Exposed (VIP Book 4) Read online

  He stills, confusion blanking his expression before he slowly smiles. “You noticed that, huh?”

  “Oh, please. I wanted to say goodbye to everyone. How am I supposed to miss you cuddled up with the bohemian brunette?” One of a seemingly endless line of beautiful women who’ll gaze at Rye as if he is the answer to every hot sex question they’ve ever asked.

  His smug smile grows. “And yet you didn’t come to say goodbye. You left.” He eases even closer. “Tell me, Bren, were you a wee bit jealous as well?”

  “Get over yourself. And stop pretending you were unsettled by thoughts of me with Marshall when you are…reeking of her.” I wrinkle my nose. “Just go away. You stink.”

  He gives me a long, considering look, then stands abruptly. Without another word, he walks out of the room, leaving me to gape after him. I didn’t think he’d actually leave. I should be relieved. Instead, I’m oddly disappointed. I don’t know why, since I’ve been trying to push him away from the moment I saw him through the peephole.

  Thing is, I don’t hear the front door open or shut. I hear water running. Refusing to go look for him, I stuff a few more Pringles in my mouth and take a healthy sip of my wine. It’s gone warm and is almost finished. I itch to get up, top off my glass, or maybe find Rye. No. I won’t do that.

  I’m reaching for my remote, about to turn my movie back on in a sad attempt at distraction, when he strides back into the room in the process of tugging on a brand-new Kill John concert tee. I’m treated to a glimpse of truly killer abs arrowing down into low-slung jeans before the shirt settles.

  “Good thing you had these promos hanging around,” he says.

  By “hanging around,” he means stacked in my home office. The guys scoff at me for having so many, but I like to send them out to various sites and people when needed.

  The black shirt stretches tight over Rye’s shoulders and strains around his biceps. Clearly, he needs an extra-large, but I usually keep only medium and large around.

  Hiding my surprise at his return, I smirk. “How’s it feel having Killian on your chest?”

  The image we used for this shirt was of Killian, shot from the back, a guitar in hand, blue and red stage lights shining in the smoky atmosphere of a club. It was the cover of Volver, the first album the band did when they got back together after their hiatus.

  Rye glances down at his chest and grins. “I noticed you don’t have any awesome Rye Peterson shirts on hand.”

  “Because there aren’t any.”

  His grin grows cheeky. “We need to remedy that.”

  “Sure. As soon as you actually commit to a photoshoot, I’ll get right on that.”

  Rye runs a hand through his damp hair and sits back down next to me. “I washed and changed my shirt. Can we please talk now?”

  My lips twitch. Damn it, the big oaf is cute when he wants to be. And now he smells like my guest shower gel, fresh and citrusy. That he didn’t invade my private bath but used the guest room one is a nice touch. I haven’t seen him try this hard in well…ever.

  “And before you start in,” he adds, “I left the brunette back at the party. I wasn’t feeling it.”

  Using my words against me. I grunt in response, hiding behind the act of eating another chip and staring at the French poodles prancing all over my pink pajama pants. He seems pleased at this and moves a hair closer. Over the years, I’ve developed the power to gauge exactly where Rye’s body is in proximity to mine. It’s like a superpower I never wanted.

  “I can give you what you need,” he says starkly.

  I feel that claim like a stroke on my belly, and I lift my gaze to his. He’s utterly serious.

  “I mean it.” He rests a hand on the back of the couch cushions, his fingers an inch away from my bare shoulder. “I might be the only one who can.”

  “The arrogance,” I rasp with a laugh. “You think out of all the people in the world, only you can fix my ‘little problem.’”

  His blunt chin lifts a fraction. “At this moment in time? Yes.”

  “Oh, God.” I laugh again. “How on earth do you figure that?”

  “Because I’m here. And I know you, Bren.” He says it so emphatically, I go still inside. Rye’s gaze moves over my face. “I know you get cold if it’s lower than seventy-five degrees out, which is why, when everyone else is sweating, you manage to look cool and professional. I know that you can’t wear synthetics because they irritate your skin and you break out in a rash. I know that your calves cramp almost every day at exactly one fifteen in the morning…” He quirks a brow. “Which, by the way, is weird as shit that it’s always at that time, but we’ll chalk it up to one of the endless mysteries of the body.”

  I’m outright gaping as he slides an inch closer, and his knee brushes the side of my leg. “I know that you love having your hair touched and stroked, but for some reason you never admit to needing that, much less letting your hair down.”

  “How the fuck…?”

  “Because I know you,” he says softly, firmly. “I’ve spent years trying not to learn you, and failing.”

  Slowly, giving me time to pull away, he reaches out and lightly runs his fingers along my braid. Even though my hair is locked up tight, I feel it, and pleasurable little tingles chase along my scalp and down my spine. I fight the urge to close my eyes and whimper. My heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest, and the room has become too warm. I’m far too aware of my braless state now. My girls aren’t big, but my nipples are tight and doing their best to poke their way through my tank.

  Rye isn’t looking at them, though. His gaze holds mine. “I’m good, Bren. I’ll do whatever you want, for as long as you want. I’ll make certain you’re taken care of, and I won’t tell a soul.”

  Jesus. I can’t breathe.

  “So selfless,” I murmur. “And what do you get out of all of this?”

  “You.” His fingers stroke my braid. “I get you.”

  Shit. Licking my dry lips, I try to think of something, anything, to say. But he keeps talking.

  “I want to fuck you, Brenna. I want that so badly, I’ll do whatever it takes to have you.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” I rub a shaking hand over my sweaty forehead. “I don’t know how to handle this one-eighty.”

  His smile is small but wry. “The attraction between us was always there. You can deny it if you want, but it’s true. We’ve been like two magnets facing south, repelling because we can’t do anything else. Then I overheard what you needed, and I flipped north. Toward you.”

  My head flops back on the couch, and I peer up at him. He’s sitting closer to me than he’s ever dared. And though I know his face as well as my own, I see the faint lines of age and weariness around his eyes, the small, almost-faded scatter of freckles at the edges of his temples, an old, white, sickle-shaped scar on the crest of his left cheek. They’re flaws, but they don’t make him any less gorgeous. Only more real.

  “For all our differences,” he says, “we’re very much the same. Neither one of us has the time or the inclination to go looking for a real relationship, but we both need physical release and the pleasure of touch or the isolation of our lives starts getting to us.” He’s starting to make too much sense, and he clearly knows it. He presses his point before I can say another word. “We both know what’s at stake if what we’re doing gets out, and we both know exactly what this is going into it.”

  “Rye…”

  “I’m safe, Bren. I swear.”

  Safe. Ha. He’s anything but. Rye is my one weak spot. The person most likely to do the greatest damage if he wanted to. But if he doesn’t understand that by now, I’m certainly not exposing my underbelly by telling him.

  His voice is melting chocolate, all sinful, rich persuasion. “A kiss. Just that. We kiss and see how it goes.” His gaze settles on my mouth, heavy and warm with intent. “One good kiss. If you hate it or it’s too weird, I’ll fuck off forever.”

  “You’ll fuck off forever with or withou
t the kiss if I say so,” I warn, trying to make my voice firm. But it’s gooey and weak with temptation. Because, God, I’ve wondered. So many times, I’ve wondered what it’d be like to kiss him. And here he is offering.

  He smiles then, a quick, brilliant flash. “Of course I will. But let’s do it anyway. Let me kiss you, Berry.”

  I must be losing it, because I think I’m going to let him. God help me.

  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.