Only When It's Us (Bergman Brothers Book 1), page 11
I remember when that bliss faded from my skin, how his hips stilled against mine, his strong hand tightened around my waist. It didn’t go any further than that. I don’t remember, but I know, because I was a puking, twerking, drunk-as-a-skunk mess and Ryder Bergman might be a surly son of a bitch, but he’s also a gentleman.
Three cheers for that. Because let me tell you, last night, I would have kissed him stupid with my vomit breath and happily jammed on that lumberjack’s log if he’d have let me.
An involuntary groan leaves Ryder. It might have something to do with the fact that I’ve been unconsciously shimmying myself, like a little tree-abiding forest creature, against the piece of wood that extends rather prominently from his sweatpants toward me.
That groan brings another part of the night to my memory. His laugh. I made him laugh and it was beautiful.
Ryder’s hand flexes as it meets my waist. One eye cracks open, greeting me with grass green irises and thick lashes. It’s followed by a slow, sexy smile. I’m hopeful it’s here to stay but I’m not counting on it. He’s dazedly half-awake, in that pliant, relaxed place I was a few weeks ago, in my sexy lumberjack-about-to-fell-a-tree dream.
He gropes overhead, never breaking eye contact with me. On a soft sigh through his nose, he swipes open his phone and types, spinning it so I can read the notebook.
You snore.
I smack his shoulder as embarrassment reddens my cheeks. I’m aware of this, but like hell am I admitting it. “Do not.”
He nods, mouthing, Do.
Our eyes hold, and because I’m a self-sabotaging, punishing hothead, I shove down the blankets and lean closer to him. Ryder’s grip never leaves my waist, and the heat of his palm seeps through my dress. His hand flattens on my back and pulls me even closer, making Ryder hiss under his breath when I press my pelvis to his. I watch his jaw clench, his eyes scrunch shut before they open again.
Gently, he uses his arm underneath my neck to pull me until I’m tucked into him. My head is on his shoulder, in a cloud of cedar and spruce nirvana. I stare up at the notepad as he types furiously.
What’s been going on? The past few weeks you’ve been…different. Why were you dressed like that, out at a club?
I glance up at him, brushing my fingers against his now rather bushy beard. How do I explain what I’ve been doing without laying all my cards on the table? Without telling him I know about the hearing aid, and I wanted to get back at him. That I got carried away in my vengeance—we both did—and now I don’t even recognize where we are anymore. I can’t admit any of that, because that would leave me exposed and insanely vulnerable. So, like the big wuss that I am, I change the subject.
“Sleeping next to this thing felt like having a cuddling threesome with a forest creature—”
Ryder sputters. A hoarse cough of a laugh leaves him.
“Not that I’d know! About threesomes, that is…” My cheeks darken. I’m beet red. I stop talking before more nonsense falls out of my mouth. Burrowing deeper in his arms, I hide my face and soak up every tiny noise of amusement that leaves him.
Ryder’s laughter finally fades on a breathy sigh. He uses a thumb to wipe a tear out of the corner of his eye. Then, he types again, arms extending so that the phone is held over my head. It gives me a very exclusive look at all the burly muscles and tendons that make up the lumberjack’s arms.
You don’t like the beard?
I peer up, seeing he doesn’t have the hearing aid on, and tip my face so he can read my lips. “I’m…” Combing my fingers through that soft blond hair, I tease the pad of my pointer along his lips. “Curious. If it tickles. What’s beneath it…”
His eyes grow darker, his breath faster. Unexpectedly, he sets his teeth on either side of my finger and dances his tongue against the tip.
Something like unghh leaves me as I shamelessly rub myself against him. Ryder’s eyes drift shut. And we’re zero to one hundred in three seconds flat. He’s panting, I’m rocking against him, and now my wet finger’s trailing down his throat, down, down the V-neck of his shirt, until I pull it aside and swipe the damp, chilly tip around his nipple.
Somewhere between a groan and a gasp bursts from his mouth, more faint sounds that I soak up hungrily. We lock eyes, sharing a long, unbroken study of each other, jagged, shared bursts of air as we move. His hand slides down my back and cups my butt, easily hiking my leg over his hip.
