Page 23 of Hellbent
Shit.
I turn, my mind still half on Jake, still half-dazed with lingering desire, and push open the bathroom door.
And freeze.
Ryder is standing at the sink.
Completely. Fucking. Naked.
A toothbrush dangles from his mouth. He turns his head toward me, calm as ever, arching a single, unimpressed eyebrow.
Holy. Shit.
My brain short-circuits. It’s the sheer size of him that strikes me first—broad shoulders, sculpted arms, thick muscles lined with tattoos. Even his legs are all power, his stance solid. And then my eyes drop lower.
Which is a mistake.
Even soft, he’s thick. Heavy.Indecent. A flush climbs hot up my throat, and I snap my eyes back to his face.
I just stared at Ryder’s dick.
“Sorry,” I manage, my voice embarrassingly thin. And then I say the only word I can muster: “Towel.”
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even move to cover himself.
“Towels are in the hall closet,” he says.
I nod, too mute to explain that the closet is empty, and my feet still don’t move.
He looks like he might speak, say something else, but then his expression shutters. He turns back to the mirror, toothbrush moving again, like I never walked in.
I snap out of it, and bolt.
I don’t hear another noise from upstairs for a long while.
Eventually—after I’ve tried to cool down by washing my face, and paced Jake and Damian’s bedroom like a caged animal—I climb into Jake’s bed with a book from his bedside table. Something about hacking into computer systems. It surprises me at first, but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. Jake’s got that tech-guy sharpness, that hidden depth. The book is a little over my head, but I keep flipping through the pages, having nothing else to do.
No one’s home. No ride back to the garage.
And I sure as hell don’t want to risk watching TV in the living room, only for Ryder and his lady friend to walk in on me.
But I put the book down when I hear footsteps on the stairs—one set.
Soft. Definitely not Ryder.
I freeze, listening as the front door opens and clicks shut.
A ridiculous rush of furtive curiosity pushes me off the bed before I can second-guess it. I tiptoe down the hall to the kitchen window, pressing my fingertips to the edge of the glass as I peer outside.
I need to know if it’s Ryder who just left the house. Maybe there never was anyone up there with him. Maybe he was just watching porn.
Vigorously.
But no.
In the driveway, a tall blonde in an expensive-looking black coat steps into a waiting car. I see the Uber sticker as it turns, reverses, and then heads down to the road.
So that’s Ryder’s type.
