Page 48

Something in him gives.

We move at the same time. His hands find my waist; I come up on my toes and get my arms around his neck. My keys hit the floor as our mouths meet. Neither of us pays them any attention.

His mouth is firm. Within seconds his tongue is tracing the seam of my lips, wanting access. I open for him. He groans and delves in, and my whole body softens and tightens at once. His day-old stubble rasps my chin. And—yes, there. That fine little scar by his top lip. I can feel it.

He slants his mouth over mine, teasing me, lapping at my tongue until I can’t think straight. He kisses exactly as I imagined he would—and then some—all confidence, skill, and barely restrained hunger. I meet him with a hunger of my own, flicking at his tongue with mine, then drawing it into my mouth with a slow suck. He groans again, and after that he meets me stroke for stroke.

Never have I been kissed like this. Never have I kissed anyone back so greedily.

Sweet mother of mercy. It feels so good.

His hands drop to my bare thighs. He grips, squeezes—then lifts me as if I weigh nothing at all. My legs wrap around his waist of their own accord. I shrug my bag off my shoulder and let it drop beside my keys. My dress rides up, and cool air finds the tops of my legs and my cotton briefs.

If Mrs Dunlop were to open her door right now, she would get quite the eyeful.

Ryan presses me back into my door—gently enough not to hurt, but firmly enough to pin me there. The shift brings me flush against him, and my breath stutters.

Because I can feel him.

The thick, hard length of him is right against the place where I am already hot and aching and shamefully wet. The pressure is almost unbearably good. I tilt my hips experimentally, and he grunts into my mouth.

I do it again, and this time he moves with me—a slow, deliberate roll that drags denim over thin cotton. I make a sound I barely recognise, half gasp, half whimper. Ryan swallows it with another kiss.

I should be mortified. This stairwell is not, technically speaking, a private space, and doing this with Ryan Sloan of all people is an exceptionally bad idea. I should stop. But I don’t. I can’t. I roll my hips to meet the harder grind of his, and the rhythm builds—fast, messy, and instinctive. The sheer wrongness of it only sharpens the thrill.

My hands slide over the rough buzz of his hair. His fingers dig into my thighs, holding me exactly where he wants me. With every press of his hips, the tension between my legs coils tighter. Behind me, the door thuds softly against its frame.

It’s been years since I did anything remotely like this. Every nerve in my body seems determined to make up for lost time.

Then, down in the street, a car alarm goes off, sharp and shrill. It sets off a second alarm, this one inside my own head.

Everything that was lit up and spinning comes back to earth with a thud.

What are you doing, Briony? What on earth are you doing?

Ryan’s still caught in it, hot and hungry, his mouth at my throat now.

“Ryan.” It comes out as barely a breath.

His lips keep moving against my neck.

“Ryan. Stop.”

He stills instantly. Draws back and searches my face.

“Put me down.”

He sets me down carefully. “Did I hurt you?” His voice is a wreck.

“No. No, you didn’t.”

His shoulders ease a fraction. His pupils are blown so wide his eyes look almost black.

I swallow. My lips are swollen. My dress is rucked up. My whole body is throbbing with the almost of it.

Confusion and want are fighting it out across his face. Some reckless part of me wants to grab his T-shirt and drag his mouth back down to mine.

I smooth my dress down with trembling hands, putting myself back in order, hunting for words that don’t want to come.