Collision Course Chapter 16
Ryan had heard the expression "shell-shocked," had even understood it intellectually, but he knew what it meant viscerally, in his muscles and his bones.
"Lindsay?" he asked, his voice scratching the air. "Summer? What are you--?"
Summer got up, stretching to her full height, and announced frostily. "I am here because Lindsay asked me to drive her. Trust me, I am not staying." She turned to Lindsay, softening her tone. "I'm going to go talk to Cohen, okay? Call me when you're ready to leave. Or if you, like, need me." Then, with the bite back in her voice, she faced Ryan again, snapping, "But before I go, let me just say one thing to you, Chino. You? Are a complete and total ass."
Summer flicked her fingers imperiously so that Ryan stepped aside. She gave a final sympathetic glance back at Lindsay before she disappeared.
Ryan barely registered Summer's exit before his gaze slid to the floor. He waited for Lindsay to say something, but she simply looked at him. In the silence, the soft click of the door closing behind Summer seemed to echo, a sound full of endings, full of regret. Finally Ryan murmured, "I know how much I hurt you, Lindsay. I wish I could explain. Hell, I wish I could take it all back. Tonight . . ." He spread his hands hopelessly and waited; when no help came, he concluded, "I just . . . wanted to be somebody else for a while. That's all."
Lindsay's lip quivered, but the rest of her body remained tense and still.
Normally Ryan found comfort in quiet, but Lindsay's refusal to speak made the air between them crackle, charged and dangerous; the room reverberated with unspoken accusations. Ryan shuddered slightly and licked his lips. "I didn't expect to see you again tonight," he admitted. "I was going to call you, though. Tomorrow. How did you . . .?"
"Kirsten gave me a house key a few weeks ago," Lindsay explained tonelessly. "So I'd feel more like one of the family. This is the first time I've used it."
"Do Kirsten and Sandy know . . .?"
"That I'm here? No. I don't intend to stay long. Probably I should have waited for you to call me . . . if you really were going to, Ryan. But I thought if we were going to talk at all, it would have to be now."
Ryan took a half step inside the room and placed a palm flat against the doorjamb to steady himself. "Okay."
"Did you plan to meet her there? That girl? Is that why you didn't want me to come to the party?"
"What? God, no!" Ryan sounded genuinely shocked, and Lindsay relaxed a little. "She was just there, hanging out with this group. Nobody important. Just . . . some kids from Harbor, you know?"
Ryan chanced an appealing look up and Lindsay beckoned as though giving him permission to come all the way into his own room. He pulled out the desk chair and sat, angling himself so that he didn't have to face her directly.
"Tell me what happened, Ryan," Lindsay said. The words were half entreaty, half an order.
"You don't want to hear this."
"No, see, I do. If you and I are still going to be . . . anything . . . to each other, I do."
Hope flickered briefly across Ryan's face. "All right," he said carefully. "I was looking for a way to avoid the party . . . all those people. Caleb, mostly, I guess. So I took off. The place is big enough to pretty much disappear. I figured I'd just hang by myself until it was time to leave."
"Then why didn't you?"
Ryan shrugged uneasily. "I don't know," he admitted. "Eric and Jamie, the girl that . . . that you saw, they spotted me and asked me to join them. They had some weed and . . . I used to smoke a lot before I came here, Lindsay." Ryan gave a mocking smile. "It seemed like a way to take the edge off. Always worked before."
Lindsay's eyes flared angrily. "God, Ryan, I don't care about the smoking! I care about. . ." Her voice caught, and she studied the gold swirls of her dress for a long moment before speaking again. "So what were you really doing tonight?" she demanded at last. "Reverting to the person you used to be? The old Ryan Atwood used to get high, so you get high again? He used to fuck around, so you fuck around again?"
Ryan flinched. Lindsay never used that kind of language. Coming from her it sounded crude and cold and devoid of human feeling. He wished he could defend himself, or at least apologize, but all the words he found seemed feeble, not worth the breath they would take to say.
