Say Yes: Dylan: Say Yes Series Book Four

by Mae, Amelia

  “Yeah,” I whisper. I’ve played with them a little myself but this is… “Ugh. So good.”

  He keeps lapping and sucking on my right nipple, bringing his hand up to work over my left.

  “Dylan,” I groan.

  “I bet I can make you come just from doing this.”

  He might. I feel my entire body tightening up. Muscles clenching. He tugs at my piercings with his teeth. My toes curl.

  I feel his hand travel down my torso and slip inside my panties. I groan as he runs his first two fingers over my seam. He pulls off of my right nipple with a wet popping noise and hones in on my left. Circling. Sucking. Pulling. And biting.

  Fuck.

  I cry out again at the feeling of his teeth.

  He slides a finger inside of me. I’m dripping wet. He adds another and crooks them forward.

  “Dylan, please,” I beg.

  “Please what?”

  “Let me come.”

  He thrusts his fingers deeper inside me, adding a third. I let out an incoherent string of vowel noises. I hold onto his shoulders, my short nails digging into his skin. I clench around his fingers.

  “You’re close,” he assesses. Again, not a question.

  “Please.”

  My voice is shot. I sound possessed. And maybe I am. Maybe I’ve been taken over by the ghost of bloody hookups past and am about to have my soul cleansed of Dylan Cotter so that I can exorcise our one night seven fucking years ago and get past it.

  “Come for me, Jane,” he hisses. “I need to feel it. Come on my hand.”

  “Dylan…”

  “I need it, Jane. I’ve waited seven fucking years for this. Now, come for me.”

  I feel like a time bomb detonating underneath him, gushing into his palm. It’s like I’ve had a knot in my lower belly get pulled so hard, it snapped. Then, for a long moment, every part of me feels light and perfect.

  Dylan’s lips are on my face. My neck. My collarbone. The light pressure of his kisses ushering me back to reality. When I open my eyes, I feel sleepy and a little stupid.

  But amazing.

  Dylan slips his fingers into his mouth and sucks them clean.

  I drag my teeth over my bottom lip as I watch him do it. I don’t know why that makes me so hot, but it does.

  “How do you do that?” I ask him.

  “Do what?”

  “You know… All… of this,” I eek out, “and that was just your mouth and a couple fingers.”

  “Fingering is a lost art, Jane,” he says with a smirk.

  The last of the aftershocks pass through me as Dylan pulls me in close. My lips find his shoulder, and I press kisses there.

  I’m not even fully conscious of it. I just have to taste him.

  He undoes his jeans and carefully takes them off.

  My eyes widen at the sight of the huge bulge in his boxers. He’s still hard and the fabric leaves nearly nothing to the imagination.

  “We need to take care of you now,” I whisper, trying to roll Dylan onto his back.

  “I can take care of myself, baby,” he grunts, palming his hard dick through his boxers.

  “Can I watch?”

  My face turns scarlet.

  “Fuck. That was so pervy and creepy I didn’t mean that. Oh, God,” I stammer. Even if the thought of watching him take himself in his own hand does send a rush of pure, unadulterated want through my veins.

  He doesn’t break his stride. He lowers his boxers slowly, like he’s giving me a show.

  “Well, that’s new too,” I say, repeating his words from earlier. Looks like I’m not the only one with a little new… jewelry.

  “Did that a couple years ago,” he supplies.

  “Did it hurt?”

  “Didn’t yours?”

  I smirk. “Why do we do the things we do?”

  “’Cause it feels so fucking good when you play with it?” he chides.

  When he’s finally naked, I swallow hard. My mouth waters. It’s no wonder why the whole world lusts after Dylan Cotter. His body is the stuff of dirty dreams and the words that come out of his mouth as you experience it will make the tips of your ears turn pink.

  “You can watch, Jane,” he husks out, “but there’s no free shows. You’re going to have to help me.”

  He squeezes his dick in his tight fist. He’s dripping precum and thumbs his tip to use it as lubrication. He jacks into his hand slowly, the head of his cock all purple and angry and ready to burst.

