Eight Ways to Ecstasy (17 page)

“One summer, I dolled him up in our mother's dresses.”

A chorus of whoops went up around the table, and a smile flickered at the edges of Lexie's lips. But if anything, Rylan only went more still.

“Wait, wait,” Chase interrupted, “how old were you?”

“I was six, so Teddy would've been, what, nine?”

“And are there pictures?”

“Sadly no.” Her smile faded by a fraction. “We were in London for a few months and we didn't have any friends, because God forbid Mommy and Daddy take ten seconds to arrange a playdate for us.” Her tone went darker, and the hoots and hollers died down. “Teddy and Evan always wanted to play boy stuff, and they outnumbered me, so they won. Then Evan managed to get shunted off into some kiddie art program, and it was just me and Teddy, and I decided fifty percent of the time, we were going to do what
I
wanted to do.”

“Bossy little thing,” Rylan said, all fondness, but a tension lingered to him.

“You should have seen this guy.” Her eyes shone as she gazed across the table at him. “He put up with so much. Mother's evening dresses and heels and tea parties with stuffed animals.”

That got Rylan some more ribbing, but he took it in stride. “What can I say? I can't resist it when you pout.”

She plumped out her lips, demonstrating her best doe eyes, and Kate had to admit. It was effective.

Then Lexie wiped the expression away. “You're unnaturally good at resisting it now.”

“Decades of experience,” Rylan said. “I hadn't built up my immunity back then.”

“It was a good couple of weeks.” For a second, Lexie faltered, a flicker of something unhappy crossing her eyes. “Until Dad found out.”

Rylan's hand flexed hard against Kate's back. She looked over at him to find his gaze hard.

“He came home early one day, and—” Lexie cut herself off, her mouth curving down, and around them, the table went silent. A beat passed and then another before the line of her lips evened out. Then she picked up her beer and shrugged, as if it had been nothing. As if there was no more story to tell. “And that was the end of that.”

When Rylan spoke again, it was with a bitter edge to his voice. An old, lingering hurt. “He always did have his ideas about how his heir should behave.”

And Kate's chest squeezed in, because she'd heard this pain in him before, but rarely so explicitly. She'd never seen it so close to the surface.

She sucked in a deep breath and held it. Because a part of her—a growing part—wanted to follow it down, far off into the depths. Deep enough inside his ocean she could drown.

Rylan checked all the other floors of the house first. Kate wasn't in the kitchen or tidying up one of the bathrooms, or even dealing with the linens in the guest room. He was 98 percent sure she hadn't managed to sneak off without his noticing. Which left only one last place to look.

He climbed the stairs as quietly as he could. Just shy of the top, he came to a halt.

There was music playing. Something quiet and sweet, lots of airy guitar, and a female vocalist. And overlaying it, ever so faintly, was another voice.

Heart in his throat, he took the last couple of steps. Then he stood there, mesmerized.

The third floor—that big, open space he'd fallen in love with the same way he'd fallen in love with this beautiful, open girl…it was all lit up. Kate had apparently found some Christmas lights he didn't even remember owning and strung them around the edges of the room, casting it in a soft, warm glow. She sat in the very center of the space, going through the box of old vinyl albums he'd saved when his mother had been planning to throw them out. Resting on the floor beside her was an ancient record player, jerry-rigged to a couple of speakers, and all at once, he recognized the song.

His vision overlapped with memory, and he reached for the center of his chest without thinking, for the ring that didn't live there anymore.

He must've been…what? Five years old? He'd snuck out of bed long after he'd been supposed to be asleep, and crept down the stairs to find Mom and Dad in fancy clothes. Home after some sort of a party, this record playing in the background as they held each other close. Not fighting for once. Not ignoring each other. But dancing. Laughing.

He could've stayed and watched for hours.

The image before his eyes faded, and he blinked until the here and now came back into focus. Kate's lips moved as she sang along, almost but not quite under her breath, and his chest swelled to the point where he thought it might burst. She looked at home here. Right where she belonged.

