The backstage meet-and-greetsession is the longest hour of my entire life, even with Ryder standing a few inches away, his arm brushing mine every few seconds. Maybeespeciallywith him standing there. The desire thrumming between us is burning so hot, I can feel it singing my skin beneath my clothes.
Fifty more minutes.
We smile and mingle with our fans, thanking them for coming with big smiles on our faces. Meanwhile, inside, I’m dying.
Cause of death? Ryder Woods.
Forty more minutes.
The strain of being next to him but unable to touch him, surrounded by a room full of people watching our every move, is enough to drive me insane.
Thirty more minutes.
I want his mouth on my skin, my hands in his hair. I want crisp sheets and soft sighs, his name on my lips as we finally, finally,finally…
“Thank you so much for coming!” I say brightly, waving goodbye to a young couple who drove all the way from Mississippi to see us.
Ryder’s gaze slides to mine, taking in the sight of my bright red cheeks, my lust-clouded eyes. A wolfish smile appears. He leans in a shade, close enough that his stubble brushes the sensitive shell of my ear, and whispers, “You’d better wipe those needy thoughts off your face, baby. Otherwise I’m dragging you into the closest broom closet and making good on two years worth of sexual frustration.”
“Are you trying todissuademe?” I gulp, a bolt of desire shooting straight between my legs. “Because that doesn’t sound so bad…”
“Felicity.”
I meet his eyes and see they’re spilling over with need. “Abed. Not a broom closet.Hours. Not minutes.Alone. Not with a room full of people around the corner.” His nostrils flare. “Got it?”
My brain feels rather foggy as I contemplate hours in a bed with him, after so long apart. His head between my legs… my tongue tracing every letter of the tattoo over his heart…
“Twenty more minutes,” I breathe.
“Christ,” he growls, looking away from my face, a muscle jumping in his cheek. I worry he’s upset with me, but a few seconds later, his hand curls around mine. Our fingers intertwine so tight, I’ll probably lose circulation, but I don’t let go. Not even when the next group of fans come spilling into the room, and I’m forced to sign autographs one-handed.
Ten more minutes.
When only single digits remain on the clock, I’m about ready to do a jig.
Naked. Horizontal. While lying beneath Ryder.
I glance toward him as the final fan steps through the doors. The grin falls off my face when I catch sight of Ryder’s expression. He’s staring intently across the room at an elegant-looking brunette. She’s dressed far more conservatively than most people do for a concert, her skirt and blazer combo at once tasteful and demure. Even if she wasn’t staring at the man by my side like he’s responsible for the very earth turning beneath her feet, I’d know she was Ryder’s mother.
They look so alike, it makes my breath catch.
Ryder’s hand squeezes mine tighter as she approaches, coming to a stop a handful of feet away. She clutches her purse so hard, her manicured fingers go white. I get the sense it’s to keep herself from hurling her body into her son’s arms.
“You got the tickets.” Ryder’s voice is carefully blank.
She nods. “Yes.”
“I’m surprised you came.”
“Oh, Ryder…” Her voice breaks. “Of course I did.”
“And Dad?”
She shakes her head, wincing. “I’m sorry, he—”
“It’s fine.” Ryder cuts her off. “Really.”
He doesn’t react, not outwardly, but I can see the way his father’s absence carves into him with deep strokes. His grip tightens on mine, almost to the point of pain. I squeeze back as tightly as I can manage, ignoring my smarting eyes.