BTW I Love You Page 6

  ‘Madeleine, are you okay?’

  Maddy drifted back to consciousness, the warm fuzzy feeling of afterglow making it difficult for her to get annoyed by the wry humour in his tone.

  She gave a long, slow sigh, her limbs finally reviving. ‘I’m dead,’ she murmured. ‘Of course I’m not okay.’

  Her eyelids fluttered open and a satisfied smile curved her lips to match his. Wow, she’d never had a clue foreplay could be this amazing. And Rye King was a master at it. After the hour she’d spent in his arms she was beginning to realise her past sex life had been nothing short of pathetic.

  He kissed her, the taste of her own essence on his lips unbearably erotic. ‘I think you’ll survive,’ he said as he banded his arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his embrace.

  Resting her cheek against his naked chest, she could hear the pistoning beat of his heart, smell the musty scent of fresh male sweat—and feel the bulge of his erection still pulsing through faded denim. He’d refused point-blank to get completely naked with her, insisting that the rest of the evening was for her, not him. But the guilty flush crept up her neck again anyway.

  That had to be painful. He’d been hard for close to an hour. As wonderful as it had been to be the focus of his attention, and on the receiving end of all his hard work, she couldn’t help feeling guilty and unbelievably selfish that he’d had no release.

  Placing her palm on his chest, she moved back to peer into his face. ‘Rye, are you sure you don’t want me to …’ the silly blush got worse’ … do something for you? You’ve given me so much.’

  He covered her hand, his pensive smile making her heart punch her chest. ‘Maddy, you’ve given me more. Believe me.’

  Tenderness blind-sided her at the enigmatic comment. What could she possibly have given him that he hadn’t given her back ten-fold?

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, suddenly desperate to probe beneath the surface. ‘How could I have?’

  He stiffened, drew his arm away as he sat up. ‘Forget it. It’s not important,’ he said, his expression shutting her out.

  She understood instantly, she’d been dismissed. And struggled to ignore the silly little dart of pain.

  She mustn’t start acting like a girl now. This was a purely sexual fling and absolutely nothing more. She wasn’t supposed to feel anything for this man. Nothing outside the physical. And he clearly felt nothing for her. That had been understood when they’d jumped into bed together without a thing between them except sexual attraction.

  Pulling the sheet back, he got out of bed. ‘I’ll go stick your stuff in the dryer,’ he said, his back to her as he grabbed his T-shirt off the floor and put it on. ‘How about I cook us dinner before I drive you home?’

  ‘That would be nice. Thanks,’ Maddy said, disorientated by the abrupt change in his manner despite all her careful justifications. She clutched the sheet to her chest as he left the room.

  The door closed behind him—and she slumped down into the pillows.

  The problem was she had absolutely no experience with this kind of relationship and she didn’t know the rules. While they’d been making love … or, rather, having sex … it had been easy to concentrate on the physical and nothing else. But somehow the intimacy had crept up on her while she wasn’t looking. She absolutely mustn’t start reading things into this that weren’t there.

  Ryan King was a handsome, exciting, superbly sexy enigma. And he had to stay that way. Tonight had been about sex. Incredible sex. And nothing else. The man was clearly a veteran of one-night flings. His comprehensive knowledge of female anatomy was proof of that.

  She’d just have to take her cue from him. And not let her tendency to over-emotionalise and over-think every little nuance of a relationship get in the way. Clearly, personal, probing questions were not the way to go in this situation.

  But, as Maddy walked into the bathroom to wash and then scouted the bedroom for her discarded clothing, all the questions she yearned to ask Rye King about his strangely barren home, about his past, about his present—and the reasons why he’d given her so much and taken so little—crowded into her head like corn kernels popping on a hot stove.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘COULD I ask you a question?’ Maddy kept her eyes on the simple meal of scrambled eggs on toast Rye had rustled up.

  She heard the clink of his knife and fork and looked up to find him watching her. She tried not to fidget or feel intimidated. She’d waited a decent amount of time before giving in to her curiosity. But she simply wasn’t enough of a guy to let this one go.

