Exposed by Kristen Callihan

Chapter Seventeen

Brenna

“Don’t takethis the wrong way,” Rye says. “But you have a shit-ton of products.”

He’s sitting on the scroll-arm bench before the makeup table in my bathroom, picking his way through my things. Wrapped in a white terry cloth hotel robe I nicked years back that barely fits his big frame, he’s a bit like the proverbial bull in the china shop. But his long fingers have the delicate dexterity of a musical artist as he lifts up a perfume bottle and takes an investigative sniff. “Smells better on your skin.”

I pause in the act of brushing out my hair and watch him with a small smile. His interest in my things is cute and sends a wash of contentment and peace through me.

We’d screwed our way through my apartment, starting in my foyer when neither of us could wait, the living room couch when his knees started to ache, and eventually headed for my bathroom when I said a hot soak in the tub would do us both well.

My bathroom is my secret oasis, done up in white marble, muted brass hardware, and shades of rich cream. A chandelier of pink crystal flowers hangs over a slipper tub that is perfectly adequate for my size. But we discovered it’s a tight fit for the two of us. Despite what hot movie bathtub sex scenes would have people believe, the reality is awkward and uncomfortable when trying it with a man as big and tall as Rye.

After a much more accommodating shower, we settled on the window seat bench to dry off. But then I had to have him again; somewhere out there, some lucky person got a nice view of Rye’s sleekly muscled back. And probably my tits. I’m okay with that. Sacrifices must be made in the pursuit of pleasure.

Now relaxed and on a mission to personally investigate all my products, he opens a jar of face mask and wrinkles his nose. “It’s purple.”

“I noticed.”

“What does it do?” A little frown pulls between his brows as he peers at the jar’s directions.

I put down my brush and sit on his lap. It’s a simple thing to do, but it feels significant, like I’m making a claim. I take the jar from his hand. “In theory, it’s supposed to smooth out wrinkles and rejuvenate tired skin.”

Rye’s arm wraps around my waist, tugging me more firmly against him. “You don’t need that. Your skin is perfect.” He punctuates the statement with a kiss on my cheek.

Pleasure hums through me. “Maybe that’s because I have a shit-ton of products.”

A huff of warm breath tickles my neck as he explores the area. “Doubtful. You’d be perfect without it.”

I’ve been complimented before, by lovers, potential lovers, idle passersby. I’ve never been fully comfortable with it. The insecure part of me forged by childhood disappointments stubbornly holds on and insists people are only pandering. But it’s different coming from Rye. His quiet conviction of my so-called perfection skitters and bumps along my skin, trying to find its way into my heart.

I brush a strand of damp hair off his brow. He needs a haircut. And a shave. Rye’s eyes meet mine, and I notice the tired lines around his.

“You should try the mask. It might do you some good.”

A wry smile tips his mouth. “Are you saying I look like shit?”

“Not like shit. But tired.” More than that, in truth.

When I’m with him, he’s either hot and urgent with lust or wearing the contentment of a big cat sunning on a rock. I swear, there are times I can all but hear him purr, a deeply satisfied rumble in that wide chest. But there’s something under the surface that I can’t put my finger on. Something off and pained. I don’t want to push, but I can’t refrain from tracing one of the lines of fatigue that run across his forehead.

In silence, he watches me, not exactly wary but guarded. The moment pulls thick and tight, and then he breaks it with an easy smile. “So put some on me. Rejuvenate my ravaged skin.”

He’s evading. But then, so am I. Too much emotion isn’t smart. I cannot fall for Rye. Not fully. I won’t survive it. I’ll tumble around with him for a while, but I have to stay safely on the ledge.

“Let the healing begin.” I grab my mask applicator and smear a big dollop of purple cream across his forehead.

He closes his eyes as though I might somehow get the thick paste in them. I fight the urge to kiss the tip of his nose. I seriously need to get a grip. Working faster, I concentrate on the task at hand.

“There!” I sit back and inspect my work. Rye has a nice coat of purple covering his forehead, nose, and cheekbones. “Now just relax.”

He frowns, creating purple valleys over his forehead. “It’s not going to melt my face off, is it?”