"Yeah," he confessed reluctantly. "I guess that's exactly what I was doing."
Ryan bit his lip and looked at Lindsay, his eyes earnest and pleading, but she lowered her head so that her hair fell forward, hiding her face from him, and he had to lean forward to hear her.
"I don't know how to say this," she whispered painfully, plucking at her skirt. "Does that girl . . .? Does being with her have anything to do with what happened between us the other day?"
"No," Ryan claimed, low and adamant. "It doesn't have anything to do with you, Lindsay. I promise. It doesn't."
Lindsay's mouth twisted. "I'm not stupid, Ryan. I'm not even as naïve as you seem to think. Of course it has to do with me."
"But not the way you're thinking," he argued.
"No?" Lindsay countered, and Ryan was startled by the vehemence of her voice, the way her head snapped up and her eyes locked on his relentlessly. "What am I thinking?"
Ryan swallowed hard. "That you're not enough?" he suggested softly. "And that's not true. The other day, Lindsay? You said I wasn't even seeing you, that you could have been anybody. You were right. That day—and at the party, I guess—I just wanted somebody to . . . well, to fuck. Without thinking about it. Or . . . caring."
"But why do you need that, Ryan?" Lindsay asked desperately. "I don't understand. Make me understand."
Ryan clenched his hands, bowing his face over them. "God, this is so hard, Lindsay. I don't . . . talk about these things." He could feel Lindsay's insistence in her silence, and with an effort, he forced himself to meet her eyes. "Okay. My mom drinks. You know that. Anytime she can't face her life, which is pretty much all the time. And my brother Trey—well, when he can't cope with the world, he uses whatever drug he can get his hands on."
Ryan stopped, taking some deep breaths before he continued. "My father—I can't even tell you about him. He's been gone so long, I don't trust what I think I remember. But hell, he's an Atwood, so I know he's got some kind of a . . . crutch." Ryan spat the word with disgust, simultaneously flinging his own crutch to the floor.
Lindsay gasped as it hit the ground. "Ryan . . ."
"Me . . . For me it's sex, Lindsay. No strings, no relationship, just . . . sex." The words sounded as if Ryan was dragging them out of some dark, hidden place inside himself. "Back in Chino, it's how I, I don't know, escaped. Got outside myself."
The anger in Lindsay's voice had evaporated. All that remained was hurt and confusion. "And you still need that, Ryan?"
"I haven't." Ryan's voice was reflective, as if he were thinking aloud. "Not for a long time. But lately, yeah, I do. Only. . . it gets complicated when I care about the person. Then it can't just be about me anymore . . . I kind of forgot that the other day, and that scared me. Because I do care about you, Lindsay. When we're together, you're not just . . . some body."
He got up and crossed to the bed, sitting down next to Lindsay, but not close, keeping a respectful distance between them. "You're more than that. At least . . . if you still want to be." Ryan looked at her, wary and beseeching. "Do you?"
Lindsay took a shaky breath. She released the stranglehold she had on her skirt and let her hand glide across the comforter until she just barely touched Ryan's wrist.
"I should say no. Or at least make you wait for an answer," she said. Her eyes were moist, and her fingers on his skin felt slight and cold and fragile. "Because you really did hurt me, Ryan. But I want us to be who we were. So . . . if you can promise me . . ." She slid her hand into his, offering him a tremulous half-smile.
Ryan cupped her chin and kissed her lips, nose, and eyes gently. "I promise you."
Lindsay allowed her head to rest on his shoulder. "Good," she murmured. "Good. But I swear to God, Atwood, if you ever, ever do anything like that again . . ."
The connection between them still felt precarious, and Ryan tried to secure it. "What? What will you do?" He walked his fingers down Lindsay's arm, teasing, trying to reclaim their old easy intimacy, but she pulled away.
"Don't," Lindsay warned. "I'm not playing, Ryan. If it happens again, I will leave you." She regarded him seriously. "Do you believe me?"