Clearing his throat, he stepped forward. “I wondered if I might find you here.”

She started, jerking her head up. As he crossed the space toward her, he took in the rest of the things strewn around her, the half-emptied boxes. There were more albums, of course, some pictures. Plunking down on the floor beside her, he frowned, then picked up a black leather bag.

“It's a camera,” she explained. “An old-school one.”

Really, really old-school. He unzipped the bag to find exactly what she'd described. “It was my father's, I think.” Another sentimental castoff Rylan had rescued for reasons he hadn't been able to explain at the time.

“It's nice.” She said it with a certain wistfulness to her voice.

He closed the bag back up and held it out to her. “You can have it, if you want.”

“I couldn't.”

“You could. If you think you'd use it. I might even have some film somewhere.”

“But it was your father's…”

“So were a lot of things.” He'd kept it because he remembered the days when his father would take pictures of them. When he'd seemed so interested in what his children did and not just in what purpose they might serve. He pressed it into her hands. “Take it. I want you to.”

She accepted it this time. “Thank you.”

He paused for a second, reaching into his pocket. Second-guessing. But the segue seemed natural enough. “I have something else for you, too.”

“Oh?”

He squeezed his hand around the metal, then drew it out and passed it over.

Forehead scrunching up, she let him place it in her palm. “What…?”

“A key.” Obviously. “For the house.”

He could actually see her getting ready to pass it right back. “I couldn't—”

He wrapped his hand around hers, closing her fingers around the key. “You can.”

“But…” She didn't seem to have much of an argument. Probably something about how it was too soon, and was he really sure?

His voice threatened to stick in his throat. Pushing past it, he nudged her hand toward her lap. “I trust you,” he said.

Just like someday, somehow, he hoped that she would trust him, too.

With apparent reluctance, she tucked it in her pocket, and something in his chest loosened. “I promise I won't abuse it.”

“As long as you don't throw a party here without inviting me, abuse it as much as you want.” At the joke, she rolled her eyes, but it wasn't all just teasing. “I mean it.” The words came out too serious by half. “Come over whenever you want.”

He had nothing to hide. Not anymore. Not from her.

The track on the record changed, and they sat there for few beats, listening. The same vision from before rose up in his mind. And maybe it was a day full of too many memories. Maybe it was seeing her in this space, blending seamlessly with his friends. The high of her accepting his invitation to make this place her home.

Before he knew what he was doing, he rose to his feet and held out his hand.

She looked at it, head cocked to the side.

“Dance with me,” he said.

“Really?”

His throat went tight. “Really.”

She might've just been humoring him, but she let him pull her up and into his arms. Maybe he should show off a little—show her some of the steps he'd learned as a teen. But she shuffled in close, and in the end, he just rested his head against hers, holding her and basking in her warmth.

They did a slow couple of circles in place as the music played on. With every turn, she relaxed a little more, the exhaustion from a hard day's work starting to show on her face.

Putting her ear to his chest, she asked, “Did everyone else take off?”

“A little while ago.” Leaving just the two of them.

They danced in silence through the end of the song. The arm of the record player picked up with an audible set of clicks, and she sighed. “It's late.”

“Very.” A full day of hauling and unpacking and still so much more to do. But he didn't have any more in him. By the way she was sagging into him, he doubted she did, either. “Do you want me to call you a car?”

At that, she pulled away, and it was glass cracking, the soft, perfect space in which they'd spun threatening to collapse. To shatter. “Probably should.”

Swallowing against the tightness in his chest, he reached for her, cupping her shoulders so gently in his hands. His voice came out deep and rough. “Or you could stay here. In my bed.”
In my home.
“With me.”

Something inside him trembled, he wanted it so much.

She shook her head. “I'm so tired.”

“No expectations.”

Lifting her head, she settled her gaze on him. Looked him right in the eyes, and he tried to make everything about him soft.

He wanted her, of course. He'd never had her in a place that felt like his, and there was nothing in the world he wanted so much as to take her apart, to leave her boneless with pleasure and to pour his own need out into her.

