In Plain Sight by Hope Anika

Chapter Twenty-Six

Fiona stood frozenin front of Rye’s motel room door.

Hesitation was not familiar to her—she was a just do it kind of girl—but she knew she was on the precipice of an act that would change her.

Change everything.

And it was not something she took lightly. Her eyes were wide open; this was a deliberate step into unknown, uncharted territory. Into the future. And it would have consequences.

But there was no fear. The sight of Rye lying in the wet grass, blood a river down the side of his face had slapped the need to live—here, now, today—into her with vicious force. She’d understood instantly how fleeting life could be.

Moments stitched together.That’s all anyone ever got.

For years, her grief and rage at Max had been a shield to hold at bay anyone who might hurt her; but life was pain. It was good and bad, ugly and joyous, hills and valleys.

For everyone.

Follow your heart,had been Thea’s advice, her own heartbreak in her eyes, certainty in her voice. And she was right. For better or worse, live.

So Fi was going to live. Come what may.

Still, she didn’t move. Because this…

Was a Big. Freaking. Deal.

And once she let Rye in, he would be in. There would be no running away; no ghosting him; no turning back in any way.

He would never allow it.

All in.

Or nothing.

And she wanted…everything.

So why was she hanging out in an empty hallway, a six-pack of beer in one hand and a rapidly cooling pepperoni pizza in the other while she tried to summon the courage to lift her hand and knock?

“Because she’s a stupid chicken,” she muttered.

Max had rented the entire second floor of the local Holiday Inn. He’d offered to put up anyone on the show who was leery of staying on the lot, but no one had taken him up on it. Carnies were tough folk. They’d rather be around to protect their property than abandon it, even to strangers with guns.

Luckily, most of the damage had been limited to her property. Her Airstream, and her pick up, and her stock truck… But they were insured and replaceable.

It hurt to lose her home—she’d worked so hard on it—but it wasn’t the end of the world. Everyone had survived.

That was all that mattered. Everything else could be fixed.

Only Fi, Rye, Selena, and Ares had opted to stay at the motel. And Max was around somewhere; she didn’t know where. He’d invited Thea to join them, but she’d only told him no thank you—in the fakest, most polite voice Fi had ever heard—and disappeared into her trailer.

In spite of her friend’s assertions to the contrary, Fi was pretty sure Thea and Max weren’t done. Not if Max had anything to say about it, anyway. And while part of her wanted to chase him off—she really didn’t want to witness that crash and burn again—as she’d told Ares, Thea was a grown-ass woman, and she could fight her own battles.

So Fi just crossed her fingers and moved on.

She’d checked on Ares and Selena earlier, delivering to them one of the two pizzas she’d ordered, and they were hip-deep in a Supernatural marathon. Ares had been propped up by pillows, surrounded by junk food, Selena waiting anxiously on him as he milked his injury for all it was worth.

But Fi didn’t protest. He’d put himself between Selena and the men trying to kill her; he deserved a little pampering.

Which brought her to here and now. And stalling.

For the love of Pete, woman! Just do it!

She took a deep breath, lifted her hand, and forced herself to knock on the door. In the silence that ensued, her heart beat with painful force. The flutter low in her belly was on hyper-drive.

A moment later, Rye opened the door. He wore only a pair of faded, low-slung blue jeans, his chest bare, the sculpted lines of his body dappled with water droplets. He had a towel in one hand and was rubbing it against his wet head.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said.

He took in her bare feet, thin yoga pants, and ancient Fleetwood Mac t-shirt, and smiled. He stepped back and opened the door, and Fi took a deep breath and stepped into his room.

The fresh cedar scent of him assailed her, and the pulse deep within her throbbed harder. She felt wound tight, ready to spring. Needy in a way that would have appalled her if it hadn’t felt so good.

She put the beer and pizza down atop the small wooden table tucked into one corner of the room. “Dinner is served.”

Rye tossed the towel aside and walked toward her. “Pizza was a good choice.”

“Why?”

He reached out and snagged her hips. “Because it will keep.”

And then his mouth was on hers.

A rough sound escaped him; his tongue plunged into her mouth, and every nerve ending in her body fired to life. Fiona wrapped herself around him, her body growing wet, achy, frantic, as if they’d never been interrupted by that spray of gunfire, as if they were right back where they’d started, just a few hours earlier.

His hands squeezed her bottom and lifted her against him; she wrapped her legs around him, and their movements were smooth and perfectly choreographed as if they’d been doing this forever.

The hard line of his cock pushed into the juncture of her thighs, where she was melting and throbbing and empty, and she ground herself against him—so incredibly good—and when he made that harsh, hungry sound again, satisfaction flooded through her.

Him. Yes, him.

