Page 53 of Wicked Brutal

“No.” I laugh quietly. “It’s true.”

“Yeah.” His hand slides carefully around my waist. “You’re changing.”

“I don’t know if I like it.”

He leans in and kisses the corner of my mouth. “I can tell you what I think.”

“Which is?”

“I think you’re fucking gorgeous.”

I roll my eyes. “You have to say that.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You’re my boyfriend.”

“Exactly. I’m heavily invested in being honest about how hot my girlfriend is.”

I laugh. His mouth moves to my jaw. “I notice the changes.”

Heat creeps up my neck. “And?”

“And I like them because they’re you.” His hand settles over the slight softness low on my stomach. My breath catches. “That okay?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

He kisses me again. “I want you.” His mouth brushes mine. “I wanted you before.” Another kiss. “I want you now.” His hand stays warm against me. “And I’m going to want you when you yell at me in three months because none of your pants fit.”

He kisses me until I’m not thinking about the mirror anymore. Until my fingers are in his hair and his hands are moving over me with the same certainty they always have. Nothing hesitant. Nothing careful because he thinks I’m fragile. Just Ryan. Wanting me.

When he lifts his head, his eyes are darker. “Come upstairs.”

He starts toward the stairs. I let him pull me after him. Because I want him too. Because here, we’re allowed to be what we are. Because for the next few hours, Ryan doesn’t have to pretend he barely knows me.

And I don’t have to pretend I don’t love belonging to him.

He starts toward the stairs, my hand still caught in his, and I let him pull me after him.

The house is quiet in the particular way it only gets when Cassandra and Walter are gone—no low voices from the study, no television humming, just the soft click of the front door lock settling behind us and the sound of our footsteps on the hardwood. Ryan doesn’t rush. He never rushes once we’re inside these walls. His thumb moves slowly over the back of my hand as we climb, like he’s reminding both of us that we have time.

The afternoon light coming through the tall windows is soft and gray, the kind that makes everything look quieter than it is. Our footsteps are almost soundless on the runner. I can hear my own breathing. I can hear his.

He stops in front of his door, reaches for the handle, then pauses with his free hand still wrapped around mine. For a second, he just stands there, looking at the wood like it might tell him something. Then he pushes it open and draws me inside after him.

The room smells like him—clean laundry and the faint edge of whatever cologne he wears that never quite fades from his pillows. The bed is made. The blinds are half-drawn. His blazer from earlier is folded over the back of the desk chair. Everything is neat in the way Ryan’s spaces always are, like he needs the outside of his life to stay ordered so the inside can be whatever it needs to be.

He shuts the door behind us. The soft click of the latch sounds louder than it should.

Then he turns to face me fully, still holding my hand, and the look in his eyes is the one nobody at Edgewood ever gets to see.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at me the way he only ever looks at me behind a locked door—like the rest of the world has finally shut up long enough for him to see properly.

Then he steps in, cups my face with both hands, and kisses me.

It’s slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything yet, just takes its time remembering the shape of my mouth. His thumbs stroke along my cheekbones. I can feel the tension he’s been carrying all day bleeding out of him in small increments, every second we’re alone.

When he pulls back just enough to speak, his voice is low and rough against my lips. “Fuck, I missed this.”