Ryan dropped his hands to his side and nodded.
"All right. Then kiss me goodnight. I'm going home." Lindsay lifted her face but she kept her mouth closed to Ryan's kiss, and stood up as soon as his lips left hers. "Get some sleep," she ordered. "I want the Ryan I know back tomorrow."
"Lindsay—wait." Ryan caught her hand to keep her from leaving. "Tomorrow . . . I just want you to know. I won't be able to see you. Seth and I are both grounded. Sandy won't even say for how long. He's really pissed at us."
"Oh," Lindsay breathed. She tilted her head back, looking at him through her lashes. "So . . . it might be a while before we can be together again?"
"Yeah. It might. A long while." Ryan's voice was smoky, and his fingers seemed to burn on Lindsay's skin. He lowered his head, his mouth finding the bruised spot on her neck, moving over it with small, gentle kisses that felt like penance or promises.
Lindsay let her purse fall to the floor. In three fluid motions, she shrugged off her sweater, pulled Ryan's shirt out of his pants, and slid her hands up his chest. "Then," she murmured, pushing him back toward the bed, "I guess we'll just have to do this now."
Seth flipped his phone from hand to hand, checking his reflection in the mirror and wondering which limb he could afford to lose if he risked another middle-of-the-night phone call to Summer. Of course, he reasoned, it wasn't really the middle of the night. It was more like the beginning of the middle, or maybe the end of the beginning. In fact, it might be too early to call. Summer could still be at his grandfather's party or—and Seth's heart involuntarily plummeted—continuing a private party with Zach.
He sighed, resigned to the fact that, for his own physical and emotional safety, he should wait to contact her until morning, when someone rapped sharply at his door.
"Let me guess," Seth muttered to himself, "The Lecture, part 2: One-on-One with Seth." He pasted a conciliatory smile on his face and swung open the door, prepared to face one or both of his parents, but definitely not the person he found there. Summer. She stood swinging her purse, one hand on her hip, her lips pursed and appraising.
"Better," she said, nodding. "At least this time I didn't have to let myself in. But Cohen, ew. Close your mouth."
Seth slapped his jaw shut, suddenly aware that it was hanging open in surprise. Probably not his best look.
Summer swept past him and surveyed the room. "Okay, there's been some improvement here too," she conceded, taking a seat on top of his desk. "But not enough. Two words: air freshener. Buy some. Use lots."
"Yeah, well, it would have been cleaner and, well, less smelly, but I wasn't really expecting you to drop by," Seth said defensively. "Like, at all." He jiggled the phone that he was still holding, and then replaced it in the stand. "Although I was just thinking about calling you."
Summer's eyes narrowed. "What? I wasn't clear about phone calls that wake me out of a sound sleep and the lunatics who make them?"
"Summer, you're wide awake. Obviously."
"So not the point," Summer said, waving her hand dismissively. "You only know that because I'm here."
"Okay, but . . . yeah, Summer, you're here. Do my parents know you're here?" Seth asked suddenly. He cracked the door open, did a quick surveillance of the hallway, then closed the door and leaned against it.
"No. Do they need to?"
Seth motioned frantically with his hands, making a downward pressing gesture.
"What is that supposed to mean?" Summer demanded.
"The opposite of 'raise the roof.' It's the universal signal for 'turn down the volume'," Seth explained in a whisper.
Summer rolled her eyes. "Maybe in your universe. In mine if you want somebody to be quiet, you just do this." She raised a perfectly manicured finger to her lips.
"Okay, but you know, not the time to argue gesture semantics. Just keep your voice down, Summer, all right?" Seth urged. "I'm sort of seriously grounded, and somehow I don't think the rents would consider you being here part of my punishment. Why are you here anyway? Not that I'm complaining because, yeah, definitely not, but . . . why are you here?"
"I'm waiting for Lindsay. And coming up here to talk to you was a slightly better alternative than sitting alone in the car. Slightly."
