Ryan (Mallick Brothers #2)(21)

I could do progress.

I mean, I was out of my apartment. I was in his. And I wasn't freaking out about it. That was progress. I had met his brother and interacted with him and that was progress too.

So long as the steps were small and not expectations that set me up for failure, I was pretty sure I could do that.

"Exactly," he agreed, reaching out and grabbing my knee, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Think that could work?"

I gave him a small smile, not wanting to get ahead of myself, but feeling hopeful. "I think so," I agreed.

The smile he gave me, yeah, it was so worth deciding to agree to continually step out of my comfort zone.

"Alright," he said, eyes getting just a little heated as his fingers sank into my hips and pulled until I had no choice but to move toward him, to go over and straddle him as he sat back. His fingers glided down slightly then, almost touching my butt, but not quite. "Don't want to kiss you because I don't want to hurt your lip," he explained, giving me a little squeeze.



       
         
       
        

My lip?

Who the hell cared about my lip when I had a sweet, considerate, gorgeous, and sexy as all hell man beneath me who wanted me even though I was a complete and utter mess?

Certainly not me, that was for sure.

I curled forward, my hands sliding up his arms to settle on the sides of his neck. His brilliant light eyes went heated with understanding just a moment before I carefully pressed my lips to his.

They were still swollen and there was a pinch of pain at the pressure, but the second his lips moved against mine, well, all I felt was a heady, almost overwhelming rush of desire. His tongue traced the seam in my lips and wet pooled between my thighs as my breasts got heavy.

My hips dropped low as his tongue moved over mine, making a small whimper escape me as I ground down on his hard length, trying to ease the clawing need inside.

His hands dug in to the point of pain, pulling me back then forward again, encouraging me to take what I needed from him.

And I wasn't exactly going to refuse that offer, was I?

I moved against him, feeling the need build, not easing the ache but promising an end to it. My forehead pressed into his, too lost in the sensation to remember to keep kissing him.

"Honey," he said, his voice a deeper, sexier rumble than usual which was really saying something because his normal voice could bring me to my knees. I pulled back slightly, opening my eyes. And that was just when his hips thrust upward and hit my clit with perfect pressure. An almost embarrassingly loud moan escaped me and his eyes closed as he let out a slow exhale.

When his eyes opened again, his hand shifted around from my butt and toward the front, snagging my button then zip faster than I knew was possible.

Then his hand slid up and in, slipping under my panties and stroking up my slick slit. Finding me wet, a rumble moved through his chest as his finger went up and pressed into my clit, the sensation something akin to white-hot and I made a choked sound as my hand flew out and grabbed his arm hard.

"Okay?" he asked, finger pulling back slightly, wanting to make sure he had permission.

Words strangled in my throat, in a good way which was entirely new to me, I gave him a tight nod as my hips did a small stroke that made a devilish little smile pull at his lips.

There was no teasing, no hinting at something he was going to get to the brink of and pull me away from. His finger worked my clit with perfect pressure, changing directions occasionally, keeping my body guessing.

Then, just as suddenly as he found my clit, his finger stroked downward and his finger circled around my entrance for a long moment before pressing slowly inside, the sensation so long forgotten, but so welcome, I let out a sound that was suspiciously similar to a cry as I leaned forward and nestled my face into his neck. 

His finger slid fully inside and without hesitation, started a slow, sweet, perfect thrusting that had every muscle in my body tensing, my breath coming out in choked, frantic huffs as the pressure built.

Then, when I thought anything better wasn't even remotely possible, his finger curled, stroking over my top wall and hitting my G-spot with the kind of assurance I found astounding. To be honest, I was pretty sure I had never found that spot myself. And, as the sensation became different than one I had ever known, yeah, I was sure that his knowledge of my body seemed to surpass my own.

My hips rocked up and down as his thumb moved up and started working my clit again, the two sensations together making the whimpers and cries become loud, frantic moans that I wasn't sure I was even capable of as he pushed me to the edge. Then, without hesitation, pushed me off the cliff.