But it would be enough. More than enough. Just to hold her. Just to sleep.

Her breath blew out, and with it, all the resistance in her shoulders. “All right.”

His heart felt too big to fit behind his ribs.

Leaning in, he placed a single, soft kiss to her lips. Then he took her by the hand and led her down the stairs.

Kate blinked her eyes open to an unfamiliar room. Pale light poured in through the bare windows, and she was way too comfortable, the bed too soft, the sheets smooth beneath her skin. Stretching, she rolled over onto her back and stared up at a distant ceiling.

This was Rylan's room.

The bed was empty beside her, but it didn't matter. Her ribs squeezed in hard, taking her breath away. She'd sworn she wasn't going to do this again. But she'd been so exhausted last night, and it had been late. And Rylan had been looking at her with this naked hope in his eyes, his outstretched palm extended toward her. He hadn't even tried to get her naked, had simply pulled off her shoes and helped her skim off her jeans. Had watched, hands off, as she'd unclasped her bra and pulled it through her sleeve. He'd stripped down to his boxers and turned the covers down, and she'd had no will left to refuse.

She'd fallen asleep tangled up in him, her spine to his chest, the warm strength of his arms curled around her, and it had been perfect.

Maybe too perfect. All her resolutions to guard her heart, and here she was, tumbling headlong down the same path she'd wiped out on once before.

Except it was different this time. Wasn't it? He'd invited her into his home and introduced her to his family and friends. If he was still lying about who he was, it would be obvious, right?

If he only wanted her for sex, he would've asked for it last night.

Yet there were still these silences. These unspoken pockets of his life that made her doubt.

Before she could second-guess herself any further, quietly creaking footfalls seeped in from the hallway, and she propped herself up on her elbows in time for the door to crack open. And there was Rylan. Blue eyes bright and smile soft as he peered inside.

Her stomach dipped. Because just seeing him had her heart melting, her whole being lighting up. All her doubts slowly melting away.

Pushing the door wider, he stepped inside. He was dressed as casually as she'd ever seen him in a black T-shirt and jeans, his messy hair less intentionally fussed with than usual. In one hand, he held a cardboard carrier with two takeaway coffees, while a couple of mismatched bags dangled from the other. “You're up.”

She scrubbed at her eyes and swung what was left of her braid over her shoulder. “Barely.”

“Well, let's see what we can do about that.”

The bed dipped beneath his weight as he came to sit beside her. His movements were all careful, his voice quiet. “Here.” He handed her one of the coffees. “Just how you like it.”

Propping herself with a pillow, she sat the rest of the way up and took the cup from his hand. She sipped at it and nodded. “Perfect.”

“Good. There are some pastries, too. And”—he pointed to one of the bags he'd come in with—“would you believe I found a place in this city that still sells film?”

“How long have you been up?”

He shrugged. “A while. Never been much good at getting back to sleep. Those didn't help.” He gestured toward the windows. “I was thinking we might do some shopping today, if you're up for it. Need some curtains if nothing else.”

A hundred movie montages of happy couples laughing their way through Ikeas floated through her mind. Probably not quite the shopping experience he was suggesting, but still. It sounded fun. Easy.

And there was that sensation again of careening down a path. Of falling forward into something deeper than she fully trusted, and it felt
good
. The last thing she wanted was to slam on the brakes.

But a part of her needed to tap on them. To test and make sure they were at least still there.

She faltered, fiddling with the sleeve around her coffee cup. “You know if I spend the whole day with you, it still counts as two.”

Four out of their seven nights were already gone, and it looked like they were starting on their fifth. More than halfway through, and it made something clench in her chest.

He shook his head at her, grin wry. “You're onto me. Keeping me honest.”

“Somebody has to.”

Placing his hand on her knee through the sheet, he leaned in closer, skimming the point of his nose along her jaw. Grazing his lips against her cheek. “What can I say? I'll do whatever I have to. To get more time with you.”

Her breath stuttered, the warm amber scent of him surrounding her, making it hard to think.

