Page 215 of The Off Limits Captain
He lifts me. I wrap my legs around his waist and laugh once, breathless, when he clips the doorframe with his shoulder.
“Smooth.”
“Do not review my footwork.”
“I am a sportswriter.”
“Former beat reporter.”
“Current menace.”
He laughs into my throat, and the sound makes me want him more than any perfect line could.
In his bedroom, the laughter turns into heat.
He sets me on my feet instead of the bed.
For one second, we just stand there in the dark, breathing too hard, his hands at my waist, mine on his chest. The city light cuts across his face and catches the damage there — the exhaustion, the want, the thing he has been holding back since the first night he told me to lock the door.
Not tonight.
Tonight, he looks at me like leaving is not even in the room with us.
“This is us choosing,” he says.
My throat tightens.
“Yes.”
Then his mouth is on mine again.
Not careful. Not polite. Not the version of Ryan that steps back before the line can blur. He kisses me like he heard every word I said on that sidewalk and intends to make me prove it. My back hits the wall beside his dresser. His hands slide under my shirt, hot against my skin, and I arch into him because restraint has had long enough.
“Peyton.”
I pull his mouth back to mine. “I love you.”
His whole body changes.
It is not soft. That is the surprise of it. The words do not make him gentle. They make him sure.
My shirt comes off. His follows. Then his hands are at my jeans and mine are at his, both of us laughing once because the timing is terrible and neither of us is patient enough to fix it.
“Bed,” he says.
“Bossy.”
“Yes.”
The word should annoy me.
It does not.
He backs me toward the mattress, and I pull him down with me before he can do anything noble. His weight lands over me, solid and real, and the sound I make into his mouth is not one I could ever blame on emotion alone.
His mouth moves down my throat. Over my breast. Lower.
“Ryan.”