He swung around and suddenly she was on the bed with him coming down on top of her, and then his weight was pressing her into the cheap, noisy springs, and he felt glorious.

Hard and heavy, his skin smooth and burning hot. Tattoos covered him, intricate designs and strange textures, a detailed eagle with wings spread wideas it landed.

She wanted to trace them, but couldn’t because he was pulling away to tug off her t-shirt and rip away her bra, and then his mouth was on her, his tongue stroking her breast, his teeth closing around her nipple, suckling her with a force that had her gasping for breath and arching toward him.

“You are everything,” he mutteredagainst her flesh. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life inside you.”

Yes, please—but she didn’t have the chance to respond, because his hands were stroking over her, palms rough, the rasp of his skin against hers fanning the flames of the inferno within her.

Fingers rubbing and tugging at her nipples, pinching just enough to send a streak of white heat to her groin, drawing another moan from her.

Tracing her ribs, tickling her belly, and then sliding beneath the waist of her yoga pants, under the silky blue panties she wore, pushing aggressively into the juncture of her thighs and cupping her there, his fingers stroking her slick flesh, the heel of his palm hard against her. He began to rub her, glorious, unyielding pressure that made her moan.

Pleasure streaked through her, bright and unexpected, and she cried out. But it wasn’t enough. She wanted—

“Now,” he said harshly.

“Yes.” She arched shamelessly against the big, hard, hot hand that was rubbing her so wetly. “Please.”

“Are you sure, baby?”

She growled and thrust her hands into the thick pelt of his hair. The tremor that shook him when her fingers tightened on the silky strands pleased her. “Now.”

“You’d better be sure.”

“I am frigging sure!” she growled.

“There’s no going back, Fiona.” His palm ground against her, and she shuddered, her nails digging into the hard muscle of his back. “I won’t let you go.”

Her thighs tightened around him, and she leaned up and nipped at that place where his neck and shoulder met, where she was so sensitive, and that harsh sound broke from him again.

“Do you need a hand-written invitation?” she demanded and licked him.

“Do you have one?” he asked, his voice rough, but he didn’t move, letting her love him with her tongue. One blunt finger stroked her opening, and she moaned softly.

“Now,” she insisted and bit him again.

Another shudder, and then that finger was pushing inside of her, stretching her, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Pressure that was both pain and pleasure speared out from his finger, and when he rubbed her, another helpless moan escaped her.

“Please don’t tease,” she whispered.

“This is mine now,” he told her roughly, and another finger stretched into her, making her pant. “Only mine.”

More.She needed more. “Yes. Please—Rye—”

His fingers thrust deep. “You belong to me.”

“And you to me.” The pleasure of it made her pant. “Please, Rye.”

“I mean it, honey.” He thrust harder as if to emphasize his point, and she tried to stay focused on his words, but instead, she climbed higher, everything inside of her growing tighter. His black eyes devoured her, watching every expression and emotion that passed over her face, absorbing every response. “I’m a possessive, territorial bastard.”

She supposed it was nice that he was warning her. But she already understood the truth of him, and what he would demand from her. What he would give.

She would take it all.

“So am I,” she whispered and kissed him.

He kissed her back, possessive and heated, a wet, hungry melding that made her moan. The fingers inside of her never stopped thrusting. It felt so good, she could barely breathe.

“Please,” she begged and slid her hands down to tug at his jeans. “Now.”

“Not yet.” He ground his palm against her, and a choked cry escaped her. “I want you to come first.”

“No. I want you inside me when I have my first orgasm,” she said raggedly. “Please, Rye.”

“Your first?” He shuddered when her hands slid to his butt and pulled him hard against her. “Are you trying to kill me?”

A slow, warm, wholly sexual smile curved her mouth. “At least you’ll die happy.”

“Fucking ecstatic,” he told her roughly.

He eased his fingers out of her, rubbing her wetly and making her moan. Then he stripped away her pants and panties, leaving her nude atop the ugly, orange-flowered bedspread.

He stood, and the light gilded him in gold, and for a moment, Fiona just took him in, his beauty and wildness, the hunger she felt for him, the feeling that felt like falling, like maybe love…. He was magnificent.

“I like that,” he said, his black eyes gleaming. He undid his jeans, and let them fall. Then he stroked the length of his cock as his gaze stroked over her. “How you’re looking at me.”

“I think I might love you,” she whispered.

He froze. For one breathless instant, he didn’t move.

“Is that crazy?” she asked.

“No,” he said, staring at her. “Not crazy at all.

She moved restlessly atop the bedding. “Yes, it is. Because you’re going to be difficult. You’re going to argue with me, and try to take my bat away.”

He smiled, wild and savage, revealing the untamed part of himself he kept so carefully contained. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“You’d better,” she said, her throat unexpectedly full.

