Exposed (VIP 4)

But I’m too late. Because he regrets his impulse.

My hand shakes as I try to put on a coat of lipstick. Afraid to risk a smear of brick red across my face, I put the lipstick down and sigh. The face in the mirror is unfamiliar, with her shorter hair and wrecked eyes. Will they all see how much I’m dying inside?

He didn’t. He looked almost pleased with himself when we parted. As if it will be easy to pretend we didn’t lose ourselves in each other for a heady moment in time, that he never asked for more.

I can’t blame him. I had more than enough time to say yes. I should have said yes that day in California. I should have crawled over that bed and gone straight into his arms.

But I didn’t.

And now I’m too late.

Some things are worth the risk, isn’t that what Whip said?

Fuck it, I can’t let this go. I’ll regret it forever.

Earlier, everyone had gone out “hunting,” which really meant they went into the woods to track one another in what Whip happily described as a Highlander—there can only be one!—laser tag extravaganza. I was invited to join, but I couldn’t bring myself to be part of that “fun.” Bruised and remorseful, I stayed in my room.

They’re back now; I hear Killian and Jax debate the merits of the Strat vs the Tele as they walk past my bedroom door on their way downstairs.

I can’t hide in here any longer. Bracing my shoulders, I head out into the hall. A steady throb pulses from a door two down from mine. Rye. He always stays in the Tartan Room—so named for the dark green and blue plaid wool covering the walls.

Music is an intrinsic part of him. If he’s not listening to it, he’s creating it—even if it’s as simple as tapping out a beat with his fingers. The man knows more about music than anyone I know. He loves it all, from classical to obscure bluegrass albums only a hundred people bought. I cannot think of Rye without hearing a rhythm.

It’s early yet, about an hour before dinner. But this is prime nap time for a lot of the house. Rye blasting music isn’t the best idea. Besides, we need to talk.

I freeze, my heart slamming against the cage of my ribs.

Get it together. You can do this.

My fingers are ice.

Don’t be a wuss. Knock on the fucking door!

I rap on it hard, convinced he won’t hear me, but it opens fairly quickly, releasing a surge of music—“Pit Stop” by Lovage. Rye’s large frame is backlit by the room’s lamplight.

“If you wake up Felix with that music, Sophie is going to—ah!”

Rye grabs hold of my wrist and gently but firmly tugs me into the room, kicking the door shut. He pulls me into his arms and starts dancing. His grin is wide and boyish. “Be bad with me, Bren.”

I have things to say. But it’s impossible to resist him. He’s too good a dancer, moving me with competence that’s utterly sexy. The song is bluesy, funky-dirty sex. His thick thigh slides between mine as we bump and grind.

Rye’s arm wraps more firmly around my waist, and he spins me. I’m on air, alive and pulsing with the beat, flowing with him. Flick-bump-sway. I’m no longer worrying about tomorrow or regretting yesterday. I’m young and free in his arms, laughing breathlessly, feeling the music in my blood and bones.

Then our gazes collide, and everything changes. God, the heat in his. The way he looks at me as though I’m the only thing in his universe. This isn’t the look of regret.

Heart pounding, I lift my arms, dip my hips. His thigh hits my sex and everything clenches. I suck in a breath, my breasts brushing his chest. Rye’s lids lower. Mouth pursed in concentration, he works me to the pulsing rhythm. Flick-bump-sway.

It’s too much. He’s all around me, the scent of his skin, the firm, warm feel of his body moving with mine. I’ve missed touching him. I’ve missed him touching me. And this is all I’m going to get anymore, this parody of sex, a quick dance. No more skin to skin. No more of his mouth, his taste, his touch.

I swallow hard, my step faltering.

Rye frowns, and I swear he’s about to pull away. But he simply watches me.

“I remember the first time I heard this song,” he says.

“You do?” I’m too flustered to remember anything right now.

Rye spins me again, popping his hips against mine. “It was the 2010 fall tour, at an after-party in Paris.” His palm spreads wide on my lower back, bracing me, drawing me closer. “You were wearing black leather pants like you’ve got on now, a pair of wicked silver heels, and a little beaded top that flashed your cute belly button every so often.”