But I'm so tired of being sensible. So tired of being alone.
"Do you want to come up? For coffee?" My voice trembles slightly. "Or something stronger?"
The invitation hangs between us. Ryker studies my face, like he's searching for something. Fear? Uncertainty? Whatever he's looking for, he must not find it, because he gives a single, sharp nod.
"Yeah. Coffee sounds good."
My hands shake as I unlock the entrance. The tiny elevator can barely contain his bulk—I'm pressed against the wall, his heat surrounding me. Neither of us speaks. The tension between us has shifted, transformed into something electric and new.
When we reach my door, I fumble with the keys. Three deadbolts—Danny taught me caution, if nothing else. Ryker watches me secure each one behind us once we're inside.
My apartment is small but neat. Feminine without being frilly. Safe. My sanctuary for the past two years.
And now this giant of a man stands in the center of it, making everything else seem tiny in comparison. He doesn'tmove further in, waiting for my invitation. Like he understands boundaries. Like he respects them.
My pulse races as I move toward the kitchen. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll get the coffee started."
As I reach for mugs, I feel him behind me. Not touching. Just…there. A presence so solid and real it makes me dizzy.
"I don't actually want coffee," I admit, turning to face him. Brave in a way I haven't been in years.
His eyes darken, storm clouds gathering. "What do you want, Amanda?"
The question is gentle. Careful. But laced with promise.
And for the first time in forever, I let myself want something. Someone.
"I want to feel safe tonight," I whisper. "I don't want to be alone."
His massive frame blocks out everything else, becoming my entire world. "Then you won't be," he promises, voice rough with something I'm afraid to name. "Not tonight. Not ever again."
And I believe him.
three
. . .
Ryker
I don't sleep.Can't. Not with her breathing just fifteen feet away, behind that flimsy bedroom door. My body's been in a constant state of readiness since the moment she invited me up. Not just my cock—though fuck knows that's been at attention—but every muscle, every sense. Alert for any sound that doesn't belong. Any threat to what's becoming mine. I stretch out on her too-small couch, my feet hanging off the edge, and listen to the rhythm of her breathing. Slow. Steady. Trusting me to keep watch. The responsibility settles on my shoulders like a familiar weight. But this is different. This isn't a paycheck. This is primal.
The sun isn't even up when I hear her stirring. Soft footsteps, the sound of running water. My body responds instantly, cock hardening against my zipper at just the thought of her moving around. Fucking pathetic. I'm a grown-ass man, not some teenager. But there's something about Amanda that bypasses every shred of self-control I've built.
She emerges from her bedroom wearing sleep shorts that show miles of smooth leg and a tank top that clings to her curves. My mouth goes dry.
"You're awake," she says softly, looking surprised. "Did you sleep at all?"
"Enough," I lie. I sit up, making room for her on the couch. "You?"
She shrugs, a small smile playing at her lips. "Better than I have in years, actually."
The admission does something to my chest—squeezes it tight. The idea that my presence gives her peace makes me want to fucking howl with satisfaction.
"Coffee?" she asks, already moving toward the kitchen. I follow, unable to stop myself from watching the gentle sway of her hips.
"Sure."
Her apartment is small but neat. Feminine touches everywhere—soft throw pillows, a vase of flowers, framed watercolor prints. Nothing expensive. Nothing that screams attachment. The place of someone ready to run at a moment's notice.