Owning Violet (The Fowler Sisters #1)(32)
I clear my throat. Avert my head so I’m staring out the window and not looking at Ryder. I don’t think I can face him at this moment. I don’t want to. I’m afraid I’ll do something insane like beg him to touch me. And I can’t do that. Not after he just took back his earlier intriguing offer.
“Violet?” He touches me, his fingers settling on my arm, pressing into my flesh for the briefest moment before he lets go. “Did you hear what I said?”
I nod but don’t dare face him. Not yet. “I did.”
“I’ve made you uncomfortable.”
Leaning my forehead against the cold glass of the window, I close my eyes. “No.” The disappointment that tinges my voice is obvious even to my ears. “Maybe … maybe I wanted to take you up on your offer.”
The silence that follows my words is deafening. I feel him next to me, can hear him shift in his seat, exhale a low breath, thread his fingers through his hair. I can also watch him in the reflection of the window and I see him do all of those things. The struggle he’s having with himself. What to say, what to do, how to react. Does he ever feel uncomfortable? It’s a normal occurrence for me, but is it for him?
“You don’t mean it,” he finally says.
I face him once more. He looks conflicted. But there’s no disguising his hungry gaze and how it roams all over me, from my head to my legs and everywhere in between. A surge of power rushes through me and I lean toward him, the cool air nipping at my skin, making my nipples harden beneath the thin, sheer material of my bra. “I know what I want.” My voice is surprisingly firm and it echoes in the interior of the car. I’m thankful for the glass partition separating us and the driver. No way would I have said this with an audience.
Ryder studies my chest—most likely my hard nipples—as he speaks. “So what is it?”
The moment of truth. I can either be a coward and say nothing or be brave and tell him. “I want … to do something with no worries or repercussions.”
His gaze lifts to meet mine but he remains silent.
I lick my lips, forcing the nerves clawing within me to settle. “I want to know what it’s like to be selfish.”
He lifts a brow. “I’m an expert at that.”
His confession makes me laugh and he smiles in return. “Then maybe you could teach me.”
“Teach you how to be selfish?”
I lean into him, rest my hand on his shoulder and place my lips at his ear. I’m shaking, I’m so nervous, but I have to do this. I want to do this. Perhaps the wine at dinner is assisting me, but I need this. “Teach me how to give myself up to the pleasure and worry about everything else later,” I murmur close to his ear.
Ryder turns to look at me, his mouth so close to mine I can practically taste him. I stare into his eyes, see the blue shot with little flecks of gold, the thick black fringe of eyelashes, the faint scar along the bridge of his nose. I want to ask him how he got it. I want to tell him every woman in America would kill to have eyelashes as thick as his.
But I say nothing. Those thoughts are meaningless anyway.
“You want me to teach you how to be selfish when it comes to … sex?” He tilts his head, his mouth coming dangerously close to mine, and I fight the urge to press my lips against his. The anticipation is agonizing.
A delicious kind of agony, but agonizing nevertheless.
“Yes,” I whisper, hating the way my voice trembles. Hating how badly I want him to kiss me. Have I ever felt like this with another man? Zachary and I had such … clean sex. Not messy, not loud and sweaty and passionate. I would find my satisfaction—mostly—and he would always find his, but it was never overwhelming, all-consuming.
Ryder hasn’t even kissed me yet and I’m feeling all of those things.
“Half the thrill is in waiting,” he whispers in return, his lips moving against mine with those last two words before he moves away from me, settling back in his seat.
I drop my hand from where I gripped his shoulder, mourning the loss of his nearness. “I don’t believe you. You don’t seem like the sort of man who likes waiting.”
“Depends on the woman,” he says. And then he’s touching me, his hand is cupping my cheek, his face is in mine, his body blocking out all available light until he’s everything I see and feel and touch. “And you are definitely worth waiting for.”
I part my lips to protest, to tell him I don’t want him to wait, but then his mouth is on mine, silencing me. Taking from me … everything I have to give.
The kiss isn’t gentle. It isn’t a sweet exploration or a tentative question. His kiss takes. Takes and takes, and I do nothing but give willingly. His tongue thrusts into my mouth and I whimper. His fingers tighten in my hair, destroying my ponytail, and I reach for him, curling my arm around his neck, plunging my hand into the soft hair at the back of his head. His scent, his heat wraps all around me, consumes me, lights me up and sets me on fire.
All in the space of approximately two minutes.
Not that I’m counting the seconds, but my God. The rustle of clothing, the frantic breaths, the thrust of tongues and the whimper that escapes me when he breaks the kiss first …
I’ve never experienced anything like this.
I’m clutching his tie like a lifeline and he glances down with an amused expression, reaching up to slowly disengage my fingers from the fine red silk. “Sorry,” I whisper, my cheeks going hot. He must think I’m a little fool while he’s the experienced, take-charge man.