We pick up right where I’m pretty sure we left off last night, and it’s dizzying. My toes curl. My back arches. I’m so close, I don’t even want to breathe. But then the door bursts open, making me shriek.
Becks stands ten feet away in tighty-whities and it’s burned into my retinas. I’m still shrieking as Ryder spins off the bed, whipping the comforter over me so that I’m covered in one smooth motion. His echoing double clap and a few gestures that clearly don’t mean nice things shoo Becks out. I watch with an unresolved heaviness between my thighs as he strolls out of the room, black sweatpants low on his hips, that white V-neck clinging to every long, defined muscle of his back and arms.
Falling back onto the bed, I huff a desperate sigh. I’m right on the edge, torturously close. One sweep of my finger and I’d tumble. I could come so easily.
But I want so much more than an orgasm at my fingertips, fueled by the sight of a beautiful man. I want Ryder to send me over. For it to happen when it’s more than just two bodies getting off on each other. That’s a problem, that I want to have not just part of Ryder Bergman. I don’t do that. I don’t want more from someone. I don’t set myself up for heartbreak and disappointment. I take what I want, I shield my heart, and I move right along. Ryder seems to operate just as guardedly.
What is wrong me with? I sigh shakily and chock it up to hormones. Lust. Hate-crazed sexual attraction. My hand splays across my belly. I don’t move. I lie still until the torturous pulse between my thighs subsides and I’m thinking straight again. My heart locks tight, the key turns with a click that rings in my ears.
Safe and secure, once more.
While Ryder’s still out in the hallway, ripping Becks a new asshole, I use my finger and Ry’s toothpaste to brush my teeth. Next, I swipe one of his hair ties to pull back my insane hair—seriously, how did he even look at me this morning?—before I realize that this red dress needs to be burned into the shameful annals of hooker dress history.
I peer at my backside and am horrified by what little is left to the imagination. There is no way in hell I’m waltzing past Becks, probably Tucker, and definitely Ryder in this getup. So, hastily, I riffle through Ryder’s drawers, huffing the incredible pine forest scent as I look. Finally, I find a black shirt that’s so long and big, it works as a shirt dress. That will go best with the hooker heels.
Throwing open the door confidently, my red napkin dress folded under my arm, I stroll into the living room and am promptly met with three pairs of male eyes.
Tucker’s widen, then dance away. Becks squints like he’s trying not to see double of me. But Ryder’s gaze starts at my hooker shoes, then slowly drags up. A long single sigh leaves him. His expression is a portrait, titled, Why the fuck didn’t I hit that last night?
I’ll be damned if I know what’s going on between us right now, but his undeniable lust puts a small triumphant smile on my face. I add another scratch to the mental tally I’ve been keeping since Hearing Aid Gate. Point for Willa.
Tucking a rogue curl back into my bun, I smile at the guys. “Good morning, fellas.”
I pause next to Ryder, whose gaze is locked on my mouth. “I’m going to either find my phone or buy a new one, but I have my laptop, okay?”
He nods slowly. Okay, he signs.
I take his hand in mine, squeeze it tight, then leave.
After an Uber ride of shame home, I shower and line my liquor-singed stomach with some toast and a cup of weak tea. I wish I could tolerate coffee, but after a night of that kind of drinking, I’ll puke. When the carbohydrates and paltry caffeine hit my bloodstream, I feel conscious enough to find my phone. Eventually, I discover it in the laundry basket, shoved into the pocket of my jeans I wore to the hospital yesterday evening.
Found it, I text Ryder immediately.
My phone pings. Good. How are you feeling?
As bad as I deserve to. Sorry I was such a mess. Needed to blow off some steam.
You were fine, he writes back. Besides the vomiting. And the snoring. And your death grip on my arm all night.
“Such an asshole,” I mutter. Well, drunk goggles, and all.
Ouch, he responds. Touché.
