Page 69 of Reaching Ryan

Chapter Thirty

Grace

Ryan’s thick, blunt-tipped fingers finally go still while my pussy clenches and flexes around them. His head tipped forward, the crown of it pressed against the door he has me pinned against, our breath harsh and ragged as we both fight to catch it.

“Are you okay?” It’s a stupid question and I regret it the second I ask it.

He chuckles quietly in response. “I could do this all goddamned day.” As if to prove it, Ryan pulls his fingers free, almost to their tips before stroking back into me. “Making you wet. Making you come…” When I flex my hips to take him in deeper, he groans against my neck, the harsh sound filled with frustration. “I want to fuck you, Grace. I wish—”

“You are…” I reach up to wrap my arm around his neck, pulling him closer. “You—”

Someone knocks on the door we’re pressed against, the bang of it reverberating through my chest and instantly setting my face on fire.

When they knock again, the hand between my legs goes still but he doesn’t pull out. “Fuck off,” Ryan growls, loud enough for his voice to pass through the door.

“Just wondering if I need to call security,” says the muffed female voice from the hall.

Ryan pulls his fingers free on a muttered curse and before I know it, my pants are being pulled up and I’m being steered on wobbly legs toward the bed. “Sit,” he tells me with a nudge before he turns back toward the door to pull it open.

“I’m just here to clear my stuff out,” he tells the woman on the other side of the door. “If I’m not gone in fifteen minutes, you can call the National Guard if you want.” Then he shuts the door in her face. Turning away from it, he started to hobble toward the bathroom, his limp noticeably more pronounced.

“Is your leg okay?” Jesus Christ, I’m the Queen of Stupid Questions today. “Shit. I mean, I know it’s not—”

“It’s okay, Grace. I know what you meant,” he says before making a sound in the back of his throat that I think is supposed to be a laugh. “And it’s fine. Just likes to lock up on me when I stand on it for too long.” He disappears into the bathroom and I lean forward a bit to watch as he retrieves a prescription bottle from the back of his toilet.

“Oxy,” he says because he knows I’m watching him. Shaking a tablet into his palm, he tosses it into his mouth and swallows it dry.

I remember what Conner told me yesterday about his leg. That they wanted to amputate it, but he wouldn’t let them. “Does it hurt?” Another stupid question but I can’t help it. The thought of him in pain bother me.

“It always hurts.” Fitting the cap back on and giving it a twist to lock it in place.

Swallowing the knot in my throat, I keep peppering him with questions. “Do the pills help?”

“Yeah.” Something about the way he says it makes me think he’s ashamed of that. Like needing them makes him weak somehow. “But I don’t like to take them.” He makes that sound again as he steps out of the bathroom and starts across the room.

Why?

I want to ask, but I don’t. Instead, I watch quietly while Ryan moves around the room, gathering clothes and personal items and stuffing them into a large canvas duffle.

Like he promised the nurse, less than fifteen minutes later, Ryan’s room is stripped and he’s shouldering a duffle that’s not even half full. “Told you I didn’t have much,” he says, giving me a rueful smile. “Ready to go?”

I nod and stand to follow him out the door.

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