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Everything last night comes tumbling back.
Ryder Sinclair is in my bed, and that warm heaviness is him. An arm is around me and one leg over mine.
I believe the words here are oh, shit.
Slowly, I edge out from beneath him, freezing when his arm tightens a moment. He mutters something, and a small frown appears and I can’t help it…I take a second to appreciate the sheer beauty of him sleeping. He’s softer in sleep, more accessible. Which is nothing more than a fallacy and very dangerous.
With his arm on me, the winding tattoo is up close and the skeletons are delicate and intricate with the flowers and thorns and vines coming from their hands. I want to touch them, but sanity prevails and I drag my mind from fantasyland and back to the Great Escape.
Ryder shifts and turns over, somehow stealing all the covers with him.
I slide off the bed completely and start to rise when a hand clamps around my wrist, holding me there, setting me ablaze with that connection.
“You’re no fun, Elliot.”
His voice first thing is surprisingly awake, low, and warm. There’s humor there, and it all takes its toll. It’s a nice toll, sweet, and something I don’t want. I try and tug free.
He doesn’t let go.
I bite back a sigh. “I’m a lot of fun. I just need to get a start on the day.”
“Your project is already here.” He’s not holding me there anymore. His hand is still on me, though, his fingers a slow slide against my flesh and that caress is more binding than any cold steel snapped onto my wrist could ever be. “And pajama parties have rules. Like…no sneaking off.”
I pretend I’m made of stronger stuff and keep my tone crisp and edged with sarcasm. “Have you ever been to a pajama party?”
“I went to boarding school. Does torture count?”
“That’s a no, then?”
“And she’s cruel…” The smile in his tone warms me. “No. But this is my pajama party, and my rules. Come on. We don’t have to get up yet.”
I sigh and sit on the bed. “Not getting up somehow morphs into rules?”
“I’m gifted that way?” He lets me go and throws back the covers, patting the empty spot.
Just call me a giant idiot weakling, but the flash of near naked, sleep-warmed man crumbles resolve, and I slide back in.
“This is ridiculous. We have a day to get through, and—”
“Everyone needs a little ridiculousness in their lives.” Ryder’s hand comes to rest on my thigh. “Like take what’s going on with me. It’s all insane on a level I don’t want to think about. Why should it matter what I do outside of doing the job?”
“Because, Ryder,” I say, “as much as you want to go forth and practice spreading your seed—”
“Ouch.”
“—you can’t if you want all the things you want. Money sometimes doesn’t talk as loudly as reputation.”
“I’m not a whore.”
I give him a look and he raises his brows even as a small, sheepish smile plays.
“Okay,” he says, “you and your puritanical ways might think I am, but I’m not.”
“If we’re talking traditional sense, then no.”
“I like having a good time. Don’t you?”
“There’s more to life than that.”