  His eyes hooded, he looks over at me.

  “Jane,” he grunts, “help me out here.”

  He reaches for my hand, wraps his around it and we stroke his cock together. I shift so that I’m straddling his knees and hovering over him, one hand on his aching dick, the other on his chest.

  We start pumping faster.

  “God, Jane,” he hisses. His eyes roll back. He’s close.

  There’s a big, fat bead of precum dripping out from the head and I feel like I have to lap it up with my tongue. I have to play with that metal.

  The idea of sucking a man off never really appealed to me until right now. I need to know what Dylan Cotter tastes like. I need to swallow his orgasm.

  I dip down and take his crown into my mouth, swirling my tongue around the head and paying special attention to his piercing. He tastes salty and soapy, but actually kind of good.

  And the sound he makes when I suck him is… I can’t describe it. But it makes me want to do it more. And harder. Until he’s as broken apart, babbling and blissfully spent as I was moments ago.

  He lets go of my hand, and I use it to tug at his balls.

  “I’m close, Jane,” he warns me.

  He tries to guide me off of him, but I push his hand away and take him deeper. I breathe through my nose and take him down another inch. I work the rest of him with my hand.

  “Fucking hell,” he roars as he comes in my mouth.

  I swallow a lot of it, but it just keeps coming out, hitting my lips and chin. I think I got some in my hair.

  I wipe my mouth off as Dylan catches his breath. Then he pulls me down for more kissing, despite the fact that he can probably taste himself on my lips. The kissing starts out needy and kind of frantic, but slows until we’re pressed so tightly together, but barely moving.

  Dylan and me. Kissing like lovers, though we’re practically strangers.

  And that’s the last thought I have before I drift off to sleep.

  7

  Jane

  I creep out of bed just as the sun is peaking in through the curtains to brush my teeth. I figure that if Dylan does like sex first thing in the morning, I might put a damper on things if I roll over and kiss him with dragon breath.

  I feel weird tiptoeing around my apartment naked. I never do that.

  I crawl back into bed beside Dylan. When I woke up, he had one arm around me and held me against his chest, but now he’s half on his stomach, and I’d have to move him to get back into that spot.

  I won’t. But damn I liked being in that spot.

  Hmm… I wonder if I can just kind of shift him over a little without waking him up.

  I slowly lift his arm. He’s complete dead weight and hard to manipulate. He’s cute though, when he’s asleep. His light blonde hair has fallen in his face. His lips are slightly parted. I lift his arm again and he grumbles, so I abandon my task and decide it’s time to get up anyway and make coffee.

  I’m barely upright, when I hear Dylan make a deep, rumbly noise.

  “Get your ass back in this bed, Jane.”

  He doesn’t get up, just opens his eyes and pulls me back down underneath him. He takes both of my hands and pins them down over my head before leaning in to kiss me some more.

  His breath tastes minty. Meaning that at some point during the night, he too got up to brush his teeth for me. That makes me smile And laugh a little against his lips.

  “What’s so funny?” he teases.

  “Nothing.”

  “Noth
ing?” he mumbles. “I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s very dorky. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Come on.”

  He runs the tip of his tongue down my neck, and I gasp.

  “Was it that?” he taunts. “That funny to you?”

  I try to shake my head no, but I mostly just moan. Dylan rolls his hips into mine, pressing his hard cock into my lower belly.

  “How about that? Laugh riot?”

  “Please…”

  “Not that funny anymore, huh?”

  It’s the second time since he’s gotten me in this bed that I’ve just melted into a sopping puddle of Jane underneath him and begged. I fight for resolve. I try to stay coherent. But…

  “Ugh. God, Dylan.”

  He’s got both of my arms pinned down with one hand, and he slides the other down. He slips one finger inside me. Then a second. He works me over with his hands and mouth, and it doesn’t take long before I come.

  “I love how fast you fall apart,” he whispers.

