Exposed by Kristen Callihan
Chapter Thirty-Three
Rye
Somehow,I get us to my room. Somehow, I manage to shut the door behind us without dropping her in my clumsy haste. How am I supposed to function properly when my woman is wrapped around me, eating at my mouth like she’ll never get another taste?
My woman. Holy shit. She’s mine.
Mine.
I press her against the door, my fingers threading through her hair. “If this is a dream, don’t wake me up.”
She laughs against my lips, a soft exhale of cocoa-laced breath. “No dream, buttercup.”
A shot of pure, unfiltered happiness shoots up my spine, and I kiss her deep, my body pressing into hers. She feels so damn good. Warm and real. Delicate.
Fragile.
Shit. I’m too big to be shoving her up against doors without care. Pulling us away from the door, I spin her around to lay her on my bed. She smiles up at me, auburn hair a halo around the oval of her face, as I take off her little fuzzy slippers, tossing them next to mine, before crawling into bed.
I settle over her, my arms bracketing her slim body. Now that I have her here, I can slow down. I can savor this.
There’s so much I want to do, touch every inch of her silken skin, breathe her fragrance in deep. Kiss those cherry-sweet lips. But all I can do is stare, my hands clumsy as I cup her cheeks.
“You nearly killed me down there,” I croak. “For a second. When I thought…” My chest hitches, and I kiss her again. Just to feel her, to confirm she’s real.
When I pull back, Brenna traces one of my brows with the tip of her finger, her expression solemn. “I bumbled through the first half. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. Thank you.”
Her lips quirk with an uncertain smile. “You’re thanking me for a badly worded public confession?”
“Yes. My heart was broken. You made it whole again.”
“Rye.” She strokes my cheek. “I’ll do my best to be more careful with you in the future.”
I said that to her once. When I risked it all and thought I’d lost her. She’s giving my words back to me. A slow smile spreads through me. I feel it down to my toes, on the back of my neck, in the pounding center of my chest.
I want to say something, tell her what she means to me, but she’s tugging me down, her mouth fitting over mine.
For a long time, we simply kiss, slow and easy, whispering nonsensical things, exchanging small touches just because we can. Lazy contentment steals over me. She’s warm and delicious, her mouth a wonder, her body my most covetous dream. If all I had of her was this—lying in her arms, tasting her mouth—I’d take it.
But she’s given me everything. The knowledge fills me up, has me threading my fingers into her hair and holding on.
Brenna’s gaze is soft as she rubs the scruff of my beard. “What were you going to tell me in the hallway?”
“Oh, that?” My smile is self-deprecating, the heavy desperation of that moment replaced by buoyant satisfaction. “I was going to engage in a little light begging. Tell you that I was a bonehead coward when I said it was a mistake to ask for more.” I tug her closer. “It was a lie, Bren. I wanted you. So fucking badly, that I said what I thought you wanted to hear so I could keep you in my life.”
“We spent a long time protecting ourselves from each other.” She strokes me to gentle the words. “Made us both a little boneheaded.”
“Now I want to make a joke about bones,” I confess with a laugh. Because it feels so fucking good just to laugh with her.
Her lips purse, but she can’t stop the smile. “Of course, you do.” The smile breaks free, and her lips press to mine. “You gonna?”
“Going to what?” I ask against her lips, distracted.
She snickers. “Bone me?”
I blink—and then burst out laughing, my body quaking with it. God, I adore this woman. So much, my hands are clumsy as I lift her shirt to free her from it. The sight of her pert, pink-tipped breasts has me groaning low in my throat. “Hello, lovelies, oh, how I’ve missed you.”
She huffs a laugh, as I lean down and kiss each rosy tip with due reverence. But the sound dies as I gently suckle one nipple, and her fingers thread through my hair. “Rye…”
“Yeah?” I rasp, nuzzling under the curve of her breast. She smells so good, feels like satin.
“I’ve missed you too.”
The confession, softly spoken and filled with longing, has my heart clenching tight. With dreamlike slowness, I map the silken dips and lines of her body, drawing off her pants as I go. She opens her legs for me, and I find the heat of her, swollen and slick, and all for me.
I need a taste. She is luscious, melting against my tongue, dripping honey that I lap up with growing fervor. I drown in her flavors, the musky scent of her desire. It feeds my own, and I grind into the bed to ease the ache. I am utterly lost, working her as she comes and comes.
Until she grabs at my hair, tugging with impatience. “Up here,” she demands, all dewy pink and panting. Greedy hands pluck at my shirt. Grinning, I help her out, whipping it off, easing down my pants. My dick slaps against my abs, it’s so damn hard.
