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I brace myself for the telling-off. Instead, he presses me back against the door and kisses me. Hard.

The relief nearly takes my legs out from under me.

“Fuck, flower girl,” he says when he comes up for air. “I didnae think you had it in you. I’ve never had anybody stake a claim on me like that. No in front of a whole room. No sure I’ve ever enjoyed anything more.”

My face goes hot. “I got jealous,” I admit.

He laughs, low and completely unbothered, then bends to my ear. “I like this side of you.”

I smile, then I remember where we are. “I should really go. People will be talking about us being in here together.”

“Let them talk.”

He kisses me again, and his hands find the hem of my skirt and push it up my thighs.

“What are you doing?”

“Assuring you you’re the only woman I want.”

And then he’s on his knees.

“Ryan! We can’t. They’ll know.”

He hooks his thumbs into my knickers.

“Someone will notice how long we’ve been gone⁠—”

He slides my knickers down my legs.

“And the walls are really thin, and Mara is right out—oh.”

His mouth is on me, and all my protests go clean out of my head.

The door is cold against my back. I press one hand flat against it and cup the other round the back of his head. Through the wall, I can hear the studio carrying on—voices, a trolley rattling, someone laughing at something. I bite back a moan. Then another. But I can’t keep them all in.

I should be mortified. There is one thin wall between me and a room full of people, and every single one of them saw us come in here together. Oral sex in a changing room is just not the sort of thing Briony Sinclair does.

Which, it turns out, is exactly what makes it so exciting.

Between his tongue and how turned on I am, it takes no time at all. The orgasm hits me hard and fast, and I come with a hand clamped over my mouth, and even then I’m not sure it’s enough to keep me quiet.

Ryan sits back on his heels and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, looking insufferably pleased with himself. “Sorry, flower girl. Were you in the middle of saying something?”

“Shush.” I tug my knickers back up with shaky hands.

He gets to his feet. My gaze drops, and—“Oh!” I blurt. He’s rock hard. And in those compression shorts, nothing is left to the imagination.

“What’s wrong, baby?” he asks, smirking. “What can you see?”

I bite my lip. “Everything.”

“Be more specific.”

“Well, your testi—” His eyebrows go up, and I remember his complaints about that word. “Balls,” I correct myself. “I can see your balls.”

He nods, pleased. “And?”

“And your…” I gulp. No, I can’t. “Penis.”