Rolling my eyes, I toss the applicator brush in the sink. “Yes, that’s exactly what it does. When we skincare lovers get tired of having faces, we reach for this stuff. Instant Wicked Witch of the West meets water.”

His lips purse at my sarcasm.

“And stop making faces.” I set the timer. “You’re cracking the mask.”

He exhales in a long-suffering sigh, but I know he’s enjoying his “spa” time. His body is loose and relaxed, his hand idly gliding up and down my waist. Humor gleams in his eyes, made bright blue by the surrounding lavender cream.

“You have a bit on your beard.” Leaning forward, I rub my thumb over the spot. He catches me with his teeth, gently biting down before letting it go.

“Animal.” Laughing, I snatch my hand away.

The mask cracks like a drying riverbed as he grins. With an exaggerated growl, he grasps the back of my neck and hauls me forward. His kiss is greedy and messy.

Squeaking, I push off him. But I’m laughing. I can’t help it. Playing with Rye is the kind of fun I rarely allow myself.

He chuckles, totally unrepentant, eyes alight. Shaking my head, I towel off the smudges of purple he left on my face and then tidy his mask. He grins the entire time, his hands roving as though he can’t stop himself from touching me. I’m not even sure he’s aware he’s doing it.

“It’s all in your beard now.” I rub away a clump. “Honestly, Rye. This beard is out of control.”

That has him frowning. “You don’t like the beard?”

Leaning back a little, I study his face. The strange thing is that I really do like it. Rye has the kind of strong features and square jaw that hold up well to a beard. Coupled with his dark-blond hair, fierce blue eyes, and dark tats, he reminds me of a marauding Viking. And I love the feel of it against my skin, between my legs, or tickling the corners of my mouth.

I suck in an unsteady breath. “Two weeks ago, I loved it.” My thumb touches a scraggly bit that threatens to overtake his lip. “But it desperately needs trimming and grooming.”

The frown sinks deeper into his eyes, and he glances away.

“I’m surprised you even have one,” I say, pushing for lightness. “I distinctly recall you complaining that you hated beards because they make your face itch.”

The thick columns of his thighs tense beneath me. “Felt like a change, is all.”

His tone screams, Back off! But there’s something in his eyes that has me looking closer. It’s fear. He’s afraid. Rye is never afraid.

“You’re usually fastidious when it comes to grooming.” Sure, he’s been a wild child, drank his way through the first three years of fame, has done a bunch of stuff I don’t even want to think about. But Rye is never a slob.

His gaze narrows. “It’s just a beard, Bren. Let it go.”

Gently, I rub the curve of his neck where it meets his shoulder. “I’m just curious. It isn’t like you to be so untidy.”

A long, harsh breath leaves him, and he carefully but firmly moves me off his lap. “I’ll get rid of the fucking beard, all right?”

“I didn’t ask you to get rid of it.”

Rye stands, reaching for the washcloth. With brisk movements, he wets it and starts cleaning the mask off his face. “I’m gonna head out,” he says when he’s finished.

“You’re leaving? Because I asked you about your beard?”

“No, because you won’t let it go.”

I can’t believe this. I stare at him in amazement. “It was one freaking question.”

“It was more than that.”

“Okay, fine. I didn’t let it go.” I lift a hand in frustration. “Only because I don’t understand. You’re freaking out because I asked why you don’t groom your beard.”

He snorts derisively. “What are you, a beard detective?”

“Yes. I have a badge and everything. My unit specializes in unchecked beard growth violations.”

His glare is cutting. “Cute.”

“I thought so, yes. Now answer the question.”

“I don’t give a shit about the fucking beard!”

The force of his anger has me stepping back, shock prickling along my skin. “Why the hell are you yelling at me?”

He grimaces. “I didn’t mean to shout.” With that, he moves past me, shrugging out of the robe and tossing it on the hook by the door.

I gape as he strides away, his beefy butt flexing with each angry step.

“You’re seriously leaving?”

“You’re the detective. Figure it out.”

He’s being a dick. I should let him go. But I can’t. Not when I’ve upset him in a way I don’t understand.

I follow him into the hall. “Rye.”

