The Right Move (Windy City, #2)

by Liz Tomforde

What I’m not sure I can do is separate a physical relationship from the rest the way she wants, so instead of taking her mouth, I brush her hair behind her ear and place my lips on her forehead.

“Seriously, Ryan, it’s like sleeping on a goddamn boulder.” “You’re awfully whiney for a girl who’s practically burrowing her way into my skin right now.” “Shut up.”

Wearing an amused smile, I pull the blankets higher over our bodies before wrapping both my arms around her to make sure she can’t get away. With my fingertips, I trace invisible designs over her ribs, memorizing the way she molds against me.

Skin-tight black leather pants, red strappy heels, and an itty-bitty Devils tee create the perfect costume for the act. My hair is in a slicked-back ponytail, and I finished my makeup with a swipe of red across my lips which I’ll chalk up to team spirit and is in no way meant to distract number five.

Indy is a baddieeeee

The idea of seeing him in the space which he excels most has been consuming me all day. As if I wasn’t already intrigued by him in every other aspect of life, I now have the privilege of watching him be the best at what he does while I sit front row. That’s not going to fan the flame of my attraction or anything.

Stevie nudges me in the shoulder, gesturing towards the court. “There he is.” I don’t know how he wasn’t the first person I saw as I exited the tunnel because Ryan commands attention, even in a crowd of 23,000. He’s got a Devils long sleeve on instead of his jersey, a pair of tearaway pants, and he’s by no means the tallest man on the court. However, there’s something about his humble confidence, the way he’s focused that makes it almost impossible for me to look away.

Ryan fakes right, throwing Connor off-balance, before he pulls back and hits a three over him. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t wear a deserved smug smile, he simply turns around and jogs back on defense, completely in control of this game. I have to cross one leg over the other, because it’s really fucking attractive.

I could get used to this, watching my hot-as-sin roommate while sipping on a cocktail, wearing my red strappy heels, and sitting courtside.

Corded arms, decorated with veins. Long fingers, big hands. And holy hell, that ass.

“Blue.” My attention is torn away from Ryan’s backside to find blue-green eyes amused and watching me. He’s still bent over but looking back. “Are you checking out my ass right now?”

SCREAMINGGGGGG

His chest rumbles, his voice lowering. “Trying to distract me tonight? With those heels and those lips? Because you look fucking stunning.”

“Are you okay? Let me get you another drink.” He slides a thumb over my cheekbone. “You’re far too pretty to be covered in—” “Get your fucking hands off her.” Ryan shoves Connor. “Fuck you! You could've hurt her.”

Screamingggg

Ocean eyes sweep up my body, taking me in as if he’s double checking that I really am okay. I am, it just scared me a little. Finally, his eyes glide to mine and a soft smile graces his lips, those sweet dimples concaving into his cheeks.

“I like having you sitting so close.” I laugh. “Ryan, I just caused you to get a technical foul.” Connor makes both of his free throws. “Worth it.”

Leaning over to Stevie, I speak quietly. “Daily update—I hope your brother wears his jersey when he fucks me.” I pop my shoulders. “Or I could wear it.”

He always hated when I wore my heels because we’d be the same height, or in his opinion worse than that, I’d be taller. He’s six feet on his best day, but we all know that means somewhere around five-ten. And right now, he’s standing on a curb to give himself the added inches to be able to stand over me. Metaphorically I feel about two feet tall, as it is.

“Are you bringing someone?” he continues. “Blue.” Somehow the name pulls me into focus to find Ryan standing outside of the players’ entrance.

Ryan’s eyes dart between Alex and me again, and maybe it’s the fact that I’m about two seconds away from crying or that he can physically see that I’m living out my worst nightmare, but he drops his gym bag and in a few quick strides, charges towards me. Before I can think any further, his palms cup my face, long fingers threading into my ponytail, and his lips are on mine.

IM SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UPPPPP

Soft lips, warm to the touch. Commanding yet measured, as I’d expect any kiss from Ryan Shay to be. My mouth yields to his, parting to take him deeper and his tongue ever so slightly sweeps across mine in an electrifying slide. One of his hands drops, curving around my throat to bracket the back of my neck as the other pulls my hips to his.

Moving his hand to my lower back, he presses my body into his. His lips dot a map of soft kisses along my jaw, until his mouth ghosts my ear, whispering. “Are you okay?”

He breaks our connection to look around me. “Hey, I’m Ryan.” Oh my God, Alex is here. Then Ryan continues. “How do you know my girlfriend?”

Ryan slides a forearm around the front of my shoulders, holding my back to his chest. He nods towards Alex’s jersey. “Oh,” Ryan says sweetly, patronizingly. “You’re a fan of mine.”

“We should get home.” Ryan slides his hand to my lower back, turning me towards his car. “See you at the wedding, huh?” he calls to the guys over my shoulder before placing another lingering kiss on my temple for them to see.

He leans against his doorframe, corded arms crossed over his damp chest, stupid fucking dimples concaving with a smirk. “Indigo Ivers, are you doing…dishes?” I roll my eyes. “Is this what your wet dreams look like, Shay?” “Essentially.”

“Ryan.” I cock my head. “Really. What are you doing?” “Just playing the game you started.” He pushes off the counter, taking two steps towards me. His index finger hooks under the hem of my shorts, igniting my skin with goosebumps.

Ryan levels me with a look, serious and stoic. “I think you’re smart.” Oh. “Kind. Chaotic. A bit of a smartass and too charming for your own good.”