But she managed to all the same. Because that was what he'd said when she'd found him out. From the very first day, he'd hidden who he was from her because he wanted her to sleep with him, to spend time with him.

A memory of bile rose up in her throat.

She didn't need him to do that now.

With a hand on his chest, she pushed him away. Not far. Scarcely a few inches—only far enough to see his face. Looking him right in the eye, she said, “Just ask.”

For a long moment, his gaze searched hers, throat bobbing. But then he gave this slightest hint of a nod. Closed his palm over hers and brought them both to his lips. “Please. Spend the day with me. I'm not ready to let go of you yet.”

All the thoughts she'd had of getting to the studio evaporated, burned away by the heat in his eyes. Her voice cracked as she said, “Okay.”

And the force of his smile split his face. He dropped their hands and swooped in, kissing her full on the mouth.

He pulled away just as she was letting herself get lost in it, the heat she'd been too exhausted for the night before rising up in her blood. It stayed there, lingering at a low simmer as he climbed his way over to sit beside her and opened up a pastry bag.

Between sips of coffee and idle discussions about what he should do with the house, he fed her bits of the half dozen different pastries he'd brought, placing each sweet, flaky bite on her tongue. When she returned the favor, he nibbled at her fingertips. Grasped her wrist to suck a sticky bit of icing from her thumb.

And he looked so beautiful like that. Perfectly casual and relaxed in his bed. Eyes dancing. Grip warm.

So beautiful she wanted to capture it.

She didn't have her sketchbook or her charcoal. But then it struck her—she had something else. Maybe even something better.

Letting out a shaky breath, she pulled her thumb out of his mouth and stroked it wetly across his lip. “Stay right there.”

She barely took the time to wipe her hands off on a napkin before reaching for the camera bag she'd brought up with her the night before. The thing was clunky and ancient and solid, and she loved it. Adored the mechanical clicks it made as she opened it up. She dug through the rolls of film Rylan had brought back with him, selecting a black-and-white one she could develop at the darkroom she had access to at school.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you think?” It had been so long since she'd done this, but her hands remembered how to load the canister. She fiddled with the settings for a minute, then brought the viewfinder up to her eye.

She fit him into the frame, this close-up shot of his eyes and his smile.

“Do you know what I miss about this kind of photography?”

“What's that?”

“The mystery.” Her vision flashed black as she pressed the shutter, capturing this image of him. This moment.

“Oh?”

“Digital's nice. You know how the picture turned out right away.” She rose to her knees and backed away, fitting more of him into the shot. “But with film, there's this anticipation. You have to wait.”

The corner of his mouth twitched up, and she took the photo of him, just like that.

“Not a fan of immediate gratification?” His voice dipped lower, going sultry and dirty, and she felt it in her breasts. In the tender, warming space between her thighs.

“It has its place.” She kept snapping shots, framing each one with care, moving around the bed to get him from these different angles.

Slowly, she lowered the camera from her eye.

He was closer than she'd realized, hidden behind the lens the way she'd been. His chest rose and fell with every breath, and there was an openness to his posture. As well as a tension. Like how he'd posed for her the last time.

He'd let her in, back then. In this way, at least, he'd let her see him fully exposed, and yet, both then and now, this aura of uneasiness radiated from him. He didn't give this part of himself to people very often.

But he was giving it to her.

In some vague attempt to ease the dryness of her throat, she swallowed. Licked her lips and summoned her courage.

And then she asked him, “Take off your shirt?”

Rylan rarely hesitated when a gorgeous woman asked him to undress—it generally tended to go well for him. He reached one hand behind his head and grasped the back of his collar, all set to tug the fabric over and off.

But he hesitated. Kate sat on her knees a scant couple of feet away from him on his bed, her long, bare legs going on for miles, the soft swells of her breasts pressed against the cotton of her top. It hadn't been that long ago that he had been dying for her to ask just about anything of him. For her to be in this with him, meeting him halfway. Well, she was asking now. She'd started this.

