Chapter 1: The Unspoken Game
I’m 31 now, but the heat of this secret started simmering when I was just 19, back when Jake—my then-boyfriend, now husband—was clueless in the front seat of his beat-up Chevy. His friend, Ryan, was in the back with me, his hand creeping up my leg like it had a mind of its own. I didn’t stop him. Hell, I didn’t even flinch. Instead, I parted my thighs just enough for his fingers to graze my inner thigh through my jeans. It was a silent dare, a game we’ve been playing ever since.
Fast forward to now, and Ryan’s still around—too often for it to be coincidence. He’s over at our house again today, supposedly to patch up some drywall in the garage. Jake’s at work, and the air between Ryan and me crackles with the same unspoken tension it always has. I’m in the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of iced tea, when I hear his boots scuffing against the tile behind me.
“Damn, Lila, you’re making it hard to focus on plaster when you’re strutting around in those shorts,” Ryan drawls, his voice low and teasing, a smirk tugging at his lips as he leans against the counter.
I turn, arching a brow, my lips curling into a sharp smile. “Oh, please, Ryan. If you spent half as much time working as you do staring, that wall would’ve been done hours ago.”
He chuckles, stepping closer, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Can’t help it. You’re a distraction with legs.” His hand finds my hip, a familiar weight, and I don’t pull away. I never do. It’s our little agreement—unspoken, undeniable. His fingers dig into my skin through the thin fabric, and I tilt my head, meeting his gaze with a challenge.
“Careful, handyman. You’re playing with fire,” I warn, my voice dripping with mock severity, though my pulse is already racing.
“Fire’s my favorite thing to play with,” he shoots back, his grip sliding down to the curve of my ass, giving it a firm squeeze. My breath hitches, but I don’t break eye contact. I’m not some shrinking violet; I’m the one who decides how far this goes.
“You’ve got five seconds to get back to that wall before I make you regret it,” I say, stepping closer, my chest brushing against his. I can feel the heat radiating off him, the way his breath quickens. My hand rests on his shoulder, sliding up to his neck, and I give it a teasing squeeze. “Or do I need to drag you there myself?”
Ryan grins, his other hand coming up to grip my waist, pulling me flush against him. I can feel how hard he is through his jeans, and it sends a jolt straight through me. “Drag me anywhere you want, Lila. I’m all yours.”
My laugh is sharp, cutting through the tension. “Oh, you wish.” But my body betrays me, pressing into him just a little more, my hips shifting as his hands roam. I’m wet already, damn it, and I know he can sense it—the way my breath catches, the way I’m not pushing him away. The kitchen feels smaller, hotter, like the walls are closing in with every second we stand here.
His thumb brushes the edge of my shorts, daring to slip just under the fabric, and I bite my lip, my voice dropping to a husky whisper. “You’re pushing it, Ryan.”
“And you’re loving it,” he counters, his lips hovering near my ear, his breath hot against my skin. I’m sweating now, my heart pounding, and I know if I don’t stop this soon, we’re going to cross a line we’ve danced around for years. I can feel the ache building, the need to let go, to let him take this further—to feel his hands everywhere, to let him bury himself in me until we’re both panting and dripping with need.
But not yet. Not today. I pull back just enough to smirk at him, my eyes flashing with control. “Finish the damn wall, Ryan. Then we’ll see how much trouble you can handle.”
His groan is half frustration, half hunger, but he steps back, adjusting himself with a wry grin. “You’re a cruel woman, Lila.”
“And you love it,” I throw back, turning away to hide the flush on my cheeks, knowing full well this game is far from over.
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