His words, the sincerity behind them, and the way he said them—like he couldn’t grab his next breath if he didn’t—rain over me, a mist of warmth flooding my heart. Shock stills my tongue, tiny fragments of how to respond jumbled in my head as I stare into his eyes.
As though he knows he’s left me speechless, Ryder rises and looks down at me, understanding coloring his features before he strolls into the kitchen. “You girls ready for the world’s greatest peanut butter and Fluff sandwiches?” he calls from over his shoulder. “They’ll only cost you a game of Hedbanz.”
“I am!” Casey hops to her feet. “Amber, do you like Hedbanz?”
“I do.” I smile and traipse into the kitchen, curiosity thick with every step. I sidle up next to Ryder, jerking my hip against his. “But how come I have a feeling they’re not the kind I think they are?”
“Duh”—Ryder pulls a jar of Fluff from the cabinet—“of course they’re not. I’m a shit-ton cooler than that.” Like a true connoisseur, he whips together several peanut butter and Fluff sandwiches, piles them on a plate, and plucks a gallon of milk from the refrigerator. Grinning, he juts his chin toward the living room floor. “Go sit, and prepare to get that pretty little ass thoroughly kicked. I’m king at this game.”
I snort. “I learn fast, and I’m extremely competitive. I have no doubt I’m about to embarrass you in front of your sister.”
“You think?” He swipes a stack of paper cups from the counter and hands them to me, his I’m an asshole smirk encompassing his face. “Those are some serious fightin’ words. You sure you wanna go there?”
“I’m already there,” I clip, making my way back into the living room.
“Oh, it’s on.”
As I get comfortable on the carpet, Casey goes into a detailed explanation about how Hedbanz is played. Considering it includes actual headbands—with little picture cards attached to them that only the other players can see—I can’t help but laugh. I figured it would take several shots of tequila and some homegrown vipe to get Ryder to sport anything so girly. Clearly his love for his little sister has no limits. He may not know it, but that alone catapults his swoon factor off the charts.
Splayed out on his stomach, headband with a picture of a bicycle clipped to it in its proper place, Ryder asks, “Can you . . . ride any part of me?”
“Yes,” Casey and I answer in unison.
The nympho side of my brain cartwheels over thoughts they shouldn’t touch in the midst of a child’s game. Ryder sends me a wink, and I’m sure I know where he’s going to take every single question.
“Do I make noises?” Casey inquires, her expression bright with curiosity.
Ryder tickles her ribs. “Yup. You snore like a man.”
She giggles and looks at me.
“Oh, yes.” I take in the colorful parrot on her head. “You’re definitely something that makes noise.” She nods, and I glance at Ryder, ready to twirl his head like a baton. “Am I something you would enjoy . . . licking?”
Ryder clears his throat, nearly choking on a sip of milk. I lean back and rest my palms on the carpet, laughing as I watch his pupils turn the size of teacups.
“No,” Casey answers with a frown.
“I’d beg to differ,” Ryder retorts, a smirk curling his mouth. “I would lick that all . . . day . . . long.”
My crossed legs clench of their own accord, my ears humming from the predatory tone in his voice as he continues to stare at me. At this point, I’m not sure whose head I’ve twirled more.
Casey nudges him, her nose pinched in disgust. “Eeewww, Ryder. That would taste nasty.”
He smacks his lips together, his gaze undressing me. “Nothing about that would taste nasty, Case. To tell ya the truth, kid, I’d lick every bit—”
“We’re getting off track here!” I blurt, my voice cracking like an angry bolt of lightning. Heated, I swipe my hands through my hair, fully aware I’ve one hundred percent screwed myself. “It’s your turn, Ryder. Play. Nice.”
Grinning, Ryder crams a piece of his sandwich into his mouth. “Mm. Play nice . . . play nice. Let’s see.” The look in his eyes tells me he’s about to play anything but nice. “So I’m something you can ride, correct?”
“Yes,” Casey answers with a nod, finishing up the last bite of her sandwich.
With his attention locked on my face, dragging his teeth across his bottom lip, Ryder rolls onto his side. “Am I something you’d ride hard, fast, and reckless, then easily walk away from the next morning? Or would you experience . . . sickening . . . mind-numbing . . . unable-to-stop-yourself-from-coming-back-for-more insanity by riding me soft and slow, relishing my building for everything it’s worth on a daily basis?”
“Huh?” Casey asks, appearing completely confused.
I swallow, the effort close to impossible as I come to the realization that both Ryder and I have two very twisted character traits in common.
The first: We’re grown adults who are most likely messing with the psyche of an eight-year-old child—I’m sure a professional could back up that observation. I’m also pretty sure they’d find that here and now, neither of us would be disturbed by this assessment.
The second: I know that, if given the opportunity, we’d rip our clothes off and fuck until there was no more sexual hostility left in either of us.
“You’re a bicycle!” I exclaim breathlessly, ripping off my headband. I get to my feet, aware I’ve officially lost my goddamn mind, my head cracking like an egg against a sizzling frying pan. “You can be ridden hard, fast, soft, or slow. Either way, no matter how one would choose to ride you, I’m sure your building would bring them copious amounts of mind-numbing pleasure. Happy?”