  I want to tell him that I hate it. I mean, not this. I definitely, definitely don’t hate this. But I do hate that I unravel so quickly.

  Fall so hard.

  Am going to hurt so much when this is over.

  “Condom?” he asks.

  “What?” I pant.

  “Do you have a condom?”

  “Oh… I…”

  I try to recall the last time I had sex. Because that’s the last time I bought condoms. And that was…

  “I don’t think so,” I lament.

  It doesn’t seem to bother Dylan, though.

  He takes my hand and wraps it around his dick, like last night, using both of our hands to jack him off. His fingers are still slick from being inside me, and he used my wetness as lube.

  He groans against my mouth and I squeeze him harder. I feel like I need his orgasm more than my own.

  It doesn’t take long before he grits out my name and comes all over me.

  Dylan frees my arms and I reach up to kiss him. He’s heavy and hot on top of me, but I don’t want to move him. In fact, it’s the second time tonight Dylan came on me and I’m sticky and sweaty and nasty, but I don’t feel gross. I don’t feel like I need to jump in the shower and scrub him off of my body right away.

  I feel like I could stay like this forever.

  Dylan moves first.

  “Don’t…”

  “Don’t what?” he asks.

  “Nothing.”

  “You can’t keep saying ‘nothing’ when I ask you what you’re thinking about,” he quips. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “I just… God this sounds so stupid…”

  “I’m sure it won’t.”

  “I just wasn’t ready for you to move yet,” I confess. “I like you on top of me.”

  “Really?” Dylan’s smile is something wicked. And the little dimple in his cheek is unexpectedly cute. “So you don’t want me to go down on you? You’d rather just cuddle?”

  “Oh… um…”

  “Or I could eat you out now and cuddle you after.”

  “Yes,” I say with an eager nod. “That. Do that.”

  Still kind of chuckling to himself, Dylan shucks the covers off of us and crawls down the bed slowly, mouthing my skin, leaving wet, messy kisses as he sinks lower. He eases one of my legs over his shoulder and spreads me out wide.

  He kisses my inner thigh.

  I arch my back. His mouth gets closer. Closer.

  “Fuck,” I moan as he dives in.

  Damn, if I thought Dylan Cotter’s wicked tongue could defile my mouth, I don’t know what I expected him to do to my pussy.

  “Dylan…”

  He circles my opening slowly, like he’s savoring the experience. Savoring me. He sneaks it inside, and I gasp at the unexpected intrusion. He massages my clit with his thumb.

  “God,” I cry out as my body starts to tense up. My cut off screams and cries only renew his fervor and up his intensity.

  “Come, baby,” he grunts. “Come on my tongue. I want to taste it.”

  I groan and this rush tears through me, knocking me back like a big ocean wave and pulling me under.

  I think I’m surfacing, but Dylan sucks on my clit and I’m right back under, dissolving into the mattress. My hands are in his hair, tugging and pulling. My toes grip my sheets.

  “Come on, baby.”

  I think it’s him calling me baby that finally does it.

  My vision goes dark, and I come fiercely, a strangled cry escaping me that sounds vaguely like his name.

  When I can finally see straight again, Dylan has a wet washcloth in his hand, and he’s cleaning me up.

  I’m not ready to move. I just want to lie here all spent and happy while Dylan takes care of me.

  But I know that reality is about to set in. All too soon.

  I exhale slowly. He throws the washcloth into the hamper.

  “What happens now?”

  8

  Dylan

  She looks so scared.

  Like I’m going to up and leave her like all the others. Well, like I did last time. I don’t need to know Jane’s life story to know that she’s been left behind by someone she loved before.

  I’m a different story. I’m from an enormous family and, while we don’t really speak, that is by choice.

  But I have a band. I have thousands, maybe millions of fans. I always have people looking to get close to me. Solitude is both a luxury and a choice.

  But for Jane, it’s a means of survival.

  “What now?” she asks again.

  I sigh out loudly. She sits up in bed and covers herself with the blanket.