Seth plopped himself down on his bed and stared at Summer, trying to ignore the fact that her position on the desk put her thighs directly at his eye level. "You're waiting for Lindsay. What does that mean in English exactly?"
"In English? It means I'm waiting for Lindsay."
"Still not so much with the making sense."
"Fine. Lindsay asked me to drive her here so she could talk to Ryan," Summer explained, her voice singsong and, if Seth thought about it, really, really patronizing. "We heard you guys pull in like an hour ago, and we've been waiting and waiting. You must have gotten a major lecture from your folks, huh? Want to share the highlights?"
"Yeah, no, thanks anyway," Seth said absently. "I'm trying to figure a few things out. You drove Lindsay here? So where was your car? 'Cause I totally would have noticed it in the drive."
Summer shrugged and pulled her skirt down over her knees. "Hey, Cohen. Eyes up," she ordered. Seth sighed and raised his gaze obediently. "I drove Lindsay's car, and it's parked around back. Lindsay didn't want Ryan to know she was here. She thought he might try to avoid talking to her."
"Okay, that part I get. Ryan—no problem on the physical courage front. He'll face down anybody, anytime. But emotionally . . . well, not so much." Seth bit his lip anxiously. "So Lindsay couldn't even wait until tomorrow to break up with him? That's why she's here, right, to tell him it's over?"
"After what Chino did? She should," Summer declared. "That Jamie is a major league skank and everybody knows it. It's like, her only personality trait. But honestly, I don't know what Lindsay's going to do. I don't think she does either . . ." Her voice softened, and Summer smiled sincerely at Seth. "Lindsay told me what you did, though, Cohen. Pretty nice move. Clumsy, from what I hear, but nice. Definitely gives you points in the 'friend' category, trying to take the heat for Chino like that."
Seth flushed, warmed by her approval. "Yeah, well, it didn't quite work the way I intended," he admitted. "Ryan thinks I did it for Lindsay. He thinks I was just trying to protect her feelings, so . . ."
"He'll figure it out," Summer predicted. "Chino's not stupid. Well, he is, but not that way . . . So anyway, Cohen, as long as I'm here, why were you going to call me tonight? We might as well get this conversation out of the way while I'm still awake. And that may not last long, because if you'll remember, somebody interrupted my beauty sleep last night."
"Okay," Seth agreed, leaning forward. "Yeah, okay. See, I think I have an idea what to do for Ryan, to sort of make up for . . . everything. Or maybe not a full-fledged idea. More like a notion, I guess. Or almost a notion. Anyway, I want to run it past you."
"Because you need my wise advice. Understandable. If I were you, I wouldn't trust my own ideas either. So, go ahead, Cohen. What is it?"
"Well, I may actually need more than advice. I may need your help—okay, really Lindsay's help, only I'm not her exactly her favorite person. Of course, after tonight I don't know how she's going to feel about Ryan either, but maybe if you run interference . . . "
"I don't run, Cohen," Summer reminded him. "Like, ever. Have you noticed my shoes? But proceed. With as little pointless babbling as possible, please. If your idea's not too stupid, I'll consider asking Lindsay to help."
"Good. Yeah, and . . . Summer, speaking of Lindsay? Do you think we have time for this conversation now? I mean, what do you suppose is happening down there? Should we, like, have 911 on standby or something?"
Summer cocked her head and checked her watch. "Hmm," she mused. "It usually doesn't take this long to break up. So maybe . . . well, if Lindsay took my advice, I may have some idea what's going on. In which case, forget 911, Cohen. They won't need any help at all, and you and I will have plenty of time to discuss this idea of yours."
Ryan sat on the bed mesmerized.
He didn't quite know what had happened, how Lindsay had gone from anger and hurt, to a chaste, closed-mouth kiss, to this.
