Page 41 of The Path to Loving Him
That night, it’s not even close to a distant memory. No, it sits in my head daily. I’m constantly reminded about the way heowned me that night, the way he gave me everything I wanted, everything I needed. And now that I’m in a room with him, so close to his body, I can practically taste it.
“I . . . I don’t think we should be talking about this.” I start to move past him, but his hand grips mine, keeping my shoulder up against his. He’s so close that I can smell the distinct scent of his cologne. The same cologne that imprinted in my mind as he drove into me, thrust after thrust that one night.
When my eyes meet his, he says, “And this is why I can’t have you here . . . you’re a fucking distraction.”
I swallow the saliva building up in my mouth before saying, “Well, you’re going to have to find a way to deal with it because I’m not going anywhere.”
He wets his lips. “And what’s your suggestion for how to deal with it?”
Fuck me.
Again.
And again.
And again until it’s out of our systems.
Take me up against the wall.
Bend me over the couch.
Make me scream your name until my voice is hoarse.
Give me everything you did to me that night until you have nothing left to give.
I clear my throat and say, “Act like an adult.” And with that, I pull away and add, “If you don’t mind, I need to grab a few things, and then I’ll be over to shower.”
He steps back, irritation written all over his face, but also understanding. He sticks his hands in his pockets and slowly nods. “Sure. You can just walk in. No need to knock.”
And with that, he heads out of my apartment, leaving me hot and bothered, and my body begging him to come back.
It’s for the best.
That was the right thing to do despite the hunger in his eyes.
And the itchiness in my body to have him close.
It’s one of the things I hate about being a sexually charged individual.
I love sex. I love fucking. I love everything about the rapturous feel of being brought to the apex of pleasure and then having it ripple through your body.
And sure, getting off on my own is fine. It fulfills a need.
But God, getting off with someone else, especially Ryland Rowley, that’s an experience I crave.
Sighing heavily, I move around my bathroom and grab my toiletries. Hands full, I go to the kitchen where I snag a large Tupperware bin and place everything inside, using it as a temporary shower caddy. With my towel draped over my shoulder, I walk out of my apartment and down the stairs again to Ryland’s back door. I walk right in, body tingling and aware when I see him at the kitchen sink, washing dishes again.
His corded back muscles tug against the fabric of his shirt as his large hands rinse the plates and stack them in the dishwasher.
I find the entire thing overtly sexy, and I know it’s because I’m horny and I want him. And now that he gave me that one look, that is all I’ll think about.
But I will not give in.
Clearing my throat, I ask, “Where’s the bathroom?”
“Right over here,” he says while turning off the faucet. He turns to face me, and once again, he gives me a slow once-over, taking in every inch of my body.
He pushes off the counter, and my stomach shivers from the thought of him removing my clothes.