He stared at her, his smile fading. “I’ve loved you since the first moment I saw your picture. I’m going to marry you.”

Her heart leaped. “Crazy.”

“Fate,” he corrected softly.

Then he crawled onto the bed and spread her legs with his big hands on her thighs. He took his time, looking her over, her flushed skin, her pouting nipples, the moisture glazing her thighs, and the heart of her, spread wide for his pleasure.

“How do I love thee.” He leaned down and nipped delicately at her nipple. “Let me count the ways.”

She gasped and arched toward him.

“I love thee to the depth.” He suckled her, hard. “And breadth.” A wet lash into her belly button; thumbs pinching nipples. “And height my soul can reach.”

Another kiss, deep and wet and consuming.

It was a skilled, deliberate seduction that stole her breath and left her thrashing beneath him. And then he leaned back and stared down at her, spread open so freely before him, and rough sound escaped him. “I want to put my mouth on you.”

A violent tremor moved through her; moisture slid down her thighs. “Later. Please, Rye. Please. I’m begging.”

A dark, carnal smile turned his mouth. “Yes. I like it.”

“Please,” she choked out, “It hurts.”

It was the right thing to say, because an instant later, he was coming down on top of her, and his tongue was stroking into her mouth, and he was tugging at her nipples as his thighs pushed between hers, and the pressure winding so tight inside of her twisted even harder in demand. His hands slid beneath her bottom and tilted her hips up and then the head of his cock was pressing into her, and it was too much, too intense, too big, and she couldn’t breathe, and oh God, was this going to work? Because she’d only done this once, and it hadn’t been—

He pushed inside of her, thick and hard and deep, and a low, wailing moan tore from her. Her entire body began to throb. She tensed, her nails drawing trails down his spine, and he hissed and shuddered and nipped her breast, and pleasure tore through her, unexpected and intense.

“Just like that,” he said thickly into her ear. He tilted her hips a little higher and slid deeply home. “All of me inside all of you.”

She couldn’t catch her breath, and when he slid a little way out and then thrust fully back in, she cried out. Her internal muscles clamped down on him like a vice.

“Yes,” he whispered his voice raw. A violent tremor shook him. “Just like that.”

“More,” she panted.

“As you wish,” he murmured and slid slowly out, making her shudder. Then he thrust again, hard and deep.

And her entire body clenched in ecstasy.

“Oh,” she breathed, and dug her nails into his back deeper, and he threw back his head and growled. “Again!”

A strangled laugh broke from him. But he didn’t argue. Instead, he pulled out slowly and thrust again. And then again. And again.

Until soon he was stroking into her, kissing her with deep, wet, ravaging kisses, taking her hard and deep, with raw sounds and that single-minded intensity she couldn’t get enough of.

She was lost. To him: his mouth, his hands, his lovely cock stroking her toward ecstasy. To the need and hunger bleeding through her veins. To them: their easy, sensual rhythm, what they became together, the culmination just out of reach. And when he put his mouth to her ear and demanded, “Come for me,” she did.

A sharp cry broke from her as pleasure took her up and tossed her over the edge. As she rode the intense, unending wave, Rye grew tense and wild above her, thrusting harder and deeper into her until she came again, unable to stop it. He growled, his black eyes glinting wildly, and she arched against him, clenching her thighs around him, fiercely satisfied when he came apart with a savage sound and a violent shudder.

He rolled them over, his arms wrapped tight around her, his cock still deep inside of her, and held her sprawled on top of him, shuddering, quivering, and fighting for breath.

Holy cannoli!

“Are you okay?” His voice was thick. “I was rough.”

Fiona smiled up at him; she couldn’t help it. “I like it rough.”

The wildness within him flickered in his dark gaze. “You belong to me now.”

“That works both ways,” she told him.

He nodded.

“I hope you like being a carny,” she added. “Because that’s not going to change.”

“We can bargain,” he said. “How about six months on the road, and six months at home?”

“Home,” she repeated.

“A real home,” he murmured.

She stared at him. A real home.

“Idaho,” he added. “In the Tetons. I hope you like potatoes.”

For a long moment, she said nothing. Her throat was suddenly too full.

“Okay,” she whispered.

He rolled her over. “Feeling overwhelmed?”

“Maybe a little,” she admitted.

“That’s okay,” he whispered. “Just hold onto me. I’ll keep you safe.”

And then he thrust inside of her, and a sudden, breath-stealing spasm of pleasure streaked through her, forking out like lightning.

“Again,” she demanded hoarsely.

Rye smiled down at her, a slash of white against his golden skin, his eyes glittering. “Insatiable.”

“Again,” she repeated and closed her thighs around him.

His smile faded. “You’re the greatest gift I’ve ever been given.”

Tears burned her eyes. “Rye.”

“Time to count the ways,” he told her softly.

And he did.