Caspian (Carolina Reapers 8)

“Caspian,” I said, hating how my voice cracked. I bit my lip in an effort to get a grip. We were both grown adults. And if he didn’t want this, then he’d say no and I’d be right where I was before. No big deal, right? I blew out a breath, resisting the urge to roll my eyes at myself. “Do you want to come inside?”

9

Caspian

Do you want to come inside?

My cock immediately agreed because that fucker interpreted every question sexually, especially after last night. My head? Well, that held me up for a second. This was Ryleigh. Was she asking if I wanted to come in to hang out? Or did she have other…activities in mind?

What the fuck is wrong with you? Just because you get a girl off one night doesn’t mean she brings you home for sex the next.

Duh. I was absolutely getting the wrong idea, here.

We’d grown up next to each other. She was one of my sister’s close friends. There was zero chance that Ryleigh was asking me in for anything but a little company. Last night had been some whirlwind insanity that wasn’t going to happen again.

Hot. Sexy. Incendiary insanity.

And I couldn’t get her taste off my tongue, her moans out of my memory. They’d been the third wheel tonight, always breaking my concentration whenever my eyes drifted toward Ryleigh, which they did. A lot. I was so fucked.

“Caz?” Her forehead puckered a little and she tugged her bottom lip between her teeth. “You don’t have to or anything. No pressure.”

That startled me right out of my thoughts.

“I’d love to come in.” I killed the engine and we walked down the flower-lined sidewalk to her front door as the crickets serenaded us up to the front porch. It was a quiet street in one of the older neighborhoods off Main Ave, the kind with white fences and black shutters where retired husbands spent their Saturdays trimming hedges while their wives tended gardens. “Nice place.”

“It’s just a one bedroom,” she said with a dismissive shrug, unlocking and opening her front door. It was painted red, reminding me of her hair.

There had never been anything subtle about Ryleigh.

“Doesn’t mean it’s not nice.” I followed her inside and glanced around as she closed the door behind us. It was a one-story with an open concept and the kind of floor-to-ceiling windows that came with early nineteen-hundreds farmhouses.

“It was remodeled right before I rented it,” she said with a nervous smile. “But they managed to save the original floors.” She dropped her purse on the teal entry table and slid her hands into the back pocket of her jeans, rocking back on her heels like she was nervous.

“I like it.”

She scoffed. “I’m sure your house is just a little bigger.”

Now it was my turn to shrug. “Something I’ve learned in my decade away from this place is that it’s really about who’s inside your house, not the size of it. After all, that’s why I made the deal to go to the Reapers, so I’d be close to London.”

“She was pretty pissed as I remember.” Ryleigh’s grin lit up the living room.

“She was.” I grinned right back. “But she understood. I’ve always been protective of her, and I didn’t want my sweet little sister getting devoured by the lion’s den of professional hockey.”

“Now she’s marrying into it.” She nodded down the hallway. “Want something to drink?”

“Sure.” I followed her into the kitchen, which had been done with light cabinets and dark counters…and a bright red, vintage refrigerator.

“This baby is mine,” she said with pride as she worked the old-fashioned handle, leaning in to check the contents.

That ass was going to be the death of me. My hands clenched reflexively, and I leaned back against the counter, turning my ball cap backwards and folding my arms across my chest while I blatantly stared at the curves she was inadvertently displaying.

I’d had that ass in my hands, had those thighs wrapped around my fucking head, had that sweet little—

“I’ve got orange juice, water, beer, and soda,” she said, her voice muffled by the refrigerator.

“Orange juice,” I answered.

“Sounds good.” She came up with the jug, shut the refrigerator, and pulled two glasses down from the cabinet. “It wasn’t your fault, you know.”

“What wasn’t?”

“Losing London that day,” she answered as she poured two glasses, finishing off the jug and tossing it into the recycling bin.

My stomach twisted, just like it did every time I remembered what had almost happened to my sister when we were kids.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Ryleigh repeated, handing me my glass and hopping up on the counter across from me before sipping from her own glass. “We were all playing hide and seek. She just hid really well.”

“It’s always been my job to watch out for her,” I countered before slamming back half my glass. “She spent the night out there alone.”