Exposed by Kristen Callihan

Chapter Seven

Brenna

A kiss.I can do this.

“Okay.” I squint at Rye through one partially opened eye. “One kiss.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Try not to look too enthused there, Bren.”

“Shit.” I suck in a breath. “I’m sorry. It’s just…It’s you. You know?”

He runs his thumb along the scruff of his beard as though he’s doing his best to rein in a smile. “I know.”

The soft understanding tone of his voice tells me he does know exactly how weird this is. But the way he’s looking at me, all that carnal heat barely banked, tells another story entirely. And that’s the one I suddenly want to read.

Flushed and frazzled, I turn fully his way, tucking my legs under me on the couch as my shoulder rests against the soft back cushion. “Okay. Kiss me.”

Silence falls heavy between us. I feel it pressing into the thudding center of my chest. Rye’s expression is serious, almost solemn as he reaches for me. His big hand, warm and rough, trembles before gently cupping my cheek. My insides jump and flutter, but I manage to keep still.

Or at least I do until he leans in. His lips come within a hairsbreadth of touching mine when a laugh bursts out of me. He pulls back as I dissolve into a helpless ball of nervous, snorting giggles.

“For fuck’s sake…” He’s trying to sound stern, but he’s smiling wryly. “Are you going to be serious?”

“Sorry. Sorry.” I clear my throat and wipe my eyes. “I’m good now. Totally.”

His brow quirks. “You sure, Berry?”

“Yep.” I draw in a quick, deep breath and let it out, tilting my head up to meet his gaze. “I’m good now.”

The blunt tip of his thumb caresses a sensitive spot just under the corner of my mouth. “You sure?”

“Completely.” My lips twitch. Butterflies wage war in my chest.

He dips his head. Every inch of me feels him closing in, warm, big, blocking out the light, the sound. He smells delicious. His breath tickles my lips. A laugh bursts out of me again.

“I’m sorry!” I’m giggling like a schoolgirl, and just as flustered, my cheeks searing hot. All I can think is, Rye is about to kiss me. Rye Peterson is going to kiss me. Rye. Kissing. Me.

He has the uncanny power to send me straight back to adolescence.

Rye moves back just enough to meet my gaze, his bemused and dry. He doesn’t say a word, just searches my face, probably looking for signs of another outburst.

My lips wobble on a helpless grin. “I’m sorry. I have the giggles. It’s just…it’s you.”

I am repeating myself. But he doesn’t point it out. Ducking my head, I try to get a grip; it’s embarrassing as hell to be this flustered in front of him. Hell, it’s just a kiss. Amateur hour, really. I shouldn’t feel like my heart is trying to bang its way out of my chest over a simple kiss.

“Bren. Look at me.”

When I do, he takes my hand in his and presses the tips of my fingers against the side of his neck. His pulse beats hard and fast.

“I know,” he whispers. “I know.”

Because it means the same to him.

I’m no longer laughing. I can’t. He’s all around me, hands framing my face, the heat of him warming my skin. The man is his own furnace, always running a bit hotter than anyone else. Being this close to him, with all that intense focus on me, is strangely heady, and I find myself breathing a little faster.

I breathe out, and he breathes in. In. Out. We’re exchanging air, both of us quietly shaking. I’m close enough to see the crystal starburst of white lines within the warm blue of his eyes. Then his thick lashes lower, his gaze settling on my mouth.

God. I feel it. Feel the pads of each individual finger pressed against my skin. Feel his shuddery exhale.

“Rye, I—”

His lips capture mine. Heat punches through me, flaring hot between my thighs, pulling tight on my nipples. He kisses me like a man who’s been stranded in the dark and just found a source of light, his entire body straining toward mine. Firm lips learn my shape. Soft licks, gentle sucks. I lose my breath, and he gives it back to me in a husky exhale, a small murmur that speaks of hunger. It stokes my own. I nudge closer, my lips parting, pressing.

The stubble of his beard is surprisingly soft and springy. It tickles the edges of my mouth with the smallest of counterstrokes, sensitizing my skin. I feel that tickle at the base of my neck, the undersides of my breasts, dancing up my thighs. It’s as if every nerve in my body is tied to my mouth and the way his makes me feel. A whimper escapes because I want more. I want it for hours.

But he’s easing away. I haven’t even discovered his taste. Just that small sample of his lips on mine.

I find myself chasing that clever mouth. But he holds firm, watching me, eyes bright with desire. Then he huffs out a half laugh, half groan and kisses me again. Deeper, slower, so intense I flare fever-hot. He…handles me. Moving me where he wants, coming at me from different angles as if he needs to try all of them. And then try them again.

And I love it.

God, I’m slipping into a daze, my body throbbing. If I weren’t sitting down, I’d have fallen.

I grip the collar of his shirt. My other hand is still pressed against his nape. His pulse strums a frantic rhythm. When I run the tip of my finger along the line of his neck, he grunts and breaks the kiss.

His lips are swollen, the bottom one glossy with our kiss. “That was…” He clears his throat. “It was…”

“Yeah, it was.”

Rye thumbs the corner of my mouth. “I knew it would be like that.”

I want to say something snarky about his confidence. But given the fact that he’s reduced me to this hot and melty creature of need, I can only lick my tender lips and stare back at him.

As if he can’t help himself, he ducks his head and skims a kiss along the sensitive curve of my jaw. “Tell me we’re doing this.”

