Page 89 of No Good Fight

“I didn’t ask for clean, Ryder. I asked for the truth. You’ve already admitted to the obsession, and I can see it goes deeper. Just…tell me.”

His eyes come back to mine, and I wish I hadn’t left the safety of teasing so quickly. I also know I would ask again.

If he decides not to tell me, I’m not sure how I’ll handle it. But I know…this moment is important.

Ryder reaches for one of the cards on the rug and turns it between his fingers. “High school,” he says finally. “Not the way it is now. Not as intense. Not at first. You were Josh’s little sister, and you were too young for me, and I knew where the line was. But I noticed you before I knew what to do with noticing or how to stop it. Then you got older, and I kept telling myself it would pass if I stayed away from it. From you. If I could just do that, it would be enough.”

His thumb bends the card slightly before he smooths it flat against his knee.

“It didn’t?” I ask.

“No.”

The simplicity hurts more than a speech would have.

He sets the card down and looks at me fully. “By the time I understood what it was, it had already become part of how I moved through the world. I checked for you at cookouts before I checked for anyone else. I listened for your laugh. I knew when you stopped showing up as much. I knew when you smiled differently around him.” His voice roughens on the last word, but he does not let it turn into rage. “I loved you before I had any right to say it, and then after Preston showed up in your world, I didn’t know how to say it without making your life heavier.”

My chest feels too tight.

“So you just kept it a secret.”

“I tried to stop.” Ryder gives me a small, humorless smile. “That sounds better than it was. Mostly I learned how to be quiet with it.”

“And now?”

His gaze drops to my mouth, then comes back. He doesn’t hide it fast enough, or maybe he doesn’t really try.

“Now I don’t know how to stop,” he admits. “I’m not sure I want to.”

I rise onto my knees before I talk myself out of it.

Ryder stays where he is, seated on the couch, watching me come to him. The choice matters, more than just to me. I can feel that it matters to him by the way his hands grip the edge of the cushion instead of reaching.

He lets me move between his knees and put one hand on his shoulder and the other against the side of his neck. He lets me be the one who closes the last of the distance.

The kiss starts slower than last night.

Not gentler, exactly. There is too much under tension and chemistry and need for anything to be gentle. But Ryder waits for me to set the pace, and when my fingers slide into his hair, he makes a rough sound that breaks against my mouth before his control shifts and he takes control. His hands come to my waist, careful for only a second before I lean into them and take the care away from him.

“I want you,” I whisper.

His forehead rests against mine. “I know.”

“No.” I pull back enough to make him look at me. “You hear me say it. I need you to believe me when I say that I am very aware. I choose this. You.”

His hands tighten at my waist. “I believe you.”

“Then stop hesitating to take what we both need and want..”

The words sit between us, blunt and terrifying. Ryder looks at me for a long moment, then nods. Not dramatic. Not perfect. Just a man listening to me before his fear gets the final vote.

“Okay,” he says.

He kisses me again, and this time when he moves, there’s no stopping at the first sign of heat. He shifts off the couch and takes me with him, lowering us to the rug among the scattered cards and the low light from the storm-dark windows. His body covers mine without trapping me, one forearm braced beside my head while his other hand slides beneath the hem of my sweater and stops against bare skin.

I arch into him, impatient enough to make him laugh against my mouth.

“Bossy,” he murmurs. “Even without words.”