She was stripping for him. Her hair was thrown back, exposing the vulnerable column of her neck as she slowly untied the straps of her filmy gold dress. She hesitated a moment before pulling it down, smiling at Ryan's surprise when he realized that she was naked underneath except for a flesh-colored thong. Always before, Ryan had helped Lindsay undress, his hands coaxing away layers of clothes along with the shyness that persisted even after he'd memorized the shape and texture of her body. Now she flushed just a little as she stepped out of the dress, and Ryan felt an answering warmth spread throughout his body.
Lindsay moved to unfasten the heavy pendant she wore. At the last minute, she changed her mind and left it hanging between her breasts, solid and dark against the tender peach of her skin. Her lips were parted, and she half-climbed, half-crawled onto the bed until she was straddling Ryan, her hair falling lightly onto his shoulders.
"Lindsay," Ryan said hoarsely. "Are you sure? Because the last time . . ."
"The last time I let you forget that you were with me," Lindsay said. "This time you'll know." She unfastened his sling, eased it off, and then moved to do the same with the brace on his leg. The ripping sound of the Velcro straps tore through the room. "I set the pace tonight, Ryan. I decide what we do, and how fast, and how much."
Lindsay bit her lip, astonished and exhilarated at her own daring. She wondered briefly where she had found the nerve for this and felt a frisson of fear that her instincts and limited experience would fail her. Pretty much everything she knew, Ryan himself had taught her. For a moment she faltered, afraid that she'd disappoint him and embarrass herself. But then she saw that Ryan's mouth was slightly open, his tongue sliding over his upper lip. His eyes had already darkened, and they were fixed on her.
Lindsay smiled and climbed back into place, poised over Ryan's body. She could do this.
Remembering the exquisite anticipation she always felt under Ryan's slow hands when he would begin to touch her, Lindsay moved languidly. She removed his shirt, taking a moment to fold it while she sat back on his thighs, shifting on them just slightly, just enough to make his breathing start to change. Ryan reached for her, trying to pull her down on top of him, but Lindsay leaned away from him.
"No. Bad boy, Ryan," she reproved. "When I'm ready. Not before."
Lindsay ran her hands over the soft ribbed fabric of Ryan's wifebeater, pressing the cloth against his chest. "I do like this," she told him. Then she bent over, caught the hem of the t-shirt in her teeth and nudged it up. Ryan obligingly lifted himself onto his elbows, following the movement of Lindsay's head and arms as she pulled the shirt off him. His jaw worked, and she could feel him swallow convulsively as her mouth grazed his throat.
"But I like this more," Lindsay whispered, breathing hot onto his bare chest. She traced the outline of each muscle with the palms of her hand, as if she were an artist molding Ryan's body out of clay, and he felt the heat and friction build as she pressed her flesh against his.
Lindsay pulled back and Ryan sucked in his breath with an audible gasp. She dropped his wifebeater to the floor, and then bent over so that first her hair and then her breasts brushed across his face. Ryan held her there for a moment, rubbing her nipples erect with his thumb, and then taking each breast into his mouth in turn. Lindsay closed her eyes and let him play for a moment before she eased away again. She dipped lower and trailed her tongue along Ryan's collarbone, licking a line across and then down his chest. Her mouth sucked hard all around his navel, lapping inside it, while her hands worked blindly to unbuckle his belt.
"Lindsay," Ryan groaned, pushing up against her. He started to roll to the side, ready to mount her, but Lindsay held him in place with her body weight, her ass rolling a promise across his hips.
She put a finger on Ryan's lips, withdrawing it immediately. "Not tonight," she warned. "You're not on top tonight. I am."
Ryan didn't quite recognize this Lindsay, whose eyes had a quality he'd never seen before: wanton and willful and hungry. He watched, forcing his body into an aching patience as she crept down on the bed. First she unzipped his pants, slowly, deliberately. Then she eased her hands under his hips and he arched up immediately so that she could slide them off, bringing his boxers along with them. Ryan writhed underneath her, kicking off his dress shoes, and hissing as Lindsay's hand closed around his erect cock. She gave one quick, firm squeeze before she pressed her hand against his stomach, shaking her head and mouthing, "Wait."
