Page 59 of Hellbent
I blink, snapping my gaze away from his hand. "Yeah, why?"
He shrugs, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “Just seems like a shit setup. That mattress can’t be comfortable.”
I tip my head back against the couch, exhaling. “Wyatt takes care of me.”
His expression doesn’t change. “Yeah. I bet he does.”
Something about the way he says it makes me laugh uncomfortably. “What, you jealous?”
Ryder’s smile is slow and unreadable. “Of Wyatt? No.”
I wonder if all this talk is because he’s thinking I should be on that uncomfortable mattress right now, instead of here, at his house, disturbing him in the middle of the night.
“I should probably stop crashing here so much,” I volunteer.
But Ryder shakes his head. “We all move around here. Doesn’t matter.” He pauses and gives me a small smile. “You’re one of us now.”
I lift a brow. “That so? You making it official?”
He gives me another small laugh. I completely underestimated how delightful it would be to make Ryder laugh. “Sure. Want a badge or something?”
I smirk. “Nah, I’ll take a raise.”
“Talk to Wyatt.”
I grin and then let out an exaggerated sigh, sinking deeper into the couch. “I could get used to staying here. More comfortable than the garage.”
And before I really think about it, I swing my feet up and drop them onto his lap.
He glances down at them, then back up at me. One brow lifts.
I shrug. “What? Making myself at home.”
Something flickers in his expression and then he gives me an indulgent smile, patting my leg with one hand, and says, “Where am I gonna do my drinking alone at night if you’re sprawled out here?”
I laugh—or try to. A breath of sound, here and gone, swallowed by the shift between us. I become aware of the feel of Ryder’s legs beneath mine, the solidity of them. The brush of his fingers against my skin.
His smile fades. Then, slowly, his hand moves—a barely-there slide over my shin.
I go still.
His touch is warm. Just the lightest pressure, but my breath locks in my throat. The room seems smaller. The air heavier.
His thumb moves, and my stomach tightens.
A beat of silence. His jaw flexes, and then suddenly, as if realizing what he’s doing, he pulls his hand away.
“You should probably go to bed. It’s late.”
My pulse hammers. I don’t trust my voice, so I just nod, pulling my feet back and sitting up quickly. Too quickly.
“Yeah. Right.”
I clear my throat and stand, ignoring the warmth crawling up my neck. This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have stayed. Shouldn’t have let the conversation go where it did.
My face is burning with shame.
I head to the hallway, almost free, and force out, “Good talk.”