I palm it, squeezing hard to get it under control. But her hands are on me now, running along my shoulders like a balm. I surge up to kiss her, needing those lips, needing to feel her skin pressed to mine. It’s been too long. Forever. Fucking agony.
But she’s wrapped around me now, easing the pain. Legs locked with mine, her hands stroke my back, grasping my ass. I love it. Love everything about her.
I murmur words of reverence as I cup her cheek, kiss her mouth. Tell her how much I missed her, missed this, how she’s the only one I think of, the only one I want. She shivers, moans against my lips.
“There’s only you,” she whispers. “No one else will do.”
Has she any idea what that does to me? My lids prickle, emotion clogging my throat as I ease between her spread thighs. Staring down at her softly smiling face, auburn strands of her hair sticking to her flushed skin, my arms bracketing her slim body, I push into the snug clasp of her and shudder, undone, pleasure flowing down my limbs like liquid heat.
I move slowly, going in deep and holding there for a long moment before pulling back and doing it again. Again. Working myself home, claiming my place, making her moan.
I kiss her mouth, touch her cheeks, the curve of her neck. This is love. I know it now. The utter adulation in our touches, the perfection of it. It is peace and comfort and pleasure all in one.
The knowledge swells between us, reflected in her eyes. And she touches me with trembling hands, moves with me, taking me just as I take her. In that moment, I know the truth: I am home.
After a long journey, I am home.
* * *
Brenna
The little housein the woods just beyond the lake started life as a gamekeeper’s cottage. Like something out of a fairy tale with its thatched roof, eyebrow dormers, and walls of timber and stucco. It had fallen into disrepair until Uncle Xander renovated the place in the 1990s. Now, the floors glow mellow honey and marshmallow-cream walls contrast with the dark old beams stretched over the low ceiling.
As kids, Killian and I used to sneak in here from time to time, pretending to be Hansel and Gretel. Or, in our teen years, to smoke pot and read books, or listen to music while lounging on the overstuffed sofa set up before the river-stone fireplace.
At some point last night, an envelope was thrust under Rye’s door, containing a heavy iron key and a note from Killian that read:
For the love of all that’s holy (and my freaking ears), please, please, please take the cottage. Love you, Bean (& Rye, I guess).
—Kills
I supposeRye and I had gotten a little too loud, and the note was Killian’s way of saying he supported our relationship, something I think we both needed to hear. So we happily decamped to the cottage, heading directly for the massive oak tester bed, draped in butter-colored toile that took up nearly the entirety of the bedroom alcove.
Though the house has a fully stocked kitchenette, later the following day, Whip delivered us a lunch basket, smugly speculating that we needed real sustenance in the form of a hot meal.
A grinning Rye thanked his friend at the door then crawled back in bed to feed me bites of savory steak pasties with a buttery crust that melted on the tongue and left little golden flakes on my lips for Rye to lick off.
We devoured lunch, washing it down with cold, hoppy beers, before Rye shoved everything to the side and then spread my legs to have his “dessert.” At some point, we drifted off to sleep, but it must not have been for long, because the fire still crackles behind the grate when I wake.
It begins to rain, a steady fall that taps against the windows and turns the outside light weak and gray. Inside, however, is quiet and cozy and beautiful. Cream-colored rag rugs over mellow wood floors, tobacco-velvet club chairs, and the slouchy long couch covered in faded cream-cabbage rose print lend the room a soft and pleasing feel, while emerald-green gourd lamps with deep red shades cast a rosy glow to the room.
Rye is still asleep, his muscled body a sprawl of firm, golden skin and mosaics of colorful ink. One big foot hangs over the edge of the bed, the white sheets twisted around one beefy thigh. Smiling, I run a hand over the back of his spiked hair. In the dim of the alcove, it’s the color of old bronze with glints of gold. He grunts in his sleep, turning his head my way. There’s not a gentle line on his boldly shaped features, save his lips. Those are wide and soft, the bottom lip plush and utterly biteable.
A light exhalation leaves him, the thick fan of his lashes fluttering with his dreams. I let him be. The poor man more than earned his sleep.
Languid and replete, I lift my arms and stretch out all the delicious little aches and pains that making love to Rye left behind. The room is warm enough that I don’t bother with a robe but pad naked to the bathroom.
When I return, I curl up on the end of the bed, watching the fire play over the pale walls, and draw in the faint scent of lavender tingeing the air. I have no idea where it comes from, but it is sweet and clean and soothes me. Every part of this room is created for enjoyment. And all I can think is that I am here, and I am grateful. I love my life and the people in it.