At the foot of the bed Lindsay stood up. She lifted Ryan's right foot and then his left, pulling off his socks and taking a moment to massage each instep, her fingers rubbing small insistent circles and her thumbs pressing deep into his soles.
A tremor ran through Ryan's body and he pushed himself up on his elbows. His voice was dark and pleading. "Come back."
Lindsay's hands stroked along his calves and settled just above his knees. "Maybe," she teased. "Say my name."
"Lindsay . . ." he rasped. "Come back."
Her hands moved a little higher. "Again," she ordered.
Ryan inhaled, exhaled a shuddering, "Lindsay."
She smiled, her own breath hitching, and ran her hands all the way up inside his thighs, rubbing hard and hot and stopping just short of his throbbing cock. Then she straddled his legs and extended her palms to his mouth.
"Make me wet, Ryan."
His eyes widened, and the small part of Lindsay's brain that was still functioning registered amazement that she had actually said those words. Ryan took her hands in his. He kissed each finger and the center of each palm before licking them thoroughly. Lindsay felt an answering dampness between her own legs and her head fell back. She ran her tongue over her lips, then bent forward, taking Ryan into her mouth while she stroked the base of his cock and rolled his balls with her saliva-slick hands.
Nothing Lindsay did was new, but it all felt different somehow, more urgent and more tender all at once. Each time she pressed or rubbed, swirled or flicked her tongue, it was at the very moment that Ryan knew he needed that exact touch.
He had never come in her mouth before. Always before he had pulled out, almost apologetic, as though he was preserving some leftover bit of her innocence. But tonight when Ryan started to thrust harder, groaning deep from the core of his being, Lindsay held on, lips and hands clamping, owning him as he tried to pull away, until he spilled himself down her throat.
Momentarily triumphant, Lindsay swallowed and stretched against Ryan, breathing a taste of himself back into his mouth, biting his lower lip. His tongue played around hers, and suddenly she was frantic with her own need.
"God, Ryan, please, please . . ."
Ryan's eyes had been closed, but at the sound of Lindsay's voice, evaporating in the electric air between them, he looked up and smiled.
"Your turn," he promised, and cupped her ass, rolling her over beside him. His slid down on the bed, taking his time, tracing her body with his hands and mouth. Lindsay hissed, opening herself, and Ryan's tongue licked between her legs, long slow strokes that cleaned her and made her wet all over again. Then it flicked inside faster, firmer, finding her clit, and sending another tremor through Lindsay's body. She grabbed his hair, arching into his mouth, panting his name as her body kindled.
Ryan waited until her shuddering subsided. Then he crawled back up the bed, keeping contact between them, skin on skin, and trailing a slow, wet path that seemed to seal their flesh together.
"I want you inside me," Lindsay gasped, climbing back on top of him. "Now, Ryan. Now. " She pulled herself up high onto her knees, thighs open wide, and grasped the headboard behind Ryan's shoulders.
"Wait. Condom," he growled.
"Oh God," Lindsay moaned. "Ryan . . ."
Her legs were trembling and would barely support her weight, and she was so wet that she was sure she was dripping down onto Ryan's stomach. He fumbled for his nightstand drawer, but Lindsay yanked it open first, and groped blindly until she felt the foil packet. She tried to tear it open with her teeth, the way Ryan always did, but she was distracted by his fingers. His hands had pushed hard up the inside of her thighs, and his thumbs were parting her, playing with her clit, and then Lindsay felt two, three fingers slide inside, probing and curling, and waves of sensation were rocking her so that she couldn't focus, could scarcely breathe.
"Lindsay. . ." she heard Ryan moan. "Fuck, Lindsay. . . Hurry."
She managed to bite a small slit in the package, then tore it open. Her hands shook, but Ryan covered them with his own and together they managed finally to roll the condom down his shaft. As soon as he was sheathed, Lindsay grabbed the headboard again, lowering herself onto him, carefully at first, and then with reckless abandon until she could feel the full length of him pushing inside, filling her, finding places that she had never known existed.