It’s all I can do not to jump on his lap and ride him like a bike. My head feels like it’s floating. I’m so damn hot, I can barely form words.

“Rules.” I tilt my head back, let him nuzzle the crook of my shoulder. “We need rules.”

Rye stops, his nose burrowed in the hollow where my jaw meets my neck. He breathes in deep as though he’s scenting me. His breath gusts out in a warm rush that sends a shiver down my spine. “Give them to me.”

What were we talking about? Easing away, I sit back far enough that no part of me is touching any part of him. My head clears a little, but when I meet his eyes, a tremor runs through my belly. The very thing I’ve been trying for a decade to avoid, to not even think about, has happened.

I kissed him. He kissed me.

And it was so damn good, I’m aching to do it again. This is bad. Really bad.

But I can’t find it in myself to pull the brakes. Because he’s sitting there looking like a fever dream, that big, tight body laid out like a buffet on my couch, a massive bulge straining the soft contours of his worn jeans. I haven’t even let myself touch him. And there’s so much to explore.

“No one can know,” I blurt out.

His nod is sharp and quick. “At first, sure.”

“No, the whole time.”

A small frown wrinkles his brow. “Is the idea of being with me so embarrassing?”

My insides soften, and I shake my head. “No. It’s not that exactly. It’s just…We’ve become this…sideshow in our friends’ lives. I can hear them now, ‘Oh, look, they’re doing it. Let’s take bets on which one kills the other first.’”

Rye snorts eloquently. “They’d be smug as fuck.”

“Frankly, I think we’ve provided them with enough entertainment over the years. They don’t get ringside seats for this.”

“Not that I object to voyeurism in theory, but it takes on a whole other twist when your best friends are watching you have sex.”

“Go ahead, make jokes.”

“Who says I’m joking? You think I want Killian judging my technique? Or Scottie? That bossy motherfucker would probably make me repeat my dismount. Thanks, but no.”

A soft laugh escapes me, both at his exaggerated expression of distaste and the very idea of our friends sitting around a bed to watch us. Unfortunately, that only conjures up an image of being in bed with Rye, and I start to flush under my top.

Rye notices. His nostrils flare on an indrawn breath. When he meets my gaze, his is slightly hazy. He swallows hard. “You’re right. I don’t want or need their commentary. This is ours.”

Ours.

Flutters run riot in my belly. I push past the feeling and focus. “You don’t have to tell me everything you’re thinking. And I certainly won’t be telling you. But, when we do talk, there should be total honesty between us. No lies, no evasions.”

“I can do that.” Rye rests his arm along the back of the couch, his long fingers less than an inch from my shoulder. He appears calm and composed while I’m a twitchy mess, damn it. His chin lifts, a shadow of stubborn willfulness in his eyes. “This means that you have to let me in enough to tell me what you really need.”

The bottom falls out of my belly with a soundless whoosh.

“I know.” It’s a thready whisper.

His gaze narrows. “Everything, Bren. What gets you off. Where you like to be touched and where you don’t. What you dream about but never had the nerve to ask for.” The thick rasp of his voice licks between my legs, and I fight the urge to squeeze them together. “I’ll find out one way or another. But it’ll go easier if you tell me.”

Indeed. I’m tempted to dare him to find out the hard way. Images of him coaxing the truth out of me flash like an illicit peep show through my head. I clear my throat.

“Same goes for you.”

He has to swallow twice before answering. “I thought the objective here was your pleasure.”

That swallow and the flush of color sweeping over his cheekbones has me leaning forward, power and lust swimming through my veins like warm wine. “Thing you should know about me, Rye. If my partner isn’t pleasured, then I’m not going to be either.”

He exhales, and it sounds a lot like “guh.” But then he’s leaning in too, his lids lowering, his hot blue gaze settling on my lips. “If you touch me, hell, if you just look at me like you’re doing now, I’m going to feel good. Really good.”

We’ve drifted back together, not touching but close enough that one shift, one deep breath will bring contact. His voice flows like sticky, hot honey. “I’m so fucking hard for you, it hurts.”

My lids flutter closed, and I swallow down a rush of pure heat. “It can’t happen tonight.”

His gaze snaps to mine. “Why?”

“I have my period.” Damn it all.

He doesn’t move away. “We can do other things.”

I want to do all the things. But I don’t want half-measures anymore. And I know if he touches me, I’ll be left craving more. “When we start,” I tell him. “I want to finish.”

His nod is barely perceptible. Slowly, painfully, he backs off. “Then I’m going to go before I give in to begging and pleading.” His lips quirk. “Maybe crying.”

Despite being horny and turned inside out, a laugh escapes me.

His quick grin is full of wry humor. “I’ll go cry in the privacy of my own home.”

“Yeah, you do that.” I shake my head, smiling despite the sexual tension still bouncing between us.

With a groan, Rye stands. I don’t move. If I do, I might give in and tackle him. When he reaches the doorway, he looks back. “When will you be ready for me?”

So very blunt. I expect nothing less from him. “In three days.”

I can only be thankful I haven’t just started my period, or I’d be tempted to cry as well.

His grip tightens on the doorframe until his knuckles turn white. “Three days, Bren.”

We understand each other perfectly.

A pulse throbs low on my neck. “Three days.”

And then he’s coming for me.