Page 46 of How Much For A Broken Heart?

“Where is your room?”

“Second floor, east corner. Why? You coming to visit?”

“No,” I said, then huffed a laugh. “Why would I do that?”

“Because we’re friends?” Ryder suggested and elbowed me in the arm.

“Sure, let’s go with that,” I deadpanned, and by that time, we’d reached the door, and I opened it, turning to say my goodnight—I could be polite when I wanted to. Only, he sidestepped me and shuffled inside, closing the door behind us.

We were alone in my room. And again, staring at each other not knowing what to do or say.

“Ryder?” One of us needed to say something.

“I think I’m going mad,” Ryder said at last, his voice was barely above a whisper, yet it cut sharply through the silence.

“Why?” I asked, trying to make out his expression in the dim light.

“All I can think about is kissing you. That’s madness, right?” His voice was tinged with a mix of confusion and sincerity. “I mean, you’re focused on the Amos thing, and you’re hurt, and?—”

Something inside me snapped. I closed the gap between us, my hands cradling his face, and I kissed him, driven by raw emotion. Tension and the anger of a dream, and attraction I’d refused to think was real made me snap.

The kiss was a collision of need and desire, a release of pent-up emotions. As our lips met, the world around us seemed to fall away. The pain, the grief, the uncertainty—it all melted into the background, leaving only the two of us in that moment. It was reckless, but it felt like the most honest thing I had done in a long time. In that kiss, I wasn’t a soldier—I was August, raw and open, connecting with someone who had come to mean something to me.

Ryder scrambled to hold on, gripping my hair, twisting his fingers in its messy length, tilting his head to kiss me deeper, hard against me, and groaning low in his throat. He pushed me, or guided me, or fuck knows, but I was against the door, and he moved, and he goddamned cradled me as I needed to be held, and he gentled the kiss, resting our foreheads together. This was the moment it was over—madness he’d said—and maybe I could convince myself of that, and then, he kissed me again. Slow. Gentle. Shifting so he was between my legs, but still not crushing me, achingly slow, and when he pressed his cock against mine, I swear I was close to losing it there and then.

It had been so long.

He slid a hand between us, tugging at my sweats, then his own, and our cocks were bare, sliding against each other, the rhythm steady as I lost myself in perfect kisses and murmurs of need.

“We need this,” he whispered against my lips.

I know that I used words in return. I mean, I don’t know what I said, but he chuckled, and circled us both with a strong hold, and as our thrusting became jagged, I was lost in the chase to come.

“Need. Fuck.” I groaned, and my orgasm hit me hard, making my muscles hurt, feeling him stiffen against me, coming hard, and then, falling silent.

“Need,” he repeated, then he pulled up his pajamas, tugged up my sweats, and kissed me once more, so gentle I thought I might have imagined it.

When that kiss broke, and we pulled apart, a heavy silence hung between us.

“See you in the gym,” he murmured, and let himself out, and after a few moments, I sat on my bed, my side hurting, but my head buzzing.

What had I done?

What had we done?

And why did it feel so right?

* * *

Eric was one pissed-as-hell trainer.

PT sessions were a necessary part of my recovery, and we focused on strengthening my core muscles, which had been severely impacted by the gunshot wound blah blah… no undue stress on the healing tissues blah blah. I did listen the first time, but I didn’t need to hear his lecture every day.

Yes, I was stubborn, and yes, I pushed too hard, so yes, Eric was quietly seething with everything I did that was just a little more than he asked me to.

Or a lot more.

Eric was a good guy, competent and professional, and while I’d tolerated him at first when it was all I could do to stay awake, I’d begun to appreciate his straightforward approach.

---