She bit back a whimper.
In her mind it wasn’t her hand.
It was Ryker’s—those rough, scarred fingers that had gripped her waist earlier, now stroking her slow and deliberate.
She imagined his voice, low and filthy in her ear: “This what you need, princess?
Been wet for me all night?”
A soft gasp escaped her.
She circled faster, dipping two fingers lower to tease her entrance before sliding back up to her clit.
The pressure built quickly, sharp and sweet.
She pictured him above her, that powerful body pinning her down, silver threading his dark hair as he watched her fall apart with those intense eyes.
Her free hand fisted the sheet.
Her hips rocked up into her touch.
She was close already, shame and lust twisting together into something electric.
“Ryker…” The name slipped out in a broken whisper.
She pressed harder, imagining his mouth on her instead—hot tongue licking through her folds, sucking her clit while those big hands held her thighs open.
Imagining him growling her name like a curse and a prayer at the same time.
“Ryker… fuck…”
The orgasm crashed over her without warning.
Her back arched off the bed, thighs trembling as pleasure ripped through her in waves.
She kept rubbing through it, drawing it out, his name falling from her lips again and again in soft, desperate moans she tried—and failed—to muffle against her pillow.
“Ryker… oh God, Ryker…”
When it finally ebbed, she lay there panting, fingers slick and thighs sticky, heart hammering against her ribs.
Guilt tried to creep in, but the aftershocks were too good, the fantasy too vivid.
She’d wanted him for years.
Tonight, trapped under the same roof, the want had sharpened into something almost painful.
She wiped her hand on the sheet and rolled onto her side, curling up small.
Sleep still felt far away, but her body was limp and sated for the moment.
Outside the room she thought she heard the faint creak of floorboards in the hallway—probably just the house settling.
Or maybe not.
Ryker stood frozen in the dark hallway, one hand braced against the wall, the other clenched into a fist at his side.
He’d only meant to check on her.
Make sure she was asleep, maybe grab an extra blanket from the linen closet for the couch.
He hadn’t expected to hear the soft, unmistakable sounds drifting under her door.
Then the wet, rhythmic slide of fingers.
Then his name—husky, needy, broken on a moan as she came.
His cock had gone rock-hard so fast it hurt.
He was forty-five years old, not some horny teenager, but the sound of Rebekah whispering “Ryker” while she fingered herself in his bed had nearly dropped him to his knees.
He should walk away.
Go back to the living room, pour himself a stiff drink, and pretend he hadn’t heard a damn thing.
She was Tank’s daughter.
Off-limits.
The one woman in the entire club he was supposed to protect, not lust after.
Instead he stayed rooted there, breathing shallow, jaw locked so tight it ached.
His mind supplied the images he had no right to: Rebekah spread out on his sheets, tank top pushed up, sleep shorts shoved down her thighs, fingers buried in her pretty pink pussy while she thought of him.
He could still hear her breathing evening out now, soft and satisfied.
Ryker dragged a hand down his face, cursing silently.
His erection strained against his jeans, demanding attention.
He hadn’t been this hard in years.
The thought of stroking himself right here in the hallway while she slept just feet away made him feel like a fucking pervert.
But God, the way she’d said his name…
He forced himself to turn away.
Each step back to the living room felt like walking through wet concrete.
He dropped onto the couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
The house was quiet again.
Too quiet.
Sleep was going to be impossible.
Across the hall, Rebekah lay in the dark with a small, secret smile on her lips, unaware that the man she’d just come to had heard every second of it.
The night stretched long and heavy between them, thick with unspoken want and the fragile line they were both trying desperately not to cross.
The next morning, sunlight sliced through the thin curtains of the room, painting warm stripes across Rebekah’s bare legs.
She woke slowly, body still humming with the afterglow of last night’s release, a lazy smile curving her lips before reality crashed back in.
She was in Ryker’s house.
Under his roof.
And he was out there—probably already up, making coffee, trying to pretend nothing had changed.
She stretched, feeling the pleasant ache between her thighs, then padded to the bathroom to freshen up.
A quick brush of teeth, a splash of water on her face, and she studied her reflection.
The bruise on her jaw had darkened to a ugly purple, but her eyes were bright, determined. Visit novelping.com for the full chapter.
Last night’s fantasy had only sharpened the edge of her craving.
She wanted him.
Had wanted him for years.
And after hearing the floor creak in the hallway right after she’d come—had he been listening?—the possibility that he might be fighting the same fire made her bold.
Rebekah chose her outfit carefully.
Nothing obvious; she wasn’t stupid.
She pulled on a soft, oversized T-shirt that slipped off one shoulder, the thin fabric clinging just enough to hint at the lack of a bra underneath.
Pair it with the same sleep shorts from last night, riding low on her hips.
Bare feet, tousled hair left loose and messy.
Innocent enough for “just woke up,” but every movement would tease.
She took a deep breath and stepped out into the hallway.
The smell of fresh coffee hit her first.
Ryker was in the kitchen, back to her, pouring a mug.
He wore last night’s jeans and a plain black tee that stretched across his broad shoulders, the fabric worn soft from years of use.
His hair was damp, like he’d already showered, and the silver at his temples caught the light.
Even from behind he looked powerful—tall, solid, every inch the VP who commanded respect with a single look.
“Morning,” she said softly, voice still husky from sleep.
He tensed, shoulders tightening, but didn’t turn right away.
“Coffee’s on.
Help yourself.”
Rebekah padded closer, deliberately brushing past him to reach for a mug.
Her shoulder grazed his arm.
Heat radiated off him like a furnace.
She poured slowly, letting the hem of her shirt ride up just a fraction as she stretched for the sugar on the top shelf.
“Could you grab that for me?” she asked, innocent as anything, glancing back over her shoulder.
Ryker’s jaw clenched.
His eyes flicked to the exposed strip of skin at her waist, then snapped away.
He reached up without a word, muscles flexing under the shirt, and handed her the sugar.
Their fingers touched.
Neither pulled back immediately.