Page 59 of The SEAL's Duchess
Pleasure exploded through him, violent and unstoppable, smashing the walls he’d lived behind for years.
He couldn’t hold back. Couldn’t keep anything from her.
She slowed, hair tumbling forward, and finally sagged against him. Her weight settled into him, her breath evening out by degrees.
Ryder locked his arms around her, holding tight, burying his face in her hair like she might vanish if he let go. She smelled of sex and firelight, and the need to keep her there burned so fierce it scared the hell out of him.
He wanted to mark her as his, never let her walk away.
That should’ve terrified him. But it didn’t.
Instead, when she nestled in tighter, her heartbeat thudding against his, he let it be.
He didn’t let people in. Hadn’t in years. But Ivy was already there—under his skin, where it was supposed to be safe.
Outside, the storm raged. But inside the circle of firelight, with her warm weight on him, Ryder felt something he hadn’t in a long damn time.
Peace.
25
Ryder driftedawake to the muted clink of glass.
For a moment, he lay under the comforter, disoriented. Mornings were one of two things—dead silence when Ellie was at Sarah’s or his mom’s, or alternatively, Ellie bouncing on his head demandingneggsfor breakfast ASAP.
Memory hit like a hammer.Ivy. The storm. Firelight. Her body arching under his mouth.
He stretched fingers to the opposite side of the bed, finding only cool sheets, and the faintest trace of her scent. His gut clenched hard.
She left.
The thought struck him square in the chest, bringing with it that familiar ache. One night, that’s all it had been. And yet, one night and he was acting like?—
A faint sizzle from the kitchen. The scrape of a spatula. A low hum, half a tune.
She’s still here.
Ryder pressed the heel of his hand against his sternum, trying to steady his heartbeat.
Christ, get a grip, Ryder.
Since when did someone staying the night turn him inside out?
She’s notjust someone,a traitorous voice whispered.
Delicious aromas reached him. Coffee, bacon, maple syrup. Butter on hot metal.
Those smells didn’t belong in his kitchen. Not anymore. He cooked for Ellie, but his mornings were black coffee and protein bars on the way to work.
This was mornings shared. Family life. The very thing he hadn’t let himself want since Miranda.
Because that shit hurt when it ended.
He shoved back the covers, reluctant to leave the lingering warmth. His feet hit cold hardwood, the chill a sharp contrast to the comfort of his bed. His clothes from last night were somewhere near the fireplace, but he grabbed sweatpants from the chair and tugged them on. The sounds from the kitchen drew him forward like a magnet.
At the doorway, he stopped, one hand braced on the frame.
Ivy stood barefoot at his stove, wearing nothing but his blue T-shirt. It hung loose, skimming her curves, hem brushing mid-thigh, slender legs golden in the early light. Her hair was messy, waves spilling over her shoulders.