She'd asked him to reveal himself, to her and to the camera, and already, he felt nearly as naked as he had in that room where they'd shared so much of themselves. Back a handful of months and an entire ocean away.

He worried the collar of his shirt between his fingers and his thumb, a restless, nervous energy making his pulse race. His dick was firming up inside his jeans, and he'd normally be all the way to hard with how close she was, how gorgeous she looked against his sheets. But the crackling of static in the air between them, her request for him to strip. It wasn't only sexual. It was more. Better.

More terrifying, and maybe that was why he was stalling.

“You're not going to put these on the internet, are you?” he asked.

She shook her. “They're just for us.”

Us.
That one simple word had him nodding to himself. The world disappeared behind black cloth for a fraction of a second as he finally gave in and pulled his shirt off. The click of the shutter fired away while he was still partway through the motion. He balled the fabric up in his hand and braced his arms behind him on the bed. Stared straight into the lens through which she watched him.

She took another couple of pictures before the restlessness of being observed like this got to him. It felt too one-sided. Which gave him the idea…

Sitting up straighter, he reached out toward her. She snapped a photo of him with his arm extended, then lowered the camera. Tilted her head at him.

“Let me take a few.”

The idea seemed to surprise her. She shook her head. “I must look—”

“Beautiful. Come on.” He wrapped his hands around hers where they gripped the metal body of the thing. “Show me how it works.”

Their bodies pressed together as he came to sit beside her. She walked him through how to focus, delicate fingers dancing over the controls. Once he had it, she surrendered, letting him take the camera from her hands. Reluctance was written all over her, and the first picture he took was of her with her lip between her teeth.

She laughed despairingly and covered her face. “I wasn't ready.”

“But I was.” He snapped the next one with her peering out from between her fingers, and it all but stopped his heart inside his chest.

This was precisely how he wanted her. Real and genuine and imperfect and his.

“Stay right there.” He got up and walked around to the other side of her. With careful motions, he slipped the elastic from the end of her braid and set it aside. He combed out her hair with his fingers, the dark strands slipping like water through his hands, falling into waves exactly how he'd thought they would. When he was done, he stepped back, waiting for just a moment until her impatience got the better of her. Until she turned to look over her shoulder.

He caught her just like that, and he wished he could check the image right then and there. Make sure it had come out the way he'd pictured it, but she'd just said it herself. Film was about waiting. It was about a finite, fleeting moment, here and gone in a flash, and you didn't know until it was all over if you'd captured it at all. If you got to keep it.

His chest squeezed in. Fuck, but he hoped he did.

Sitting down beside her again, he lowered the camera from his eye and reached over to tug at the sleeve of her shirt. “It's only fair,” he said to her pout.

And she didn't fight him on it. She stripped the fabric up and over her head, unveiling the creamy flesh of her abdomen. The bottoms of her breasts and then the rosy circles of her nipples, tight points peaking harder as they were exposed to the morning air.

“Well?” Her chin tilted up, challenge shining at him from within those deep brown eyes. She didn't cover herself, and his breath sharpened, his own flesh responding. His brave girl. His brave, beautiful girl.

He took one last picture of her, and then he set the camera aside.

“Well,” he repeated. Restraint was a trembling thing inside his limbs, but he was running out of it and fast.

He'd just wanted this for so long. Not only the promise of sex that lay in the faintly crackling space between their bodies—though fuck knew he'd take that, too. But what he longed for was something deeper. The shy, intimate way she'd looked at him through a camera lens. The slowing of her breath as she fell asleep inside his arms.

The heaviness to her eyes as she stared at him right now.

And suddenly, the inches of space separating them were too much.

Reaching out, he put a hand to the bare flesh of her thigh, and the distance between them broke.

Restraint was never something he'd had a lot of anyway.

His pulse thundered hot inside his veins as he rose to his knees. Within the span of a breath, he was upon her, pulling her against him. Her breasts pressed warm and full against his skin, and he groaned aloud as their mouths finally met. It was sex and it was intimacy, and it was everything.