“So, you don’t think I’m pretty, then.” He chuckles. “Indy, I’m not blind, but even if I were, I’m pretty sure I could touch your face and understand just how fucking stunning you are, but it’s not the first thing I see anymore.” Well, fuck me.

A gasp escapes me as he easily swoops me up with one arm behind my back, hoisting me on the kitchen counter. Large palms hook under my bare thighs, jerking me towards the edge and while his face is still pressed into the crook of my neck, he spreads my knees apart. He’s suffocating, crowding me like this, but in the best way possible.

“You don’t want to play this game with me, Blue.” Pulling away, he bops my nose with a spoon. “I will always win.” He grabs his yogurt once again and heads towards his bedroom.

Looking down, I find the silverware drawer pulled out between my open legs. That motherfucker distracted me and opened the goddamn silverware drawer between my spread thighs.

Stop ittttttt

She flew home from a road trip this afternoon, so I haven’t seen her in five days. And before that, I was gone for six. Which means for the last eleven days the only thing I’ve been able to think about is that kiss.

It was perfect, consuming, soft. Fuck, it was intoxicating, and I want to do it again. I think I might need to do it again before I combust. Is there a study out there that tests the limit on how many times you can jerk off before creating a long-lasting problem? Because every languid stroke of my cock has come with the image of her long legs around my hips, her soft hands touching every crevice of my body, and those lips. Those goddamn lips exploring every inch of my skin. Was it as fake as I claimed? Not in the slightest.

I’d never let him see her cry over him, so you could blame the kiss on that, but the truth is when I walked out of the players’ entrance all I saw was Blue. My perfect fucking Blue with those strappy heels, leather pants, and an attitude consisting of the strangest mix of welcoming and sharp. But when I noticed him, all I saw was red.

Call it possessive, protective, or straight-up caveman tendencies, I don’t care. There was no part of me that would allow for that sorry excuse of a man to think he “won.” So, yeah, I kissed her to prove a point. But I also kissed her because I’d been wanting to do it for weeks now.

Jellyyyyyyyy

My sorry attempts to find any excuse to text Indy are getting more obvious. Sending her pictures of my lonely breakfasts without her, asking her the name of certain flowers I stumble upon, or just texting her to complain about how she’s not very good at cleaning up after herself, though I’ve grown used to my apartment being a bit more frenzied these days. Seems like I find a reason to message her at least once a day, and we’ve already talked about this bridal shower all week, but fuck it, I want to talk to her.

So down bad

Yes, but I’ll be home late or maybe tomorrow. I have plans tonight. What the hell? What plans? And with whom? And excuse me, but “maybe tomorrow”?

But goddammit, I’ve been looking forward to her coming home all week. I even had the guy who owns her favorite flower stand down the street drop off a bouquet for her today, simply because I knew she’d be excited for a fresh one. That and because I killed the last arrangement she left me with. And now I’m feeling petty and annoyed and for no real reason other than I wanted her to want to stay home with me. Isn’t she tired from working all week? Yes, it’s a Friday night, but why’d she make plans?

I want the comfort of privacy, but I want her to be with me while I have it.

The girl deserves to be spoiled, and I want to be the one doing the spoiling. I trim the stems down the way she taught me before adding the flower food to the water, trying to situate them like the professional florists do. Mine doesn’t look nearly as nice, but fuck it, I tried.

“She needs a ride?” I’m already off the couch, grabbing my keys, and headed to the door, thankful I was too distracted to drink that beer earlier. “I’m on my way. Where is she?”

“She’s on a date, and the guy is being a creep, making her uncomfortable. She’s at Sullivan’s on eighth.” She’s on a date? My mouth goes dry as rage seeps through every pore of my body.

He’s celibate. Ryan Shay is celibate. What did we, as the female population, do to deserve this?

He takes me in, his shoulders dropping until his attention lands on my knee, and he stiffens again. Jason’s hand is back, and I didn’t realize.

Ahhhhhhh

His anger is palpable by the time he reaches me, but the controlled venom of his voice is the scariest part. “Get your fucking hands off her.”

“Ryan, people are watching.” Finally, his angry stare breaks away from my date. “I don’t give a fuck, Indy.” Just as quickly, his attention swings back to the man behind me. “Did you fucking touch her?” His nostrils flare and if I wasn’t so wrapped up in what’s happening in this moment, I’d give him a pat on the back for pulling off that whole “jealous book boyfriend” thing. “Not in any way she wasn’t asking for.” Oh God, he’s revolting.

Ahhhhhhhhh

“Let’s go home, Ryan. I want to go home.” Finally, he looks at me, his chest thumping against my hand. Cupping my face with his palms, he checks me up and down as if he could tell from my outward appearance. “Are you sure you’re okay?” “I’m fine. I promise. Take me home.”

“Did Ryan Shay just steal my date?”

Ryan halts, and I’m praying to God he shows his typical controlled restraint. Any other time, I’d love to see him pummel this guy, but whatever Ryan decides to do in this moment has the potential to end up on the front page of the newspaper tomorrow. He takes a centering breath and turns around. “Trust me, she was never yours.”

The ride consists of the loudest silence I’ve ever experienced. By the time we make it home, my lungs are hungry for fresh air, needing space from this man who is suffocating me with his presence. Ryan pulls into his parking space, cuts the engine, and is halfway out his door before I have a chance to leave first. “Don’t,” he commands when I reach for my door handle.

“It wasn’t like that. I’m not seeing anyone. It was just going to be one night, and I’m sorry, I didn’t think anyone would recognize me.” “One night?” His brows crease. “What was just going to be one night?”