Gloriously nude, and clearly not giving a fuck, he heads for his clothes. “Shit,” he says when he realizes they’re still in a wet heap by the door. He reaches for his jeans anyway, snapping them in an attempt to untangle the legs.

“Rye, stop. Don’t go like this.”

“Look, it’s all good.” Viciously, he shoves on his wet jeans. “I’ll call you later.”

Maybe I should back off. He’s vibrating with agitation, a dull flush rushing up the back of his neck. But the deep creases in the corners of his eyes and the pinched look around his mouth speak of hurt. I don’t know what to do to make it better.

He reaches for his boots but stops short as if stung. “Shit,” he shouts, recoiling and spinning away like a trapped animal with nowhere to go. “Fucking shit.”

“Rye?” It’s a breathless whisper because his rage borders on panic.

A great shuddering sigh escapes him, and he rests his forehead on the wall. His big, clenched fist presses against the wall as though he’d like to punch a hole through the plaster. But he doesn’t. The long lines of his back tense as he stands there breathing hard and fast.

Slowly, I move to him. He flinches as soon as I touch him, but I keep my palm lightly on the small of his quivering back. “Hey,” I whisper, soothing this time. “Talk to me.”

He doesn’t say anything. His eyes are closed tight against me.

Softly I stroke him. “I’m sorry. Okay? You have to know I think you’re gorgeous.”

A laughing snort escapes, followed by a pained groan. “Shit, Bren. It’s not about the beard, okay?”

He takes a breath and then turns to lean against the wall and face me. Red rims his eyes, and he blinks a few times, swallowing hard. “I haven’t shaved because I can’t.”

“You can’t shave?” I don’t understand at all.

A fair amount of belligerence colors his gaze, but it doesn’t seem directed at me. “It’s my hands. They…they don’t fucking work right.” A small click sounds at the back of his throat when he swallows. “I move them a certain way and they seize up into this.”

Rye lifts a shaking hand. His fingers are curled into a painful-looking claw, the tendons sticking out in sharp relief. Bleakly he stares at me. “Hands, wrists, forearms…It’s fucking agony. And I…I can’t play, Bren.” His voice cracks. “I can’t play.”

The truth surges through me in a horrible rush. The way he’s been evading texting, the missed band meetings, the wariness that lives on the edges of his smile.

I go ice-cold, all his pain and fear flowing in my veins. My lips part, but I don’t know what to say, and he’s all but glaring at me as if he’s terrified I’ll pity him.

Silently, I shake my head, trying to tell him without words that it isn’t like that. Never pity. When he tenses further, his body recoiling, I can’t stop from reaching for him. My fingers close around his fist. I cradle it in my hands.

Rye barely breathes as he blinks down at me. Gently, I run my fingers over his stiff ones, easing my thumb beneath them to rub his palm. “Rye, honey…”

His chest hitches, and I draw his hand up to kiss his knuckles. He lets me. He seems incapable of doing anything more than watching me carefully massage his hand.

“Have you seen a doctor?” I ask.

Another flinch. He makes a furtive attempt to pull his hand from mine. I don’t let go, and he sighs, relenting. “No.”

My gaze flicks to his. “Why not?”

Rye tilts his head back and blinks up at the ceiling. “Don’t yell at me, all right?”

“All right.”

Licking his lips, he meets my eyes. “I’m afraid.”

Understanding flows over me. If he goes, it will be real. He might learn the worst. His entire life revolves around his hands.

I lean into him and wrap my arms around his waist. He stiffens for a second but then, with a choked sound, ducks his head and rests his cheek against my temple. I hug him close, smoothing my hands up and down his back.

My lips brush his chest. “You can’t go on like this. It’s tearing you up.”

“I know,” he says after a moment. He trembles then seems to fight it.

I kiss him again before stepping back. “Come on. Let’s get you out of those jeans and we’ll relax.”

Rye narrows his eyes. “Don’t baby me, Bren. I can’t handle your pity.”

I’m already pulling down his half-open zipper. “I’m not going to baby you. I’m going to wrap your hands in a heating pad, then I’m going to trim that damn scraggly beard. After that, I might sit on that massive dick of yours and ride it for my pleasure, but we’ll have to see if you’re still being a grumpy ass.”