  ‘Sure,’ he replied, but she could hear the slight edge in his voice. ‘What do you want to know?’

  It was hardly a fulsome invitation. The question got caught in her throat.

  Spit it out, Mads. You’re entitled to ask one stupid question.

  The man had been inside her, for goodness’ sake. He’d licked her to orgasm. More than once. Maybe it was a girl thing, but curiosity didn’t have to be bad. And, frankly, after the silence that had stretched out between them ever since she’d ventured into the kitchen to find him cooking their meal, she wasn’t sure she could swallow another bite until she got at least one piece of popcorn out of her head.

  ‘Is this your house?’

  His eyebrows lifted.

  ‘It’s just … it doesn’t seem to suit you,’ she rushed on, feeling foolish when his forehead creased. How would she know what suited him?

  ‘That’s the question?’ He gave an incredulous laugh. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Well, yes.’ Some of the tension eased out of her shoulders. ‘What did you think I was going to ask?’

  He leaned back in his chair, stretched his long legs out and drummed the fingers of one hand on the table. The considering look he sent her made her cheeks heat a little. Why did she feel like a particularly rare amoeba under a microscope?

  ‘I thought you were going to ask what everyone asks,’ he said.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘How I got to be a cripple.’

  The blunt statement threw her for a moment. Until she remembered. Her gaze flicked to his thigh. ‘Oh, you mean your limp.’

  He chuckled, but without bitterness. Leaning forward, he propped his elbows on the table. ‘Don’t you want to know how I messed up my leg?’

  ‘Not particularly,’ she said staunchly. ‘It sounds like it’s a sore subject.’

  He barked out a laugh. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  She winced, mortified, as she realised what she’d said. ‘I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to make fun of your injury.’ She lurched up, began piling their plates. ‘Why don’t I wash up and get going?’

  ‘Sit down.’ His hand covered hers where it gripped the plate. ‘It’s okay.’ His thumb stroked the back of her hand. ‘You didn’t offend me. I’m far too sensitive about the stupid thing, anyway.’

  She sat down, sighed, letting him link his fingers with hers. ‘I tend to speak before I think. Steve hated it.’

  ‘Who’s Steve?’ he asked, lifting her fingers and kissing the knuckles.

  ‘My ex.’ She tugged her hand away, surprised by the thump of her heartbeat at the absent gesture.

  A slow suggestive smile curved his lips as he regarded her with an unwavering gaze. ‘Your ex, the moron?’

  Heat stung her nape and throbbed in her nether regions as she recalled his earlier remark in the bathroom about her past boyfriends—and exactly how he had remedied the problem. ‘Um … yes … that would be Steve.’

  She stood, took the plates again, his husky laughter making her feel hot and achy and a little embarrassed. No-strings flings clearly took a bit of getting used to. ‘I really should get going. I’ve got the early shift tomorrow.’

  Her wild, wanton, reckless fling was over and it was way past time she went home. After everything that had happened today, it would be a miracle if she managed to fall asleep before midnight.

  ‘When does your lifeguard shift sta
rt?’ he asked as she put the plates in the sink with a clatter.

  ‘I haven’t got any more lifeguard shifts. Tomorrow’s the last day of the season.’

  ‘So what shift were you talking about?’

  She switched on the hot tap, confused by his sudden desire to talk. Wasn’t all this information supposed to be out of bounds? ‘My waitressing shift at the beach café.’

  ‘You work at the café? On Wildwater Bay?’

  She turned, leaned against the sink. He sounded astonished. ‘That’s right.’

  He got up and crossed to her, brushing against her to switch off the tap. ‘So how many times has Phil hit on you, then?’

  ‘You know Phil?’ How strange. She’d never seen Rye in the café, she would definitely have remembered.

  ‘Yeah, I know Phil. And exactly how much of a flirt he is.’ For a second she thought she detected something a little off in his tone, but then discarded the idea. Why would he care about Phil and her?

