Page 84 of Tight End

There’s a part of me that wants to slink off to my room—despite not having slept there in days—and hide away. Is that going to help anything? Probably not. But maybe it would delay the inevitable conversation he and I should have about all this change.

“I thought we could have a little date night.” Ryan hands me a super-fluffy teal blanket and rearranges a few of the pillows on one side of the couch.

“Just a little blanket you had lying around?” I hold it up ashe continues to move around the space, lighting a few candles and turning on the TV. “Netflix and chill?”

He shrugs, glancing to the ground before meeting my eyes. “I saw it the other day and it made me think of you. You know, we could watch a movie. Your choice, of course.”

“Who knew Ryan Devlin was such a snuggler ...”

“I’ve never been one to snuggle.”

“What changed?”

His eyes don’t leave mine, and the intensity of his gaze increases with every passing second. “You.”

A thrill runs through me, zipping down my spine. My stomach flops and my core clenches. Me. Holy shit—shoot. Could that be any sexier? I’m about to suggest skipping the movie altogether, but when he lies down on the couch, patting the spot in front of him, I can’t resist.

We can talk later. We’ll have plenty of time this week.

I slide in next to him, his arm almost instantly banding around my waist, pulling my back flush against his chest. He feels so good behind me—big, muscular, and I bite back the moan threatening to break loose. Barely, but I manage.

“Relax, Princess. Let me cuddle you.” His hand splays out across my stomach. It’s so big his fingers brush the underside of my breast, and suddenly every one of my senses are on overdrive.

I can feel every hard ridge of muscle behind me, the weight of his arm as it curls around me, every tiny caress of his fingers. It’s all too much yet not nearly enough. Every touch is a tease, a promise of what’s to come, and I’m so impatient. So needy. I’m not sure I can lie here, his legs tangled with mine, for an entire movie.

“What do you want to watch?” His voice is low, husky.

It really doesn’t matter. I’m not going to be able to payattention to a second of it. Not with him so close, with this spiced sandalwood scent wrapping around me.

“That looks good.” I say as he highlightsCentral Intelligence. It’s got Dwayne Johnson and Kevin Hart, so it’s bound to be funny. Maybe they’ll stand a chance at distracting me from Ryan’s light touches, from the rise and fall of his chest, from his mouth nuzzling against my hair.

Doubtful, but still, they have the best odds.

But as the movie starts, those odds dwindle down to nothing. I’m missing all the funny lines, and I can’t pay attention to save my life. I’m grasping at straws here. How am I supposed to watch this entire thing? I’m so freaking distracted as his thumb brushes along my ribs, I can’t even appreciate Dwayne Johnson in a tight unicorn shirt.

This is torture.

I deserve a medal or something.

A plaque.

Ryan laughs behind me, the grit in his voice rolling right down my spine to my clit. Who knew they were connected? His chest rumbles against my back, and it’s like he’s completely oblivious to my plight. He laughs again and I almost whimper. Almost.

If only I could ... I shift, rubbing my legs together, trying anything to get more friction. Really anything to help alleviate this ache between my legs.

At this point I’m desperate.

His hand moves again, the touch casual, the movement slow. Until it travels south. Ah, fuck (I know, I’m sorry). Millimeter by torturous millimeter, his fingers travel lower and lower. He passes my belly button. He’s at the top of my jeans. Dammit. He paused.

I’m not sure if he knows the full meaning of Netflix andchill—heavy emphasis on the chill—but it doesn’t seem like he does.

I shift again, trying to make it seem natural, but I’m not sure it’s working. I’m seconds away from dry humping his hand.

His fingers twitch.

Inside I’m screaming.

Why is he doing this to me?

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