I crashed into the orgasm.

There was no other way to put it.

My whole body slammed down hard, my leg muscles going liquid as the pulsations moved through me, deep in my belly at first and then moving outward until the sensation seemed to take over my whole body.

I came back to my senses with Ryan's name still whimpering from my lips, my body shuddering, my breathing a mere imitation of what it was supposed to be, coming out in odd strobe-like huffs as his thumb left my clit but his finger did a slower, gentler, almost lazy thrusting, carefully bringing me back down.

Collapsing into him, my head turned and I planted a chaste kiss to his throat, too overwhelmed to overthink anything or even think at all.

I wasn't sure how long it had been since I had had an orgasm. Months at least. And from someone else? Years. Several long years.

It was almost like the first time in its novelty, in the all-consuming wonder of it all.

Ryan's hand slid out of my panties and rested on my thigh, the other going around my lower back and holding me against him tightly. "Fuck, Dusty," he said, his voice a desperate growl.

I smiled against his neck at that.

Fuck.

That just about covered it, didn't it?

My hips shifted and I felt him press against me, harder than before, and a surge of guilt coursed through me, realizing the selfishness of the situation.

I pulled back a little nervously, my lips parting to speak, when he shook his head.

"No what?" I asked, my forehead creasing.

"No, we're not taking this any further tonight," he said, somehow reading the situation perfectly. "Or," he went on as I opened my mouth to object, to say I was happy to... even things out, "until I can be inside you and kiss you without fucking hurting you."

"Ryan, it's ok..."

"Nope," he said, shaking his head, giving me what I could only call a stern look. "Not happening. When it happens, I want it to be right. It's not right if I'm hurting you in any way. So we're putting that off."

"But it's not..."

"Shh," he said, yanking me sideways suddenly and making me land on my butt beside him, my legs cocked up on his thighs.

"Did you just... shush me?" I asked, smiling big because it seemed so out of character for someone like him.

"Yep," he agreed as he reached around looking for the remote.

"The couch probably ate it," I supplied, knowing I had fallen asleep with it settled beside my body and that I tended to roll around a bit when I was first settling into sleep. "Isn't it too early for," I started, but then he found the remote, switched the channel, and there was Times Square. "Oh," I said, looking below the TV at the time and finding it was already well after nine.

"We have three hours of drinking ahead of us," he said, slamming a hand on my knee and squeezing before using it to push himself up. "Better put some lining down," he said, going toward the liquor cabinet. "What's your poison?"



       
         
       
        

I drank wine, one or two glasses by myself. And when Bry came over in a mood and needed a drink, we had vodka because that was his drink.

My drink, well, used to be a very dry gin martini with two olives.

And about two of them could put me on my ass, even back when I used to drink more socially.

"Dusty," he prompted when I just sat there. "What do you drink?" he repeated, lip twitching just the slightest bit like he found me amusing.

And, well, if a man could find my awkwardness amusing, he was a keeper.

"Do you have vermouth?" I asked as I slowly got off the couch. I realized my fly was still open when his gaze went there and a knowing smile pulled at his lips. I felt my cheeks heat as I reached down self-consciously to close up.

"What self-respecting liquor cabinet doesn't have vermouth?" he shot back, bending down and looking inside. "How do you want it- wet, dry, dirty, or perfect?"

My head ducked to the side as he straightened, two bottles of vermouth in his hands and I just knew one was French, meaning dry, and one was Italian, meaning sweet. "Wow, that's some impressive drink knowledge," I said with a smile. "Dry. Very."

He nodded, tucking one of the bottles away and moving to grab a martini glass and the gin. "We all worked shifts as bartenders when we were legal. Pops thought it was important to understand how to run the business. Some of it stuck."

"Sounds like a lot of it stuck," I countered, moving over to the island and grabbing an adorably festive New Years Eve paper plate and loading it up, going light on the carrots and celery and heavy on the fries and cheese. If we were drinking for hours and my tolerance was as low as it probably was, he was right, I needed lining.