Only When It's Us (Bergman Brothers #1)(38)
The path broadens. It’s level and packed dirt, a safe trail to take that isn’t likely to make me twist an ankle or tweak my knee. If Coach knew I was hiking, she’d murder me. Twice.
At some point, my five-six frame starts to fall short of Ryder’s long, steady strides, and he takes the lead. Shade buys us relief from the still-strong November sun, as we walk under a canopy of trees. But soon we’re out in the open again, traipsing through fields of dying wildflowers. There’s something haunting about them, a sea of husks and pods, the last lingering petal on a dry, cracked stem.
It reminds me of what Grandma Rose always said as we winterized the garden, as we ripped out plants and pruned bushes and buried bulbs. Life begets death begets life. The only thing we can do is honor the beauty and dependability of that cycle.
I can’t say that I see the beauty just yet, especially in its dependability. I’d prefer it if death weren’t dependable at all.
We come to a creek crossing that immediately I can tell I won’t be able to manage on my own. The water is high, and to get past it will involve hopping several rocks that my legs won’t span before the level drops low enough to trudge through.
Ryder throws his backpack onto his front and for a second I fight a laugh. He looks like he’s pregnant and very proud of it. He squints at me from beneath his ball cap as his mouth twitches. Maybe he’s trying not to laugh, too. Crouching down, he pats his back. Get on, he mouths.
“No.” I say it nice and loud, showing him my mouth so he’ll understand me. “Absolutely not. I’m too heavy with our gear.”
Ryder makes some noise close to a snort. Glancing over his shoulder, his eyes lock with mine. There’s an intensity I haven’t seen in them before, an urgency. I hear it, what he would say if he could. I can feel how it would rumble in the air like thunder and vibrate through my bones.
Willa Sutter. Get. On.
My legs move without my direction, my hands wrap around his neck. Effortlessly, Ryder stands, his broad hands grasping my thighs. We’re two live wires that meet, making electricity flow freely between us. Sparks dance on my skin at every point of contact.
Ryder’s shirt is plastered with sweat. I lean into it, hungry for everything about him that isn’t tidy and cool and buttoned up. He smells heavenly. Like a lumberjack that just felled a tree, his muscles are coiled tight, his skin damp. I inhale cedar and pine and something undeniably manly. Pressing my chest into him, I almost moan. My boobs feel heavy, my nipples pebbled through layers of clothing as they scrape against the muscles of his back. He’s hot and perspiration drips down his neck. I have the weirdest impulse to drag my tongue along his skin and taste him.
Squeezing my thighs, Ryder’s dropping some kind of hint. I take it as a cue to hold on tighter, so I increase my grip around his neck and press my front to his back. I’m glued to his skin. His fingers dig into my legs as he pulls me even closer.
I knew Ryder was strong—mountain manly, feller of trees, and climber of trails—but I didn’t quite anticipate this. He steps evenly, long reaches from rock to rock with a solid-muscled woman on his back and two bags of gear. He’s not even winded when we make it to the other side of the water, and I slide down his body.
The air’s thick, not just with the heat of an unseasonably warm November day, but with something I can’t name. Ryder’s eyes hold mine as he straightens my gear on my shoulders. He steps closer, bringing our boots toe to toe. The sun beats down on us and makes every blond hair on his body glow golden. His chest rises and falls heavily, while his hands hold my shoulders, then slowly slide up my collarbones to my neck. Crickets sing in the grass and a hawk casts its shadow on us as it flies overhead. My pulse slams in my throat beneath Ryder’s thumb. His eyes are on my mouth, his head bending.
Suddenly something slithers through grass close by and I scream so violently, a chorus of finches shoots out of a nearby tree. Without thinking, I launch myself at Ryder, a petrified monkey, plastered to his body. His hands cup my ass as he watches the grass protectively and I almost orgasm on the spot.
Goddamn, that guy looks hot in his mountain man element. I’m all safe up in the stratosphere, watching his eyes dart across the grass. He’d murder that snake for me in a heartbeat. Then he’d spear it on a twig and roast it for me over the fire just to spite the amphibious abomination.
“Is it gone?” I whisper.
His eyes meet mine again. He tips his head.
“Is it gone?” I ask louder.
He nods. Our eyes search each other. The moment we almost had, another almost kiss hangs in the air between us. Unless…unless he wasn’t going to do it. Unless I had dirt on my face or a booger.
Oh, shit. What if I’m imagining all of this?
Ryder easily holds me one-armed and reaches for his phone in his pocket. I’ll admit it: I’m terrified of what he’s going to say. Is he about to set me straight? Tell me to quit making sexy eyes at his mouth and rubbing myself on him like a koala in heat?
I’m a pathological avoidant, I know this, but for me, facing painful emotions is like fear of heights—the moment I’m too close to a potentially fatal drop, I scramble back and bolt.
I slink out of Ryder’s arms and brush by him. Pushing forward, I can hear the faint din of the falls, and a sulfurous odor tinges the air. It’s a sobering scent, breaking the heavy sweetness of what we just did. It reminds me why I’m here, to hike and check off a box for asshole MacCormack. If I lose sight of that, there’s more than one way that I could fall off course. None of those ways are remotely safe.