Page 95 of The Cost of Blood and Bonds

I should. I should end this now before I lose all control.

I reach back and try to wrap my hand around him through his pants. He shifts, pressing his body firmly against mine, pinning me to the bar so my hands can’t reach him.

“Nice try.” His breath is hot against my neck. “But you had your turn.”

His fingers keep moving, rubbing over the seam of my pants until I’m biting my lip to keep from moaning. This is insane. We’re in public; anyone could see. And I’ve never been more turned on in my life.

“Tell me I win.”

“No.”

He half-laughs, half-groans against my ear, like my refusal just set something loose in him.

“So stubborn.”

His fingers slide up my thigh and find the waistband of my pants. He pauses there, waiting for me to stop him, teasing the waistband. I should stop him, tell him we can’t, not here. But what comes out of my mouth is nothing, because I don’t want him to stop. I want him to ruin me.

He slips his hand inside, torturously slow, every inch of his descent deliberate. Lower. Lower. And then, finally, his fingers find my bare heat. The moan I let out is raw and helpless. His forehead drops to my shoulder, and the low groan he lets out undoes me.

“Fuck.” His voice is shattered.

His finger circles my clit, and my body shudders.

No one has ever touched me like this. It’s like he wants to cherish me and wreck me in the same breath. I’ve never wanted anyone like this, never needed anyone the way I need him right now.

“Admit I win,” he murmurs against my neck.

I can’t answer; I can barely stand. His thick, rough fingers are destroying me.

“Rye—” It’s a plea and he knows it.

“Ryewood,” he corrects, his voice like gravel and honey. “I want to hear you say my full name when you’re falling apart for me.”

Falling apart. That’s exactly what’s happening. He’s dismantling me piece by piece, and I’m letting him.

The circles get faster and harder, building to something that’s going to wreck me. I’m climbing toward something huge, my whole body tensing⁠—

Then his fingers ease to a gentle, maddeningly slow rhythm.

“Heads up, little fox.” His voice is rougher than before. “Bartender’s coming. Think you can hold it together?”

I see the bartender heading toward us. Fuck.

Ryewood’s fingers keep moving, slow and lazy, like he has all the time in the world.

“Go on.” His voice is pure sin. “Unless you want him to know what I’m doing to you right now.”

I can’t hold onto a single thought, not while his fingers are still unraveling me. All that exists is the merciless rhythm of his touch and the ache building so fast I can’t keep up with it. And then the bartender is there, and I have to remember how to be human.

“What can I get you?”

The bar hides everything from the waist down, and Ryewood knows it. His touch doesn’t falter, even with the bartender right in front of us, and instead of panic, all I feel is a need so desperate I arch into his hand.

I open my mouth and Ryewood’s finger presses down, hard against my clit, like he wants to watch me break. My breath stutters, and I silently plead that the bartender can’t see what’s happening behind my eyes.

“Two—” My voice cracks. “Two whiskeys, please.” The please comes out breathy, but the bartender just nods and walks away. And the moment he’s gone, everything changes.

“Good girl,” Ryewood breathes against my neck, and the words sink into my skin like a brand. “Now let’s see how composed you stay when I stop holding back.”