprised laugh caught in his chest. “Do you?”
“Something to sweeten the pot.”
He leaned down until his nose met hers. Stroked her wide, soft mouth again. “Then I guess you’d better kiss me.”
She blinked.
“Little flower,” he murmured. “You can do it.”
“You’re kind of a jerk,” she told him.
But she gripped the front of his t-shirt, lifted her mouth to his—
And then hesitated.
Rye waited, motionless, his heart a wild, erratic beat in his chest. His cock was as hard as steel, his mouth was watering, and he wanted to pull her beneath him, to claim her, to wrap her in so many chains, she couldn’t ever walk away.
But he couldn’t. Because this was all her.
Her gaze flickered, and she looked at him with such seriousness, his breath wedged in his throat. And then she leaned forward and carefully pressed her mouth against his.
She kissed him gently, as if he was fragile, and something deep inside of him clenched in response. Then she grew bolder; her tongue touched his upper lip. Tentative, testing. Tracing his shape, tasting his texture.
A low, raw sound broke from him.
“More,” he demanded harshly.
She licked his lower lip, and his cock throbbed exquisitely. “Greedy.”
“More.”
He wanted to touch her. To cup the weight of those pretty breasts; to grip the lush curve of her hips. He wanted to push his hand between her legs and stroke her until she came for him.
He didn’t. Even though the wildness within him was shoving against his skin; even though it physically hurt to deny himself. Determination stayed him.
Because this was for keeps.
No coercion, no seduction—well, maybe a little seduction—but she had to take what she wanted. She had to realize he was already hers.
Whatever she wanted; everything she needed.
“Well, maybe a little more,” she whispered and nipped the corner of his mouth.
Her teeth were sharp; lust flooded through him. “You play a dangerous game. I told you: I like it rough.”
“Will you… Will you show me?”
And all of his determination to let her lead died an ugly, brutal death.
His tongue stroked into her mouth, and he swallowed the moan she made with deep, greedy satisfaction. When her hands thrust into his hair and gripped him there, thought burned away, leaving only the desperate, wild need he felt, and her eager response.
He kissed her roughly, a wet, open, hungry kiss that was only a fraction of what he wanted.
What he needed.
She surged into his arms, the soft weight of her breasts crushed against him, her belly pushing against his cock, delivering a shaft of such piercing pleasure-pain that he hissed into her mouth.
His hands found the sweet curve of her ass, and when he lifted her against him, her legs wound around his waist and wrapped him tight, flexing and squeezing and grinding them together.
Lust sheared through him; his knees went weak. He turned and shoved her against the cheap plywood wall of the truck and thrust the furious throb of his cock into the hot juncture of her thighs.
A sound of wonder broke from her throat. “Oh. Now I see.”
He unzipped her fleece. “See what?”
“Why people do this.” She ground harder against the steel of his erection; her fingers tightened in his hair. Her eyes were dark and soft, and her mouth was wet, and she was smiling at him, and for a moment his chest went so tight, he couldn’t respond.
So he kissed her again.
She moaned into his mouth and sucked on his tongue, and he thrust against her, unable to help himself. He tore open her fleece only to find another piece of clothing—stupid yellow t-shirt—but he shoved it up, and then warm, silken, vanilla-scented skin filled his greedy palms. Fi met the thrust of his hips, her heels digging into his back, her thighs squeezing him as if she couldn’t get close enough.
The sounds that broke from her threatened his tenuous control; she blinked up at him, dazed with desire, her mouth swollen, her breasts spilling from the thin, pale green bra she wore, her hard, dusky nipples peeking at him through the lace.
She was panting, her pulse wild in the hollow of her throat, her fingers tight in his hair. Thrusting against him, lust and pleasure and joy painted across her face.
Goddamn glorious.
They stared at one another, their breathing labored and harsh as they stroked against each other with furious intent, and it was too much and not enough; the need to strip her bare and take her right there, hard and deep and relentless, until no questions remained, griped him with violent intensity.
Because he knew she would let him. Her gaze was unfocused, and she was surging against him mindlessly, pure, physical being.
If he cupped her, she would be slippery and wet and hot enough to burn him.
He thrust harder, and a hungry moan tore from her. Her thighs tightened; she rubbed herself against him, and he nearly came.
“Please,” she whispered again, her eyes shimmering gold.
“No,” he rasped. “Not here, not like this.”
Her legs tightened, and she ground herself against the length of him again, and he hissed.
“Goddamn it.” He reached up and dragged down her bra, freeing the round, plump globes of her breasts. Like sweet, firm apples, with large, peach-colored nipples pouting up at him. Her skin gleamed gold in the light, and when he rubbed her nipples with his thumbs, she gasped again.
“Holy cannoli,” she whispered and arched her back in offering. “That’s fantastic.”
Rye agreed. He tugged on her nipples, twisting, testing. She reared up with a sharp sound, and when he pinched her, she thrust against him, frantic with want.
She liked it rough, too.
Good.
He leaned down and took her nipple into his mouth, scraping her with his teeth before he suckled her. Hard.
A loud wail tore from her. The sound stroked his cock, and he thrust against her in time to the surges of his mouth, and the world around them winked out. There was only her: her silken flesh in his mouth, her scent in his head, the sweet song of her moans urging him on as she cried out for more.
More. He would give her more. He would make her come until she couldn’t walk, couldn’t run.
Couldn’t fucking crawl.
She was thrusting against him, begging for relief, lost wholly to sensation, and for a moment, he just watched her, drunk with lust and need and possession. Delighting in her abandon; imagining how it would be inside of her.
Mine.
“Rye,” she whispered. “Please, Rye. Please. Please.”
“What do you want, baby?” He ground against her, and she cried out. “Is this what you need? Do you want me to make you come?”
“Yes,” she breathed unsteadily.
“Look at me,” he demanded. “Tell me.”
She shuddered in his arms; her lashes lifted and her gaze met his. “Please.”
“Say it,” he ordered softly. “Say the words.”
Her eyes flashed, and he ground against her again, and the friction nearly took him to his knees. He was going to come, too. In his jeans, like a goddamn kid.
He didn’t care.
“Say it,” he growled again.
He needed her to admit that she wanted him, that she needed this as much as he did—
“Please, Rye,” she whispered. “Please make me come.”
His cock pulsed. “As you wish.”
He gripped her ass, tilted her hips, and began to thrust hard and steady against her, refusing to let her look away. He knew the wildness that was so much a part of him was watching her, too; he knew she could see it. But she didn’t turn away, didn’t look past him, or close her eyes. Her mouth opened, and her cries grew, and she met him thrust for thrust; she gave him everything he wanted as he ground them toward oblivion.
It was the most beautiful thing he’d even been a part of. He was never going to let her go. He was never going to—
Quack-quack!
“Fuck,” he snarled.
Quack-Quack!
He pressed Fiona into the wall and stilled her movement. He held her there, motionless, his entire body throbbing in protest. Every nerve ending quivered. The muscle lining his frame felt ready to snap.
“No,” she moaned softly. “Please, don’t stop. Please.”
Jesus Christ. He didn’t want to. It was taking everything he had not to—
Quack-quack!
“Fuck,” he bit out again. He reached into his back pocket and grabbed his ringing cell phone. Checked the screen.
Max.
Alarm screamed through him. The bad feeling he’d had all day slammed into him like a freight train and the heat in his blood turned instantly to ice. Instinct screeched; the hair at his nape bristled. Awareness rippled across his skin, up his arms, down his spine.
Quack-quack.
And then—snick.
Rye wrapped himself around Fiona and dove for the floor of the truck.
A heartbeat later, bullets started to fly.