Page 16 of The Press Secretary's Passion
“What are you doing here?”
“We have to talk,” he repeats. The corners of his mouth twitch like he finds something amusing, although I don’t know what. What I do know is that I can’t let him talk, because whatever the hell it is he wants to say to me in the middle of the night cannot be good. If it had to do with Rachel, he would have said it right out. But he mentioned when he had broken into my bedroom earlier that he wanted to talk.
I was humiliated when he walked out of my house the first time without a backward glance—not that one would have been welcome with the way he was snarling at me—after he fucked me on the foyer floor. He was hot one minute and then cold and harsh the next. Ryan taught me a lesson, one that should have sunk in through all my years of dating in New York: Men are rats.
Even though I feel in my gut that he’s not. There’s something about the way he is around everyone else. He’s private, and no one really knows anything about him, but Jake trusts him with his life. He even told Grace, who told me. I just have this feeling there’s more than meets the eye with Ryan Black.
So I can’t let him explain why he was a jackass the other day, because if he shows me that he’s a decent guy, I’ll want to fall for him, and I can’t let that happen. It hurt when I only had the promise of him and he threw me away. If he’s a good guy and into me and then he throws me away again, it’ll destroy me.
“Babe,” he says, and I look at him watching me. I realize that my mind must’ve wandered off. “Did you hear me?”
Oh, I heard him all right. But that’s all I’m going to hear tonight. In my sleepy brain, I figure I have two choices: fight it out with him, knowing he will talk circles around me and win, and then he will get to tell me all he wants to say and the whole thing will be moot. Or I can take matters into my own hands and distract him until I can get better locks installed on my house so he can’t keep breaking in like this.
I’m pretty sure I’ll realize this is a harebrained scheme that has no potential to work in the morning, but for now, I’m still a little champagne drunk and definitely a lot sleepy, so I don’t think about it anymore. I just launch myself at Ryan, and he does not disappoint when he catches me.
I wrap my arms around his neck and press my lips to his. I may have started the kiss, but Ryan finishes it as he opens his mouth against mine and licks inside. His arms went tight around me when he caught me, but now he traces patterns up and down my back and then under my camisole, and it goes up and up and up then over my head.
“Ryan,” I whisper as he looks into my eyes. Whatever he sees there, I don’t know, but something comes over him. He changes before my eyes, and then he dips his head and draws my nipple into his mouth.
I squirm as he nips and kisses my breast before moving to the other, and when he sucks it into his mouth, my squirming turns to rocking over his lap. I feel his hard cock between my thighs and let out a whine as I use him to heat up my body.
I grab his T-shirt in my fists and push it up over his head, making him let go of my breast so I can take it off and throw it to the floor. With his hands on my ass, he puts a knee to the bed and tips me backward so I land on my back. And then he grabs the waist of my pajama pants and rips them down my legs.
He pushes my thighs open with his strong hands, and then his mouth is there on me. He doesn’t go slow or tease, no. Ryan devours me. I run my fingers through the hair at the top of his head where it’s longer and pull him closer to me as he sucks my clit deep into his mouth.
I’m seconds away from coming when he pulls back, and I wonder, for a split second, if this is some kind of punishment, to bring me to the edge and then back off. That is until I see his hands move to his belt buckle and I realize he’s just getting down to the good stuff.
I let my eyes trail over him. His body is beautiful with lean, chiseled muscles all over that lead down to a long, hard cock that stands tall and thick from the opening of his jeans. He’s so good-looking that he makes my breath catch. I might hate myself in the morning, but I’m going to let myself enjoy this right now.
Ryan covers my body with his, and I let out the breath I’d been holding when he slowly slides deep inside me. But this is definitely different. This isn’t a hard and fast fuck on the entryway floor. This is slow and deep. Ryan looks deep in my eyes as he moves inside my body.
His mouth hovers over mine, and he touches his lips to mine every so often, but he doesn’t let it deepen. He doesn’t close his eyes but instead watches me. I don’t know what he’s trying to say with his eyes, his mouth, and his body, and I don’t want to either. This can lead to nothing but my heartache.
And still, I have no choice.
I rake my nails down his back as he plunges over and over. I gasp as he hits something deep inside me that makes my thighs tighten around his hips, and he moves faster, drives farther.
I open my mouth to cry out as the climax that Ryan had been carefully building washes over me, and he covers my mouth with his, giving me his deep rumble as he follows me over the edge.
Last time, he couldn’t pull out and pull up his pants fast enough, but this time, he slowly glides in and out of me as the last trimmers of my orgasm roll over me. He traces the tip of his nose down the side of mine and places soft kisses on my mouth. It’s sweet and it’s intimate and it’s too fucking much.
Oh my God, what have I done?
I put my open palms to the front of his shoulders and gently shove him back while I try to tamp down the stinging behind my eyes. Ryan rolls to his side, and I lose his cock. I feel a pang in my heart, but I don’t stop. I push up from the bed and head toward my bathroom.
“Jules?” he asks.
“I was wrong,” I whisper as I grip the doorjamb tight in my hands. “I can’t do this.”
“Julia,” he says more firmly, and I can hear the rustle of the sheets, so I move fast into the bathroom.
“If you ever respected me, even a little bit, you’ll leave,” I whisper, and then I shut the door tight and twist the lock.
“Jules, honey, open the door,” he says, and I can hear his hands against the wood panel. “Please, baby, we’ve gotta talk.”
“I can’t,” I whimper, and I hate that I can hear myself cry. I fucking hate it, and I hate that he can hear it too.
“Please, Jules,” he pleads. “I have to hold you.”
