Instead, he leaned forward, pressing his body against hers. His chest to her breasts. His hips to her stomach. She could feel him everywhere, hot and hard and haunted. Her lids grew heavy, threatened to close, but she kept them up with sheer force of will. She’d been waiting so long for him to look at her like this, to touch her like this. No way was she missing a second of it.

Then his other hand slid from her shoulder to her jaw so that he was cupping both sides of her face, and her knees went weak.

“Ryder.” It was more a whimper than a word.

He closed his eyes, rested his forehead against hers. The tightness in his shoulders, the look of anguish on his face, was almost unbearable. She wanted—needed—to soothe him.

“Tell me to go to bed,” he whispered, sounding anguished. “To leave you alone.”

“No.” She wouldn’t do that. Not now, not ever. She wrapped her arms around his waist, held him to her. He was shaking, but then again, so was she. How could she not be when his lips were only an inch or so away from hers?

“Do it.”

“No.” She tightened her hold.

He groaned, a low, tortured sound that ripped through every part of her. And then he was lowering his mouth, tilting her chin. Pressing his lips gently, softly, to hers.

In those early, unbelievable moments, Jamison’s first thought was that Ryder really knew how to kiss.

Her second thought was that this kiss, which she had longed for for at least a decade, had been more than worth the wait.

Her third thought— Oh, who was she kidding? There was no third thought. There was nothing but desire, pleasure, need as his mouth claimed hers. As his tongue swept along the seam of her lips, exploring the corners of her mouth and scrambling whatever brain cells she hadn’t killed off with her drinking binge.

“You taste so good,” he murmured, then sucked her lower lip gently between his teeth. She gasped at the sensation, at the soft, repetitive suction that sent chills skittering up and down her spine. Ryder laughed quietly at her reaction, his fingers tightening on her hip and in her hair—not enough to hurt but definitely enough to remind her that he was there. And that he was calling the shots.

“So do you,” she whispered against his mouth, licking her lips in an effort to get more of him. He tasted just like he smelled—like tequila and limes and warm, salty ocean breezes.

From the moment she’d moved to San Diego, she’d been drawn to the beach. To the smell and taste and sound of it. She wondered now if what she’d liked most about the water was that, subconsciously at least, it had reminded her of him. Of Ryder.

His hand tugged on her hair, calling her back to the present even as he tilted her head to the angle that would give him the best access. And then his mouth was on hers again, drawing her lower lip between his teeth so he could nibble softly on it before soothing the small hurt with his tongue.

She moaned a little, brought her own hands up to bury them in the cool silk of his hair. He felt so good, tasted so good, that she wished she could live in this moment forever. Wished she could freeze time so that there was no tour to take him away from her, no job issue for her to worry about, no groupies to flaunt themselves in front of him.

So that there was nothing and no one but her and him and the electricity that arced between them.

It was a silly wish, and a dangerous one. The tiny part of her brain that was still functioning screamed at her to stop this, to stop him before she got in too deep, but it was hard to hear the warning over the ragged edges of her breathing, the loud pounding of her heart. She wouldn’t have heeded it anyway, not at that moment when she had Ryder exactly where she’d always wanted him. In her arms.

He tilted her head back a little more and whatever small amount of rationality she had deserted her. But how could it not when he was devouring her, his mouth and body and tortured soul enveloping her own until all she could think of was him. She moaned low in her throat, tangled her fingers in his hair, and yanked. The time for gentleness, for the subtle build of desire, was long gone. Need was a wild, wanton thing between them, rising like a tidal wave until it all but swamped her.

It was her turn to nip at his mouth, to run her tongue over his teeth, the roof of his mouth, the sensitive skin between his gum and his upper lip. He groaned, sucked her tongue deep into his mouth, and she gasped. She’d never been kissed like this before, never felt such brutal, beautiful carnality for any other man. She wanted to hang on to this moment forever, to savor it—and him—for as long as she could.

For as long as he would let her.

His fingers swept beneath the hem of her T-shirt, skimmed up her rib cage to softly stroke her stomach and lower back. She shivered—it felt so good—then slid her hands slowly up his back.

He was lean but muscular from all those hours of guitar playing and working out when he couldn’t sleep . She’d seen him without his shirt on a million times through the years—in person and on-screen and in photos—but she’d never realized how good it would feel to touch him. To run her hands up his spine and over the taut muscles of his upper back. To slide her fingers over the sexy ink of his tattoos.

He was hard and hot and so inviting she wanted to lick him up right there in the hallway. She would do it, too, just as soon as she could bring herself to stop kissing him. Which, now that she thought about it, might not be for a while. He tasted too good.

His fingers were on the buttons at the front of her shirt now. Then they were tracing along the line of her bra, his warm palms resting on her stomach. A shiver of desire worked its way through her, and Jamison clutched at his shoulders for support.

He smiled against her lips, pressed her more firmly into the wall as he continued his exploration. Her loss of control hadn’t even fazed him, but then he was probably used to women going weak-kneed around him.

The thought pulled her out of her Ryder-induced sex stupor. Not completely, but enough for her self-consciousness to rear its ugly head. She turned her head to break the kiss, covered his hands with her own. He stopped instantly, like she’d known he would.

Of course, the second he did, she could have kicked herself for stopping him. What was wrong with her? Ryder had been with dozens of women, hundreds of women probably, in the last few years. But she wanted this, wanted him—badly—so why had her conscience picked this moment to bombard her with second thoughts? Why had she stopped him when he’d obviously been into it? Into her?

Because, she acknowledged with a grimace, she didn’t want to be just another notch on his bedpost, another girl that he forgot as soon as he’d zipped his pants. She wanted to know that she mattered to him. If not in the same way he mattered to her, then at least enough for him to choose her and not just sleep with her as a means to stop the pain she knew he carried deep inside himself.

When she didn’t say anything, or make any move to disentangle herself from his hold, Ryder murmured, “Jamison, baby? Are you okay?”

He was breathing hard, even panting a little, and his obvious arousal made her feel a million times more secure. As did his concern for her. Even if it was just for now, just for this short moment of time, Ryder wanted her, cared about her. It was enough.

She lightly pushed on his shoulders. When he stepped away, looking wary and more than a little confused, she grabbed onto his hand and continued back down the hall to the bedroom she had woken up in. Once he realized where she was going, Ryder stiffened. Stopped.

Jamison froze, her cheeks burning with humiliation. She’d been wrong. She’d assumed too much. Ryder didn’t want her after all. “I—I—”