  ‘So, has he talked you into bed yet?’ he asked.

  She tensed as heat rocketed up her throat. ‘No.’ That wasn’t just off, it was totally out of order. What right did he have to ask her a question like that? And in that accusatory tone? ‘He’s my boss; I would never sleep with my boss.’ She stopped. Why was she justifying herself? ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’

  She hated that she sounded so lame—and that the question had made her feel dirty.

  She stepped past him. ‘I’d better go.’

  ‘Hang on a minute.’ He grasped her arm, holding her in place. ‘There’s no need to get upset. It was a valid question.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t,’ she said, tugging on her arm and getting more outraged by the second.

  How could she have exposed herself to this? When they’d jumped each other this afternoon, she’d never considered he might not respect her afterwards.

  He had no right to probe into her sex life, just because she’d done exactly what he’d done. She hadn’t thought less of him for his actions, why should he think less of her? The double standard sucked. But far worse was the humiliation that lay just beneath. She had nothing whatsoever to feel humiliated about. She was a single consenting adult who could decide to sleep with anyone she chose. But the memory of how she’d let him bring her to orgasm—countless times—made her feel defenceless. What exactly had he been thinking while he was pleasuring her so efficiently? That she was a tart?

  ‘Phil’s an operator,’ he said, as if he were being perfectly reasonable. ‘And I know exactly how he operates.’ His eyes flicked down her frame. ‘You would be fair game.’

  ‘This isn’t about Phil,’ she said, the choked feeling in her throat making it hard to speak. ‘It’s been nice, Mr King, but it’s obviously time for me to go.’

  He swore softly. ‘Don’t start with the Mr King again or you’re going to annoy me.’

  ‘Really?’ she said, desperate to keep her shredded dignity intact. ‘Well, that will make two of us then, won’t it?’ She stalked through the kitchen doorway, strode down the hallway.

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting something, Madeleine?’

  She heard the arrogant tone as she wrenched open the front door.

  Then spotted her bike, lying in a heap by the front steps, and stared up at the stars winking in the sky.

  Drat.

  She swung round, her back ramrod straight. He was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, observing her with mocking indulgence.

  ‘Do you mind giving me a lift home?’ she asked in a clipped voice, hoping to telegraph her disapproval.

  ‘Not at all,’ he replied, pushing away from the wall. His stiff leg did nothing to lessen the insolent way he strolled towards her.

  It took ten minutes for them to wrestle the carcass of her bike into the boot of his snazzy little sports car. And twenty minutes more to make the silent drive to her granny’s cottage on the other side of the Bay.

  Maddy fumed every single inch of the way—and kept her eyes focused on the road ahead. She waited for an apology, but it didn’t come. By the time he braked in front of the tiny one-bedroom cottage her resentment had reached fever pitch.

  Sleeping with a man she didn’t know had been foolhardy. But she thought she’d gone into this adventure with her eyes open. Unfortunately, they hadn’t been open enough. What was supposed to have been a sexually liberating experience had turned into exactly the opposite. He’d made her feel cheap.

  But what bugged her the most was that for a second it had actually mattered to her what he thought. He wasn’t her friend. He was her one-night lover. But what was meant to be an anonymous fling didn’t seem so anonymous any more.

  She gripped the door handle. ‘Thanks for the lift.’ And the multiple orgasm, she wanted to add with as much sarcasm as she could muster, but figured he had an ego big enough to take it as a compliment.

  His arm shot across her to grab the door handle and hold it closed. ‘Calm down.’

  Her head whipped round. ‘I am calm.’

  ‘Yeah, I noticed,’ he said, the planes and angles of his face tense in the moonlight. ‘I have a question for you before you go.’

  She stopped struggling with the door handle. ‘If it’s about my sex life, I’m not answering it.’ On that she was absolutely clear. He’d humiliated her enough for one evening.

  ‘Why won’t you sleep with your boss? Did Phil do something he shouldn’t have?’