A reluctant smile lights his eyes and spreads over his face. “Massive, eh?”

“Enormous, even. The best dick ever.”

Rye snorts, but he lets me help him out of the wet jeans. “Well, when you put it like that.”

It’s only when I have him back in my bathroom, one clenched fist wrapped up and warming, that he catches my free hand with his own. “Brenna.” He pauses, his gaze darting over my face with a pained intensity, as though he can’t find the right words. Or maybe he has and doesn’t know if he should utter them.

Either way, I cup his cheek. Tenderness and a fierce need to protect him turn my voice thick. “I know.” I press a soft kiss to the bridge of his nose. “I know.”

* * *

RYE

Emotionally drained,I sit on the little bench in Brenna’s bathroom. My hands have been tucked into a pair of heated mitts that she uses for her mani-pedi days to get her skin soft—something I find unduly cute. But they work well. She’s wrapped me back up in a terry cloth robe that’s way too small, gaping at my chest and barely reaching my knees. I’d rather go naked, but she’d primly told me to put my dick away while she’s working because it distracts her.

Frankly, I could use a good distraction. Brenna scraped me raw in a way only she can, pushing and prodding at my weakness until there’s nowhere to hide. As usual, I lashed out then tried to run. Only this time, she didn’t let me. This time, she put her hand on me, asked me to stay. This time, she showed me something I’d never seen before when we fought: her concern. Her care.

Despite telling her I don’t need or want her pity, I don’t mind her care. Scratch that. I love her care. She does it so well—efficiently putting all her focus into my comfort in that no-nonsense way of hers that leaves no room for self-pity or doubt. And it works. I relax into her hands, letting her do as she pleases.

I had no idea how much I needed to be touched without any endgame, to be handled like I matter beyond sex. I’m not fooling myself into believing anything has changed in our arrangement. But it’s enough to have me thinking things I shouldn’t.

Weirdly, confessing to her doesn’t make me feel worse. It releases something within me, and with it, I feel lighter, as though maybe the world isn’t about to end, that I can face anything as long as she is there to help me pick up the pieces. Part of me wants to run from that, run far and fast. But I don’t. Because I’m not a fool. Being here with her as she fusses over me is worth it.

I hold still as she rests a hand on my shoulder and leans in to peer at my face.

“You want me to shave it all off?” she asks. “Or give you a nice trim?”

Up close, I’m struck by her beauty. Brenna’s features aren’t conventionally pretty. Her beauty is austere, striking. It is the difference between Vivaldi’s “Spring” and “Winter.” The lilting notes of “Spring” lull you into peaceful compliance, whereas the vibrant tempo of “Winter” stirs the blood and reminds you what it means to be alive. That is Brenna: thrilling, lively, vital.

Her nose is blunt, her face a narrow oval of smooth alabaster skin that glows with good health. Her lips aren’t overly full but are well-shaped and candy pink. But it’s her eyes, the color of fine whisky in firelight, framed by thick auburn lashes that take my breath away. Wide and clear, and I swear they see further into me than anyone else has. Or maybe it’s that I look at them and all rational thought fades. I could spend a lifetime staring into her eyes and it wouldn’t be enough.

Now they’re crinkling at the corners, the space between them furrowed in concern.

“Rye?”

Right. I’m staring. I clear my throat. “What do you prefer?”

God, she smells good. Fresh from the bath, spicy-sweet like some exotic flower laced with fruit. Stupid, I know. But I can’t describe it any other way. It’s just fucking good. A drug. I draw in more of her scent as she bites the inside of her lower lip and contemplates.

“You want me to pick?”

“Well, yeah.” My mouth quirks. “I’m the one going down on you on the regular, so…”

I freaking love the way she blushes berry red. It rushes up from her neck and washes over her entire face. I know she hates it, so I bite back a smile.

“You just had to get that out there, didn’t you?” she says, lips twitching.

I also know she likes to be teased.

“Honey, if you’d let me, I’d create a full internet ad campaign about that.”

Brenna’s deft fingers run through my beard, sending shivers along my spine. She huffs out a laugh. “How would it go? ‘My name is Rye Peterson, and I’m intimately familiar with Brenna James’s lady parts’?”

