All the oxygen has left my body. And all the blood has pooled between my legs, throbbing in my clit.
“I’m not,” I croak out the lie.
“My finger disagrees.”
He eases it out, and I squawk when he lifts it to his lips and sucks.
“Manners!” I hiss.
“What? I’m not the one who’s dripping all over the seat.”
“I am not,” I say weakly. “I’m wearing underwear.”
“Yeah, speaking of those. They’re a problem. Take them off.”
I can’t stop the thrill that shoots through me. “People will see.”
“It’s too dark and their eyes are on the stage, anyway. Take them off.”
Something has possessed me. Maybe it’s the unfiltered lust burning in his eyes. Maybe it’s his deep, commanding voice. Maybe it’s the excitement surging in my veins.
Drawing a deep breath, I discreetly slide my hand under my dress. I hesitate when I reach the waistband of my skimpy underwear.
Ryder watches my every move. Waiting.
I grip the material with trembling fingers, lift my ass off the seat, and then slide the panties down my thighs. The entire time, I keep my gaze straight ahead in case anyone in the opposite boxes is paying attention to us. But the other patrons’ gazes are rapturously focused on the sensual spectacle below and not the one above.
I drag the panties down my legs, then step out of them, one high heel at a time.
Ryder holds out his hand.
Without a word, I place the scrap of lace in his palm. His lips curve as he tucks it in his pocket.
“So obedient,” he murmurs. “I like this new Gigi.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re pushing your luck.”
“Nah.” He shifts closer. “Luck has nothing to do with this.”
Then his hand is under my dress again, seeking out the warm, aching spot between my thighs. He rubs me with the pads of his index and middle finger. The first contact makes me gasp.
“Quiet,” he warns. “Or I’ll stop.”
“Stop now, and I’ll rip your head off.”
“You’re so violent. I love it. Spread your legs a little.”
I can hardly hear the command over the sudden wailing below. Delilah’s voice rises in pitch, the music gathering, building to a crescendo. Meanwhile, Ryder strokes my pussy until I’m quivering in my chair, a live wire about to explode. He pushes his fingers inside me, hitting spots that make me impossibly wetter. Bringing me closer and closer toward orgasm.
His lips are at my ear again. “Say my name when you come.”
“What—”
Then the heel of his palm applies pressure on my clit, and I shatter, reflexively giving him what he ordered.
“Ryder.”
The sound of his name is drowned out by the aria below and the thunder of my pulse in my ears. I come hard enough my vision wavers.
When I crash back to earth, I find him grinning at me. Satisfied with himself.
“Should we bail on this and go back to the hotel?”
I finally manage to find my voice. “Yes.”
Later, we lie tangled together in his sheets, sated and sleepy after the best sex of my life. Because every time with Ryder is the best sex of my life. I’ve stopped trying to figure that out. I just know I’m addicted to it.
I tell him about running into Al Dustin, trying to not be too hopeful, to curb my excitement. Though I can’t fight my happy grin as I say, “It’s not a done deal yet, but he sounded pretty confident Fairlee was going to pick me.”
“Told you he would.” He strokes my lower back, pressing his lips to the top of my head. “Olympic gold, here we come.”
His words remind me of something, triggering a confession that’s been nagging at me for a while now. A flash of reluctant comprehension I hadn’t wanted to put into words yet. Because it still feels like…betrayal, I guess.
“Do you remember the last time we talked about the Olympics?” I run my fingers over the defined muscles of his chest. “You asked me why I’m so desperate to make the team. Whether it’s for me or my dad.”
“I remember.”
“Well, it’s been bothering me ever since. I thought about it. A lot.” I lick my dry lips, still hesitant. But I’ve already come this far, so I force the rest out. “I want something he doesn’t have.”
Ryder tenses slightly, as if surprised to hear it. Hell, I’m surprised to say it.
“I’ve never said it out loud. I don’t know if I’ve ever even thought that deep into it, but… He has everything. The Cup, the awards, the all-time records, MVP titles, almost-certain Hall of Fame induction. I will never come close to achieving even half of that.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “But one thing he never did was compete for Team USA. And that’s the one thing I can do.”
Ryder rolls over so we’re lying face to face. He watches me, his expression indecipherable.
Sometimes I hate that he’s able to draw things out of me without even trying. He doesn’t ask or beg or push me to talk to him. It just happens when he’s around. All my secrets spilling out with abandon.
“I want…to feel important in my own life,” I admit. “Achieving this is a way for me to finally step out of his shadow. I can be an Olympic gold medalist. Something my dad will never be.” I groan in desperation. “It feels so petty to say it. Is that awful?”
“Depends on whether it’s the only reason you want to compete. Is this nothing but a Fuck you, look at my medal, old man?”
“Of course not.” I flinch. “It’s like the teeniest part of it. A sliver of a percentage that pokes at the back of my mind sometimes. Competing on the world stage is so much bigger than him. It’s exciting.”
“Good. Focus on the excitement. But also acknowledge that the sliver exists.”
“I feel bad acknowledging it,” I admit, closing my eyes.
I jerk when I feel his thumb stroking my chin.
“You really need to get over this,” he says gruffly.
I frown. “Wow. I just shared something really important and—”
“No, that’s not what I mean.” He shakes his head at me. “You need to stop feeling bad about the way you feel. You hate that chick Emma and feel bad about hating her. You want something your father doesn’t have and feel bad wanting it.”
For some reason, my throat tightens. The sting of tears burns my eyes. Oh my God, I better not cry.
“It’s like you refuse to voice even a shred of negativity; otherwise it makes you a bad person. Or you feel like you need to be eternally grateful for being born wealthy and gifted.” He wraps his arm around me, his lips gently brushing mine as he strokes his hand down my bare arm. “Just feel what you feel. It’s okay.”
I blink to keep the tears at bay, but they’re threatening to spill over. And not because I’m ashamed by everything I’ve confessed.
It’s the undeniable awareness that I’m developing feelings for this guy.
“I…” I take a breath, attempting to steady my voice. “I’ve never met anyone I felt comfortable sharing all that with.” I peer into his bottomless blue eyes, always floored by how vivid they are. “I don’t feel like you judge me. About anything. Ever.”