  The audacious question was such a shock, she answered it without thinking. ‘Of course not. Phil and I are friends. I just … I would never sleep with anyone who’s employing me.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s unethical. And …’ she sputtered ‘… and incredibly tacky.’

  She knew she sounded prissy. But she wasn’t about to go into the sordid details of her childhood—and the real reason the thought of workplace sex made her nauseous. This conversation had already got far too personal. ‘Can I go now?’ she said, making it very clear it wasn’t a request.

  ‘Sure,’ he said, finally letting go of the handle.

  She leapt out of the car, determined not to look back.

  ‘Goodbye, Maddy. And thanks for an incredible evening.’

  The statement sounded genuine—and final—and she turned back without intending to.

  He shot her a casual salute. Was that supposed to be ironic? But, as the car sped off down the road, the tail lights disappearing into the darkness, Maddy felt the brutal pulse of heat at her core and the strange little hiccup in her heartbeat. And despised herself for it.

  She walked to the cottage, took the key from under the eaves of the porch entrance, determined to wipe the pointless spurt of melancholy at his departure from her consciousness. But, as she shut the door and leant back against it, glad to be back in the homely surroundings, she noticed the vacant spot in her hallway where she parked her bike. Her head dropped back against the door with an audible thud.

  ‘Damn.’

  She hadn’t seen the last of Rye King after all.

  Rye braked at the junction and swore. Her bike was still in the boot of the car. He shifted into reverse, looked over his shoulder. Then stopped. And swung back round.

  He couldn’t go back, not yet. Everything was too damn close to the surface. He’d behaved like a jerk back at the house. The mention of her former boyfriend and then Phil had made something coil in his stomach that he didn’t understand. And suddenly he’d had to know whether she’d slept with his friend. He’d handled the situation badly, though. He could see that now. Accusing her when all he’d really meant to do was ask.

  But why had he been so determined to know?

  He rubbed his thigh, the muscles cramping, shifted back into first and accelerated.

  Probably temporary insanity, brought on by extreme stress. Bringing her to orgasm, watching her come apart in his arms had been incredible—but rediscovering all the wonders of a woman’s body had brought with it a painful side
effect. He’d spent the whole afternoon and most of the evening hard as a rock. And he suspected he had a sleepless night ahead of him, lying in a bed still infused with her spicy exotic scent.

  The desire to bury himself deep inside her had been all but unstoppable and, while he’d welcomed the pain in many ways because it signified the return of his libido, by the time she’d strolled into the kitchen and he’d listened to her putting on her freshly laundered clothes while he scrambled eggs, his control and his willpower had pretty much reached breaking point.

  He hadn’t been in the mood for polite conversation. So, when she’d asked him that innocuous question, he’d had to stop himself from snapping her head off. He’d been sure he knew what was coming.

  When he’d re-entered London society after the accident, he’d been brutally aware of the hushed whispers when he entered a room, the furtive glances at the sight of his ruined leg. Women in particular had tiptoed around the subject of his disability, trying to make him feel better by either not referring to it or referring to it all the time.

  He’d expected Maddy to be like all the rest.

  But she’d surprised him again. She’d genuinely forgotten about it. Her astonished response to his snarled accusation hadn’t only been refreshing, it had been a revelation. Forcing him to face the fact that, after six long months, instead of dwelling on what he had lost, maybe it was about time he started making the most of what he had. The fact that, since Maddy Westmore had stepped into his life, he now had much more than he thought, hadn’t escaped him either.

  But the minute that bolt had hit him, another had struck him right afterwards. He still wanted her. And he didn’t know how to deal with that.

  He didn’t rely on other people—ever—especially women. He didn’t ask for or expect anything and if they asked for anything from him in return, he usually bolted straight for the door.

  He wasn’t interested in anything serious. Anything long-term. And he didn’t want that with Maddy either. He hated that choking, claustrophobic feeling that came with any hint of commitment. A lot of things had changed since the accident, but not that. He needed his freedom. And he always would.