“Good.” With an earthy sigh, his body relaxes into the bed. “Damn, this feels nice. That flight took forever. Two freaking stops. Got on in Chicago and, for some reason, the plane went to Atlanta then back out to LA. We were going backwards to get forwards. Where’s the sense in that?”
The outrage in his voice has my lips twitching.
“There were no nonstop flights?” Rye isn’t terrified of flying the way Scottie is, but he’s never liked it and refuses to fly unless it’s nonstop.
Rye stills for a breath, the muscles along his chest going tight. “Not any that would get me here tonight.”
I tense with him and suddenly we’re awkward again. “Tonight?”
He shifts a little as though he might bolt. But Rye is nothing if not stubborn. “It’s Tuesday. I get Tuesday.”
Because it’s our night.
With that, he turns, cocooning me in his arms. Snuggled under the covers, it’s our own little world. I’m content in a way I haven’t felt since childhood, which is weird since there’s nothing particularly chaste about being pressed against over six feet of naked male. And despite the fact that Rye is simply holding me, he’s clearly turned on. His erection presses into my belly with an insistent nudge as if to remind me what we’re really about. We only touch for sex; that’s the rule.
Except we’ve been slowly tossing all those rules out the window.
“I have my period, Rye.” I don’t know why I’m repeating myself. I don’t want the hugging to end.
But it doesn’t matter because Rye isn’t budging. He breathes in deeply and nuzzles the side of my head. “I don’t care. We’re doing this.”
“What?” It comes out in a loud squeak. “I’m telling you now, I am not into that.”
Rye pulls back enough to meet my gaze. A furrow runs between his eyes. “You don’t have to sound so disgusted.”
“And you don’t have to sound so insulted. I mean, I’m open-minded and all, but it’s my body and…and…ick.”
“Ick?” He huffs out an offended laugh. “Cuddling is gross to you?”
Blinking in shock, I stare at him. “Cuddling?”
“What did you think I was…” He freezes before a snort of amusement escapes him. “Why, Brenna James, I am shocked. Were you thinking—”
“Never mind what I was thinking,” I cut in hastily.
“No, no, I want to hear more about this alternative scenario.”
“Never. Mind. Rye.”
Chuckling, he pulls me close again. “You’re adorable.”
I burrow my flaming face in his chest. “I will pinch you.”
“I know. You’re very fierce.” Strong fingers massage my scalp. His touch pauses for a second. “Did you meet with Mr. Taco…Marshall yet?”
I bite back a smile at his slip. At least he’s trying to behave. Then my humor fades. “Yes. Yesterday and today.”
“Two days in a row,” he murmurs in a teasing tone, but there’s an underlying tension that he can’t hide.
“It’s a big company. Lots of people to meet.”
Rye keeps playing with my hair, but the movement is stiff, as though he has to work at maintaining the casual touch. “And? What did you think?” He says it so lightly, anyone who doesn’t know him well would assume he’s excited for me. But I know better. He’s trying not to be, but he’s worried.
Perversely, that makes me smile again. I touch the hollow of his throat, caressing the little divot there. He smells of stale plane air and warm, earthy Rye; there’s no other scent like him. I’d know it in the dark now—rich and deep yet crisp, like fine bittersweet chocolate. People’s natural scents don’t actually smell like foods or spices, but it’s the closest I can think of. He’s hot, melted chocolate to my senses.
“Bren?” he whispers, prompting.
I’m stalling. We both know this. My finger trails along his collarbone, and his skin prickles in its wake. “I liked what I saw,” I whisper back, watching his throat move convulsively on a hard swallow. I stroke the strong line of his neck. “They have so many accounts, actors, studios, musicians, athletes, even a few wineries. I could spread my wings. But I don’t know…”
He swallows again then presses his lips to the top of my head. He doesn’t kiss me but simply breathes deeply before talking, his voice muffled in my hair. “Never be afraid to fly, Bren. Even if it takes you from all you know.”
This man. My lids prickle with heat, the back of my throat clenching. I close my eyes and lean into him, my hand slipping around his neck. “Thank you.” When I feel him nod, I speak again. “I hate change. Whenever I think of leaving Kill John it feels like I’ll be losing a limb.”
“You’ll never fully leave us,” he says gruffly. “We’ll always be there for you.”
“I know. It’s more that, when I imagine someone else taking over my job, guiding you all…I don’t like it. I hate it.”