“Lady parts?” I scoff. “More like, ‘And I’m the lucky bastard who gets to lick, suck, and fuck Brenna James’s delicious peachy pussy.’”

She’s the color of a raspberry now. “Oh my God.” Another husky laugh. “You’re terrible.”

Waggling my brows, I grin. “You love it.”

“You’re also deluded.”

“Not about this. I bet you’re wet right now.”

“Not even a little.” A spark of humor lights her eyes, daring me to prove her wrong.

“Liar. You’re so wet. You need me to make it better.”

“Rye.” She laughs.

“Come on, let me see.” I reach for her, but the wires of the heating mitts won’t let me get far, and she gently bats my hands back down to my lap.

“Behave. I have work to do.”

I keep my hands where they are, but it doesn’t stop me from nuzzling her neck. She snickers, but then tilts her head ever so slightly to give me more access. I get a lick in before she dodges away, and with a reproving look, opens one of her makeup table drawers.

“Since you’ve given me a choice, we’re keeping the beard.” Over her shoulder, she shoots me a saucy look. “I like how it feels on my skin when you lick and suck my pussy.”

I groan long and deep and reach for her again.

Laughing, she evades me. “None of that.”

“Evil, Bren. Evil.”

She pulls out a pink electric shaver. It looks a lot like a beard trimmer. But, you know, pink.

“Why do you have that?” I ask idly, as she selects an attachment.

“To trim my lady bits,” she says with sauce. “Now, let’s make that raggedy beard nice and tidy—”

“Hold up. You’re telling me that’s your pussy trimmer?”

“Rye! God, you’re crude.”

“Bren, we’ve established you’re just as crude.”

“Hardly.”

“Answer the question.”

She sets a hand on her hip and glares. “I already told you what it was. And I’m not calling it a pussy trimmer, if that’s what you’re after.”

“No, no…” My voice is strangled. “I’m just clarifying.”

Her eyes narrow. “You’re not going to get all weird about this, are you? I promise, I clean it well after every use.”

“I’m not going to get weird. I just have a really good visual imagination. And I’m hard as steel right now.”

Her gaze darts down, and she sucks in a breath. Like I said, the robe she gave me is too small. My dick stands at eager attention, jutting out between the flaps of the terry cloth. Brenna’s gaze turns hazy, and she licks her lips. My horny dick jumps as if trying to flag her down.

“Put that thing away,” she murmurs, her breathing uneven.

Something I absolutely love about Brenna? She’s a fiend for my cock. She loves playing with it, sucking it…I’d marry her for that alone. I don’t think she’d appreciate that particular motivating factor. But I do. The memories of all the times she’s toyed with my body surge to the surface, and I get so hot, I swear I’m a little light-headed.

Grinning wide, I lean back, parting my thighs. Just enough to let the robe slip farther open. “Putting it away is going to be a problem, Berry. It’s too hard.”

“Rye…” She’s attempting to sound stern, but it doesn’t work, given that she’s still eyeing my hard-on like it’s candy.

She has no idea how much her lust turns me on. She couldn’t, or she wouldn’t torture me so much with it. Or maybe she would. Brenna loves to tease as much as I do. I nudge my hips, lifting my dick a bit higher, my knee rocking with hypnotic slowness. Taunting her, even though my heart is threatening to pound right out of my chest.

“You gonna help me out here, Bren?”

Her lips part, her pink tongue darting out. My cock actually pulses. I swallow a groan. The trimmers hit the counter with a clatter. As though moving through water, Brenna sinks to her knees before me, her clever hand going to the tie of the robe. Cool air hits my hot skin.

Gaze rapt on my dick, she slides a hand up my thigh and gently strokes my hip. Then her free hand, cool and slim, wraps around my aching flesh. She gives it a tug.

“God, Rye, just look at you.” Damn if I don’t feel her gaze moving over my body with something close to awe. It trips my heart, makes my mouth dry. She licks her lips, greedy, her voice husky. “You’re so…”

I don’t get the rest. The wet pull of her mouth is on me a second later, and I’m lost.

I’m so fucking lost.