Page 15 of Ryder

Like a lovesick fool, I angle my head to give him better access and moan when he nibbles a path to my ear. “Ask me, Claire.”

There’s no way I’m going to ask this bossy man to kiss me. For one thing, I have my pride. I don’t need to beg a man to put his mouth on me. There are plenty of guys in town who would gladly kiss me without being asked. I could make a list of everyone who comes into the bakery for no other reason than to flirt with me and try to get me to go out with them. They follow me with their gazes and don’t try to hide their lust when they stare at my chest or my ass. I can feel them looking even as I walk away.

Of course, none of them turn me on. None of them make my blood race like Ryder does. I’ve never wanted any of them to touch me, let alone kiss me. I want Ryder to doeverythingto me.

Ryder bites down gently on my earlobe, making me shudder. Damn, he really does not play fair. “Ask me,” he repeats.

I shake my head, breathlessly trying to hold my ground.

He licks along the tender skin behind my ear. I didn’t even know I was sensitive there. No one has ever kissed me like this before. All my kisses have been sloppy, with no buildup and no foreplay.

Ryder is the master of foreplay. I want him to rip my clothes off and take my virginity right here in the kitchen. That’s how far gone I am for this man. “How old are you?” I ask, trying to focus on anything but his lips.

“Forty,” he mutters. “Not nearly as old as your father.”

Thank God. I think I’m more relieved than he is, though I’m not sure it would have changed anything. I’d still be standing here in his arms, no matter how old he was. It just would’ve been more awkward when he met my parents.

And what the hell am I thinking?

Meet my parents? That’s madness. Surely, his goal is simply to talk to some people from the town and get their take on the state of affairs. It’s lunacy to think he has any intentions toward me.

As if he can read my mind, he answers some of my questions, whispering right into my ear, “I’ll see if Gretchen can cook for our little dinner party on Friday. What time do your parents get up on Saturday mornings? I bet I need to plan for something early, like maybe five?”

We’re apparently having this discussion. “That’s probably best. We get to the bakery at four in the morning,” I breathe out, struggling to focus because his lips are pure heaven against my neck and ear. God, I want him to kiss me.

“By Friday,” he continues, flicking his tongue over my earlobe, “you’ll be so totally gone for me that you’ll hold my hand and kiss me in front of them.”

I gasp. “That’s not going to happen.”

“It will,” he insists. “Now, are you going to ask me to kiss you, or do you want to start exploring the mansion first? I can wait if you’re not ready to feel my old-man lips on yours.”

A strangled giggle escapes my mouth. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“Yep. Which will it be?” He brings his face in front of mine, so close that his lips hover a hair’s breadth away from my mouth. When he licks his lips, his tongue flicks my bottom lip, sending tingles down my entire body.

“Oops,” he says. “That was an accident.”

“Liar. You get to lie and cuss?”

“I get to roll my eyes, too.”

I sigh and give up the fight. I’m too desperate for him to keep up this charade. I need to know what it will feel like to be kissed by this man. “Please kiss me, Ryder.”

The words have barely left my mouth before his lips are on mine. He wastes no time angling his head to one side and licking along the seam of my lips.

I open for him, needing to tangle our tongues together as badly as he seems to. And damn, but the man can kiss. If my eyes were open, they would roll back into my head.

I grab the front of his T-shirt and fist it, holding onto him. A whimper escapes my lips as I grow dizzy from the potency of his kiss. He doesn’t just kiss; he devours me. He ruins me for all future kisses.

For a moment, he makes me believe it won’t matter because all future kisses belong to him.

Chapter7

Ryder

Claire Kennett is mine. I’ve known that on some level since I saw her standing next to my truck yesterday, arms crossed, hip cocked, brows furrowed. She came armed for battle, and she may continue to spar with me for the next sixty years, but I’ll disarm her every time.

She’s swaying a bit when I release her lips. While she’s off-kilter, I decide to bombard her with a few questions. “How many boys have you kissed?” I know she hasn’t likely kissed any men. She’s too young. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe she’s dated other older men.

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