Page 102 of Love, Lies, and Celtic Knots

Ryan doesn’t fire back with his usual sarcasm or smart-ass response; he doesn’t let me off with a joke or a quip. Instead,something in him shifts—I can feel it. The air between us thickens as he pulls me closer. Before I can react, he turns so that my back hits the wall, the solid surface jarring me just enough to make my pulse spike. His hands catch my wrists, pinning them above my head with a strength that’s undeniable, but not cruel. His other hand circles my throat—not tight, but enough to hold me in place. His eyes burn into mine, darker and more serious than I’ve ever seen them.

“I’m done playing, Candace,” he growls, his voice low and rough, the vibration of his words humming against my skin. “So, what’s it going to be? You going to try to keep running from this, from us?”

His breath is warm against my face, his body pressed against mine, a line of heat and strength I can’t ignore. A shiver races down my spine, a primal reaction I wasn’t prepared for. The intensity of his grip, his proximity, awakens something deep inside me, something I’ve spent years burying. This moment feels like a crossroads, the line between resisting him and surrendering to everything he ignites in me.

“Fuck or fight, Candace,” he murmurs, his lips so close to mine I can feel the tease of his words. Each syllable brushes against my resolve, threatening to unravel it. “Make up your mind.”

I’m frozen, caught between the pull of the flames and the safety of retreat. My heart races as I stare into his eyes, knowing that whatever choice I make, there’s no turning back.

The tension hangs heavy, a tangible force weaving through the dimly lit room. It’s laced with the scent of his cologne and the faint hum of electricity sparking between us. This is a dangerous dance—a push and pull of desires and fears, of wanting, needing, and denying—all colliding in one heated moment. This is the point of no return, and I don’t know which scares me more: giving in to him or walking away.

A sneer curls on my lips, a scathing retort ready to slice through the suffocating tension. But before I can let the venom drip from my words, his lips crash onto mine, silencing everything I might have said. The smooth, demanding texture of his mouth extinguishes every protest swirling in my head.

His grip on my throat eases, his fingers trailing heat down my neck. They brush over my collarbone, making a mockery of the restraint I’m desperately clinging to. A shiver ripples through my skin as his hand finds the swell of my breast, his thumb brushing over my nipple, teasing it into a peak of sensitivity. He swallows each gasp that escapes me, kissing me like I’m the air he needs to breathe.

And then, with a roughness that sends adrenaline surging through my veins, he grabs the hem of my sweater and draws it over my head, tossing it aside. My bra meets the same fate, discarded without care, leaving me bare beneath his hungry gaze.

“Damn it, Ryan,” I breathe against his invading mouth, but there’s no fight in my voice anymore—just raw, unfiltered need that matches his own.

I’m starving for him. My body betrays me, every moan vibrating against his lips as I arch into him, desperate for more. Craving the press of his skin against mine, I can’t stop myself.

For the first time in years, I let myself feel.

Feel him.

Feel us.

The storm kicks up in intensity as if it is a reflection of the one brewing between us, but for once, I don’t fight it.

Instead, I let it consume me.

His hips pin me firmly to the wall, the hardness of his cock throbbing against my belly, igniting a fire I’ve fought so hard to keep at bay.

“Let me touch you,” I plead, hating the desperation in my voice but unable to stop myself.

But he doesn’t relent, his hands pinning mine above my head. It’s maddening—the way he controls this dance of dominance and submission, leaving me helpless to do anything but feel. I guess we’d been doing this with each other even before either of us knew anything about the lifestyle. I feel the roughness of his jeans against my inner thighs, the heat of his erection branding my skin, the ache pulsing within me, demanding satisfaction.

“Touch me? Is that what you want?” His voice is a low rumble, laced with dark promises and the threat of surrender. “Because you’ve got to say it, Candace. Tell me you want it.”

My throat tightens around a whimper, my eyes locked on his, caught in the stormy depths of his gaze that threatens to consume me whole. This man—this infuriating, intoxicating man—has stripped me of my top and all my defenses along with it.

“Please,” I whisper. The word is barely audible, but it feels louder than any declaration I’ve ever made.

“Better,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my cheek, scorching skin that’s just been pressed against the cool plaster of the wall. As his hips grind into me again, I wonder if this is what it feels like to teeter on the brink of chaos—terrifying, overwhelming, and utterly exhilarating.

His hand, that masterful artist of desire, slips past the barrier of my yoga pants, delving into the heated silk of my need. The world narrows to the movement of his middle finger, striking a chord deep within me, playing me with a mastery that leaves no room for denial. His palm, a searing brand on my pulsing center, forces my spine to arch involuntarily, my body betraying any last shred of resistance.

"Ryan," I breathe, as his other hand finally releases mine. My arm snakes around his neck, pulling him closer, needing the solid reality of him to anchor me against the whirlwind of sensations his touch sparks to life. My free hand, trembling with a mix of need and rebellion, slides down his taut stomach and beneath the waistband of his pants. The thick, hard length of him presses against my palm, a claim on my breath, a physical reminder of how much he wants me.

He is all tension and heat, a statue of male desire carved just for me.

"Damn you, Ryan," I manage between ragged breaths as he lifts me into his arms. The world tilts, and I cling to him, my sanctuary in the storm he’s unleashed.

The stairs become an obstacle course on the way to the bedroom, but I don’t care. I want him, and I’m done denying it. My hand ventures further into the heat of his pants, earning a stumble from him. With a growl of frustration and lust, he sets me down on the cool wood, my back pressed to the banister. His fingers work at my pants with a frenzy that borders on violent, stripping them and my panties away and leaving me bare, exposed to his hungry gaze.

"You’re going to make me make you come before I can get you into a bed to fuck you properly, aren’t you?" His voice is rough, a low groan that reverberates through the air and settles like fire between my thighs.

"Maybe," I half-moan, half-tease, spreading my legs for him. My right hand slips down, opening myself to him, to the hunger in his eyes. He leans in, and his tongue traces a scorching path up my wetness, stoking the inferno raging within me.

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