He has to know how full of shit I am. I was practically scaling Mount Ryder this morning, chasing a stunning view. You don’t do that stone-cold sober with bedhead, puke breath, and a skank dress on after making a fool of yourself the night before unless you’re desperate for someone. He has to intuit this, right? That I’m despicably sexually attracted to him. Just sexually.
The way he was looking at me before I left, I’m thinking Ryder’s hurting for it as much as I am. And when he figures it out, when we have to acknowledge this animal, sextacular thing between us? Then what?
He texts again, breaking me from my thoughts.
Did you check your email?
No, I type. Why?
I’m going to murder my brother-in-law.
When I open my email and read what Professor MacCormack has to say for himself, I have to restrain myself from throwing my freshly recovered phone at the wall. If I survive this semester without having committed assault, it will be a Christmas break miracle.
“Your proposal is solid.” MacCormack paces his office, phone in hand, saying what I assume he’s texting to Ryder so he can follow. “Really, it’s good. My issue is this—I’m sensing a lot of tension between you two, and I can’t grade an unrealistic business model. Business partners need to be tight, trusting, on the same page. Now, take heart. You two aren’t the only pair I’m concerned about.”
Ryder death-grips his phone and sucks in a breath. He leans, elbows on his knees, and even with the beard, I can see a scowl tugging at his expression. His ball cap’s back on, tugged low. The lumberjack flannel stretches across his broad shoulders. Today it’s a classic black watch—hunter green and ink-black plaid. It’s dangerous-looking. A little sinister.
Every remotely erogenous part of my body, from my traitorously hard nipples to my aching choo-cha, voice their demand to be plundered by the plaid-wearing rogue.
Jeebus Christmas, I need to get a handle on myself.
I wiggle on my seat and fold my arms across my chest.
“I’m assigning you two a team-building day,” Mac says.
I sputter as my hands fly unhelpfully in the air. This can’t be real. It has to be a joke. Ensuring I’m tilted toward Ryder so he can read my lips, I say, “Are you serious, Mac?”
MacCormack nods fervently. “I need to see increased camaraderie, or when due date comes, I won’t be able to grade your project as a practicable business plan. This course is professionally oriented. It’s not theory. It’s application.”
“Okay, I get that, but—”
My phone dings, as does MacCormack’s.
In case you forgot, Willa’s a D-1 student athlete. She barely has time to sleep and eat meals, as it is, Aiden. We can’t go backpacking and bonding over sunsets. You’re being a dick.
I stifle a snort that dies off when MacCormack’s icy blue eyes land on mine. He swivels, throwing a finger at Ryder, then texts us both on his phone. I’m not your brother-in-law right now. I’m your hard-ass professor who’s here to tell you, figure it out. I need to see camaraderie. You two have more common interests than you think. He gives me a pointed look. So find some time to set aside classwork and bond. I’ll have you two back here individually to account for your experience.
Ryder’s eyes are burning holes into Mac’s head. Common interests? I mean what does Mac know of me beside the fact that I live and breathe soccer? Ryder’s never mentioned he played soccer if that’s what Mac’s implying.
MacCormack pushes off his desk and taps his watch, which is his version of Get the hell out of my office. He can hardly move us out of the room fast enough, shooing us like chickens from the coop. “You’ve got one week. Learn about each other, get on the same page, or your project’s in jeopardy, got it?”
Before either Ryder or I can answer, the door is slammed in our faces. Ryder pounds his fist once against the door, an angry twitch to his jaw telling me if he was using his words, he’d be ionizing the air.
A solitary thud answers. “Get over it. One week.”
My phone pings with a message from Ryder.
I told you. I’m going to kill him.
11
Willa
Playlist: “Billie Jean,” The Civil Wars
I wish I could say Ryder and I manage to convince Mac that he’s smoking some terrible human-resources-laced strain of hashish, but he proves unflappable and only gives us stony glances when we corner him after the next class.
Between Ryder’s course load, my studies, practice, and game schedule, then dashing over to the hospital in the evenings to see Mama, who looks a little perkier since that experimental drug got thrown in her pharmacopeia, we barely manage to keep up with assignments while pulling together a day to “bond.”
