Ryder:
I’d seen her in grease-stained jeans and ripped tanks. Hair wild. Hands black with soot. I’d seen her pissed, stubborn, sweaty, laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe. I’d seen her naked and unguarded, curled up in my bed, my name in a whisper on her lips.
But this?
Holy f*****g hell.
The second I opened the front door and saw her standing there—heels on, that little black dress hugging her body like it had been custom made for my sins—I stopped breathing.
For a second, I just stood there.
I forgot about the dinner reservation. About the plans. About the speech I practiced in my head a dozen times.
All I could think was:
Fuck. I’m not taking her anywhere. She’s mine. She’s not leaving this house. Not tonight, not like f*****g that.
She tilted her head and smiled, nervous. “T