Contentment has me feeling lazy. I revel in it, give myself permission to let go. It’s surprisingly easy to do with Rye.
Damn, but the man can put a smile on my face even when he’s sleeping less than two feet away. I allow myself that joy too, because I’m done worrying about what I’m supposed to be doing.
Behind me, Rye stirs, uttering an adorably confused grunt, and I know he’s awake and most likely rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
I continue to watch the fire and feel his gaze like a warm caress along my back.
“Good sleep?” I ask softly.
He grunts again, a sated beast lounging in his bed.
“Yeah,” he says, just as soft. He’s silent for a moment. “You okay?”
The sound of his quiet care has me smiling, but I don’t turn around. Not yet. A strange sort of peaceful lethargy keeps me in place. “Yes. Just thinking about my parents.”
He waits a beat before answering. “They don’t deserve you, baby.”
Baby.We rarely call each other by those types of names. But the way he says it, gentle and tender, makes me feel wrapped up in his protection. I like it. A lot.
Ducking my head, I pick at the cashmere duvet cover. “I’m okay. Better, actually.”
With a light sigh, I tilt my head back and blink up at the ceiling. “I was sitting here, feeling safe and content, and this realization stole over me. For my entire life, I worried about fitting in, felt like I was the outsider when it came to the wealth and success Killian, his parents, and you guys in the band all had.”
Rye doesn’t say a word, but I know he’s ready to reach out if I need it, and the words come easier.
“I’d hear my parents’ warnings, all the times they said I wasn’t good enough, that I didn’t fit in this world, and deep down, I believed it. But the truth is, my parents were the ones who didn’t fit. They were the outsiders, not because they weren’t good enough, but because they didn’t let themselves belong.
“I belong here for the simple reason the people in my life care about me, and this wealth and success is the result of hard work and talent. I fit in because this is the life I made for myself. For years, I ran from anything that threatened to leave me emotionally open. I denied myself true happiness, denied myself you. Back in that kitchen, I stopped running, and everything shifted. And…I don’t know…it just truly sank in.”
Pausing, I smooth my hand over my bare knee, that gentle sense of peace floating over me. “We are who we are, and who we are is pretty great as far as I’m concerned. No one can take that from me without my permission. Not even my parents.”
When I finish, Rye doesn’t say anything. But I know he’s heard and is processing. The bed creaks with his movement, then his voice, thick with sleep but also emotion, reaches over the small space between us.
“I love you.”
So simply said, like it’s always been true.
It soaks into my skin, fills my heart. Finally, I turn. He reclines on his side, head resting in his hand, looking back at me with that truth shining in his eyes. Strong, pure, gorgeous. Mine.
This man is mine. My friend. My lover. My home. My heart.
“I love you too.”
His smile is the dawn. And when he reaches out to tug me against his solid warmth, I go willingly, curling into him and threading my fingers in his messy hair.
The corners of his denim-blue eyes crinkle as he touches my cheek with the blunt tips of his fingers. “We just said we loved each other.”
“We did.”
The grin turns incandescent. “Say it again, so I can fully soak it up.”
“I love you.”
“God, that’s nice.” He kisses me, melting little presses of lips to lips. “One more time.”
“I love you, Ryland Peterson.”
“Mmm…Just gets better and better.” He rolls me back and settles between my legs, his big, firm body a blanket of warmth around me.
I stroke the short strands of his thick hair. “Let me see. Tell me again.”
The corners of his eyes crinkle, a look of utter happiness lighting his face. “I love you, Brenna James.”
“You’re right, it feels really good.”
Rye hums and kisses the crook of my neck. “I’ll tell you every day, then.”
Little shivers of delight race over my skin. “And twice on Sundays?”
“Multiple times every day.” He finds the sensitive spot under my ear, his voice dipping. “I’ll say it whenever I’m thinking it, which is basically all the time.”
I trace the hard curve of his shoulder where his skin is hot and tight. “Let’s not go crazy, now.”
“You’ll love it,” he growls against my neck, playfully nipping me.
My smile pulls wide, joy making me giddy. “You’re right. I will.”
He chuckles, the sound rumbling and infectious. And suddenly I’m laughing too, wrapping myself more firmly around him as he peppers my face with kisses, his big body quaking with humor.
“Why are we laughing?” I ask idly, my hands finding their way back into his hair.
Rye lifts his head and meets my gaze. His entire heart is in his eyes and it is stunningly beautiful.
“Because we’re happy, Berry. We’re happy.”