Ryder performs a magic trick and convinces Mac to give us an excused absence from class, seeing as it’s the only day with my practice and game schedule that we can make work. We agree to leave at nine in the morning for our day hike, but before that, Rooney and I traipse over to the practice fields early in the morning to pass the ball around and have some shots.
We have a favorite field that we often use but someone else was there, so we continue our walk to a more secluded, less-maintained field that’s normally used for rec-league games.
As I walk with Rooney, I try to breathe deeply, to release the anxiety that’s knotting my stomach. I’m nervous for today, but I don’t actually know what exactly I’m apprehensive about. It’s just that since my wild night out, things feel tense with Ryder, in some unnamable but palpable sense. Yes, there’s obvious sexual tension, but something more is going on. I just can’t put my finger on it.
He’s been a bit surlier than normal. I’ve been busier. While I could talk to him about what happened, that would be…well, that would be wildly uncomfortable. I don’t do that. I’d hive and choke on my words. It would also be trying, and if there’s one thing Willa Rose Sutter doesn’t do with a man—friend or foe—it’s try.
How and why I ended up this way is a complex cocktail. First, it’s resentment for the man who bequeathed fifty percent of my DNA, then headed for the hills. In part, my unwillingness to pursue a man, let alone a serious relationship, is because I’m sickened by the thought that the guy I fall for could reject me just like the sperm donor.
Then there’s part two: my mother’s perspective on men. Mama didn’t say it often, how untrustworthy she found men. I think, in her way, she wanted me to form my own opinion about the opposite sex. But she showed me her whole adult life that men were something you use and lose, hit and quit. Anything more was just an invitation for disappointment.
Walking with Rooney, half-listening to her prattle on about some chemistry assignment I’ll never wrap my head around—why, I have asked, does a pre-law student need a chemistry degree? Because she’s a masochistic dork who wants to be a biomedical lawyer, that’s why—I find myself wondering why I’m so hung up on my dynamic with Ryder. We’re project partners. We banter well. There’s some sexual tension. Fine. What’s the big deal?
I’ve tried shelving it, but I can’t stop thinking that in all these hours together with my nemesis-turned-forced-ally, somewhere along the way we became friends. Yes, friends who routinely bust and burn each other so bad, we’re a little singed around the edges. Okay, so maybe we’re more frenemies than friends, but that’s more than straight, vehement opposition. Even then, so what? Can’t a man and woman be frenemies? Especially when both of them have shown themselves to be totally allergic to maintaining anything more?
“Man this bag is heavy,” Rooney huffs, the only break in her chemistry soliloquy. “How many balls did you pack?”
I take the bag from her and hike it high up on my shoulder. I always pack too many balls, but you can never have too many, especially with how often Rooney shanks them.
“Rude!” She shoves me.
Seems I said that out loud.
As we round the bend to the rec-league fields, Rooney’s back to bitching about chemistry, specifically how her professor unfairly graded her balanced equations review. I freeze and slap a hand against her chest.
A man stands far down the field, juggling the ball, his head bent in that easy way you have when you’re effortlessly screwing around, juggling when you could do it in your sleep. His hair’s tugged back in a small bun at the base of his neck. His blond facial hair catches the sunlight when he flicks the ball and lands it on his back, steadying it easily between his shoulder blades. The ball hovers seamlessly until he bounces it off his shoulder. On a scissor kick while the ball is mid-air, he cracks it straight into the goal.
Rooney’s whistle cuts the silence. “Well, hi, and who ordered him from the hot stranger vending machine?”
I smack her chest again. My heart is racing. “Rooney, I think a ball pump fell out of the bag. You better double back and check.”
“What?” She frowns. “How could I have possibly dropped tha—”
“Rooney?”
She finally notices the dangerously brittle edge in my voice. Staring out to the field, Rooney narrows her eyes and takes a longer look. “Wait, is that…holy shit. Holy. Shit.”
I can’t even manage a nod of agreement.
“Okay, I’m going to, uh…I’m going to go check my ingrown toenail. I’ll hang back here.”
“Thanks,” I mutter.