Ryan's hands slid up and onto her waist. His nails cut into her flesh and he ground his head between her breasts while their bodies rocked together. Ryan was stroking harder now, fiercer and faster and then deeper still when Lindsay's fevered voice panted into his ear. "More. Ryan. Fuck. I want you to. Just . . . oh God." He gritted his teeth and pulled back, entirely body now, pulsing and probing and desperate for release. Lindsay lifted herself away and then plunged down violently at the same moment that Ryan thrust and twisted up and in with all of his strength.
They had never come at the same time before, and the impact was a tidal wave that tore through them both. It shook loose a primal groan that Ryan buried in the damp skin of Lindsay's stomach and a cry that Lindsay muffled against his hair. She let go of the headboard and collapsed against his chest. Her heart was pounding erratically, and Ryan felt his own matching it, struggling to find a rhythm that would allow them to breath normally again.
Finally, Ryan rolled them both over so that they were facing each other. He felt liquid, boneless, idly stroking the smooth expanse of Lindsay's back. For a few long moments they lay together, Ryan still inside her. Then, slowly, he eased himself out.
Cool air claimed him where the heat of her body had been, and Ryan was momentarily bereft. He rolled over to remove the condom, disposed of it with practiced efficiency as Lindsay reached to pull him next to her again.
"So," Ryan murmured, his voice rough and used, "all this time you've wanted to be on top, huh?" He settled himself onto the pillow and drew her close.
Under the cheek she had pressed to his chest, Lindsay could feel his soft, satisfied laugh rumbling. Their bodies were sticky, held close by the natural adhesives of sweat and satisfied desire.
"No. Not all the time." Lindsay answered languorously. "But tonight, well, tonight I thought you owed me, Atwood."
Ryan nodded against her hair, solemn. "I did," he agreed. "I do."
Lindsay walked her fingers down Ryan's arm, enjoying the subtle dance of his muscles under her touch. "Besides, you know, I did it for your own good."
"My own good?"
She raised her head enough to see Ryan smiling down at her.
"Yeah, you did, Lindsay," he agreed. "Really, really good."
"Not that way, mister." Lindsay slapped his hand lightly, then reached up and traced the line of his lips. "I meant, not as much strain on your bad knee or your shoulder. I was being considerate, Ryan. Just thinking about you."
Ryan's smile widened, and then it disappeared. He cupped Lindsay's chin in his hand, lifted her face so that she was looking directly into his eyes. "I know," he said seriously. "I could feel it. Thank you, Lindsay."
"My pleasure," she murmured.
She started to slide back down to the warmth of Ryan's chest when she caught sight of her purse, abandoned on his dresser.
"Oh," she gasped, and began to giggle against Ryan's throat.
"What?"
"I'm so silly! I forgot all about them."
"What?" Ryan asked again. "Forgot who?"
"Not who. What."
He frowned, confused. "Is this 'Who's on First, Lindsay? 'Cause I don't know the next line."
Lindsay shook her head. She pulled back her hair and whispered, suddenly shy. "I can't believe I totally forgot. Tonight. I wanted to . . . surprise you. Do something a little different. So I brought these, I don't know, kind of flavored, edible finger paints?"
"Really?" Ryan's eyes lit with interest. "What flavors?"
"Chocolate. And strawberry. Oh, and caramel, I think. I was going to . . . write my name with them all over your body. You know, so you couldn't possibly forget me, Ryan. I was going to lick them off everywhere. And then. . ." Lindsay flushed and hid her face in the curve of his neck.
"Go on," Ryan urged. "What else?"
"I was . . ." Lindsay closed her eyes. Her confession was a rush of words. "I was going to eat you like a candy bar, Ryan."
A soft laugh started deep inside his chest and finally loosed itself in warm breaths against her chin.
"Lindsay," Ryan said. "You did."
TBC