Only When It's Us (Bergman Brothers #1)(83)

“Because you want it,” I whisper against her neck, then trail faint kisses down her throat.

“I don’t want it…any more than you do.”

A dry laugh leaves me. “What if I told you I want it so bad I can’t think straight?”

She swallows. “Well, then I’ll admit I want it that bad, too, just not how you do.”

“And how do I want it?” I whisper against her neck.

She huffs a frustrated sigh but leans into my touch. “You know what I mean. You want warm fuzzies. And I just want sex.”

“That’s bullshit, Willa.” I straighten and press my pelvis to hers. Willa whimpers. “You want more. You’re just scared.”

“Am not,” she rasps.

“How about this. Come with me to the cabin up in Washington over spring break. Give me that time to show you there’s nothing to be scared of. You. Me. The woods. Four days.”

Willa bites her lip. “I should stay here and study.”

I push away from the counter. Yanking a towel off the handlebar, I throw it over my shoulder. “Study at the cabin. Study naked. Study clothed. I don’t care. I’ll cook. You rest. You need some R and R.”

She’s staring at me. Her irises are nonexistent, her legs scissored shut. Her hair practically crackles with raw energy. Willa’s warring with herself, battling over what she wants and how she’s lived her whole life. They’re mutually exclusive. You can’t give yourself to someone and wall yourself off.

She’s cornered and she knows it. I’ve called us for what we are—two people who care so much more, want so much more than we’ve allowed ourselves to admit. First, we were both too pissed to see what was really there. Then as the heat of our tension began to boil over, and the real structure of our dynamic revealed itself, we were both too shocked and apprehensive to do anything about it.

That was then. This is now.

I’ve spent the last eight weeks without Willa in my life. I never want that to happen again. I’m done pretending this stilted frenemyship works. I can only hope Willa is ready to give up the act, too.

“You wussing out on me, Sunshine?”

Her eyes narrow and darken. “Bullshit, I am.”

“Good.” I turn toward the sink and run the water. “Then it’s a plan.”

“Ryder, I don’t…I mean, it’s not…” She chokes on her words and comes up short. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Stomping over to me, she presses her front to my back. “You need to understand that this is a lost cause. I am not girlfriend material. You are not going to change my mind. When you see sense, we’re going to fuck like rabbits, but it’ll be no strings, no commitment. Then I’ll wreck you with one emotionless orgasm after another, for which I expect to be repaid in Swedish meatballs and those delicious mini-sausages you made at Christmas.”

Slowly I turn to face her, leaning a hip against the counter. Willa’s bravado fades a bit when she sees my eyes. “Willa, if anyone’s getting wrecked, it will be you.” Pushing off the edge, I take a step toward her and wrap a curl of hers around my finger. “I’ve always played clean with you, Sunshine, but I don’t have to.”

Her legs clamp together. “Is that a threat?” she manages hoarsely.

“No, Willa. It’s a promise.”

Spinning away, I step back to the sink, then squirt soap onto the plates and run more water. Her eyes are one hundred percent on my ass. I can hear her heart pounding from over here. It might take me a while, but I’ll convince Willa Sutter she’s safe to share everything with me, to take the leap and risk her heart with me, if it’s the last thing I do.

“Pack warm,” I say over my shoulder. “Washington’s chilly in March.”





26





Willa





Playlist: “Not Over You,” Guitar Tribute Players





“Willa, relax.”

I startle so hard, I spill half my coffee all over my lap. “Jesus, Bergman. A little warning.”

Ryder’s eyebrows lift over his sunglasses. “A little warning before I talk to you?”

Just…goddamn him. He was despicably lumbersexual to begin with, but now that he’s only working that week-old beard, it’s game over. His scratchy stubble does nothing to hide his soft lips which are, as I predicted, unfairly full while still masculine. Throw in the thick, smoky lashes, enviable cheekbones, a jaw you could cut glass with, and I’m ruined. I am a puddle of shameful lust.

Then there’s, ya know, his whole personality. He’s an asshole, in the right ways. He shoves back when I shove first, when he knows I’m looking for a harmless fight and I need our snap and sizzle. He finds weird ways to figure out my feelings and moods without making me feel like I just had another soul-draining chat on the shrink’s sofa. He makes the best fucking Swedish food and he knows exactly how to give a back rub. His hugs are life-affirming.

He’d be very easy to fall in love with. If I did that sort of thing. Which I don’t. At least, when I’m able to keep up all my boundaries and walls and distancing mechanisms, most of which were ripped away from me the moment he stuffed me in his Explorer, then made us hop a flight to Seattle and drive the gorgeous terrain of Washington State.