  “The truth is that I don’t know,” I tell her, “but I’m not ready to end this just yet.”

  “Really?”

  “Tell me you don’t feel this too.”

  “No,” she assures me. “I do.”

  “Good.”

  I get off the bed and start searching around for my clothes. I find my boxers right near the foot of the bed and put them on.

  “Are you leaving?” she asks.

  I want to laugh, but she looks too earnest.

  “I figured I should check out this famous coffee maker of yours first.”

  She looks like she’s trying not to smile.

  Jane, now wearing tiny shorts and an oversize U2 tee shirt, pokes through her fridge and finds some eggs and bread and sets about making us some breakfast. I fix coffee in Jane’s rickety machine and hope that I don’t burn down the apartment. I pour two cups of probably gross coffee with a fair amount of grounds in the mug.

  “I apologize in advance for this,” I tell her.

  “That thing hasn’t made a decent cup of coffee in years.”

  She starts clearing some papers off of the little kitchen table. They look like panels of a comic book.

  “What are those?” I wonder, helping her stack them neatly.

  “Nothing.”

  “Jane, we talked about you telling me that everything is nothing.”

  “It’s a graphic novel I’m working on.”

  I think back to the night we met. When I commented on her tattoo sleeve.

  “Right. You’re an artist,” I recollect.

  “You remember?”

  I nod. I try to see if I can figure out the story by following the panels.

  “What is it about?” I ask her.

  There’s a female character with red hair, and she’s drawing in a sketchbook in more than a few panels with a dreamy look on her face.

  “It’s about a girl who escapes into her artwork,” she starts. “So much that she can’t tell the fantasy world that she’s created from actual reality.”

  “So it’s kind of a descent into madness?”

  “Originally it was,” she says, carefully. “But I’ve been working on it for so long and I’ve got so much invested in this character that I feel like I want her to have a happy ending.”

  I look at the draw
ing of her protagonist. Deep auburn hair. Seafoam green eyes. Tattoo sleeve. I smile.

  “You’ll figure out how to give her one,” I tell her.

  “I don’t know. Locking her in a padded room, isolated from the rest of the world seems so much easier. Not to mention more realistic.”

  It’s clear that we’re not talking totally about Cartoon Jane anymore.

  “Is this what you do?” I ask her. “Like, for work.”

  “No.”

  She looks disappointed.

  “So what do you do, then?”

  “I’m… still bartending,” she admits. “Different bar. Nicer people. Well, maybe not nicer, but more of them. So I only have to work one job.”

  “Nothing wrong with bartending, Jane,” I tell her. “My bandmate Shawn was a bartender for years before we made it in music.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” I attest. “I had day jobs too, you know.”

  “Really?” She chuckles. “Like what?”

  “Let’s see. In high school, I delivered pizzas for awhile. But I got fired because I kept taking little side trips to see my girlfriend. Then, in college, I worked on the gym as a towel guy.”

  Jane is giggling now. Fuck, I almost want to make up ridiculous jobs to amuse her and keep her laughing. But I stick to the truth.

  “Then, after college, I worked at my dad’s office. He’s a doctor, and I worked in the medical records room,” I continue. “Then I moved out here and did all kinds of odd jobs while the band was first starting out. I waited tables. Poorly. I took all kinds of paid surveys. I even modeled nude for an art class a few times.”

  Jane spits out her coffee. And not just because it’s terrible.

  “That’s the one that got you, huh?” I tease.

  “Sorry. It’s just funny that somewhere, someone has naked drawings of you and probably doesn’t realize that they’re worth a fortune now.”

  “Maybe.”

  “That could be mortifying,” she adds.

  I shrug. I doubt it. I think it’s more amusing than anything else. Plus, I’m pretty confident in my own skin.

  “But this is what you want to do?” I ask, changing the subject. “Graphic novels? Or some other kind of artwork?”

  “Well, I’m happy to do anything that I can get my hands on,” she says. “I freelance for some companies doing their banners. I’ve designed a few book covers.”