Dylan

by Jo Raven

  Maybe I should make up my own goddamn mind.

  ***

  When I enter the kitchen, I find Tessa rummaging in the fridge. She’s shed her coat, and her black pants mold to her shapely ass.

  Goddammit. My cock takes notice and starts to harden, pushing against the fly of my jeans.

  Fuck, she’s hot. I’d take her right there, on her knees on the kitchen floor, push inside her to the hilt, listen to her moan and beg me for more. I’d reach around and touch her tits. I remember her nipples, large and rosy, begging to be sucked and licked. I’d stroke her clit until she comes, and then as she comes I’d thrust inside her harder, faster. I’d come as she’s still coming, and we’d lose ourselves to pleasure together. Holding on to each other. Melding into one.

  Shit. My hard-on is massive, and I reach down to adjust myself in a hurry. At least Miles isn’t in the room. Jesus.

  Placing myself behind the fridge door, hiding my lower body, I clear my throat and she looks up.

  “Miles said he wanted hot chocolate,” she says. “If there’s one thing I can prepare with my eyes closed it’s this.”

  I nod and lean back against the counter, folding my arms over my chest. I glance around. The table is dusty and stained. The sink is filthy. The dirty dishes have been sitting there for days and probably have mold growing on them. The stove is encrusted with old food. A cold draft comes from a cracked window high up the wall.

  I know I should’ve cleaned, but I didn’t have time for anything more than hasty breakfasts and dinners and work in the past week.

  How different this place is compared to what Tessa is used to. I remember her apartment, impeccably furnished, clean and shiny new. Seeing this kitchen will convince her never to come back. And although that’s what I keep telling myself would be best, I hate the thought.

  “Do you ever cook?” I find myself asking and snap my mouth shut as soon as the words leave my mouth.

  Yeah, chase her out even faster. Great job, Dylan.

  “Sometimes,” she says to my surprise. “I like cooking. It’s like art, but with a useful result.”

  “Useful.” I can’t help a chuckle. “You probably cook those new cuisine dishes, like… like caviar with a dash of rosemary, or something.”

  Instead of getting pissed with my comment—and why can’t I keep my fucking mouth shut?—she grins at me.

  “Caviar with rosemary?”

  “Or lobster with champagne sauce or something.”

  “Says the guy who doesn’t know how to cook anything but pasta and omelets.”

  I lift my hands. “Busted.”

  “Just FYI, I avoid seafood. I don’t like it. Plus I prefer to cook food that’s actually edible. In big portions. Like spaghetti. And burgers. And potatoes in the oven.”

  She’s walking toward me, and I’m transfixed. The shade of her eyes, the shape of her mouth, the form of her breasts, her arms, her hands… Everything about her turns me on, and at the same time I want to laugh and yell and do crazy shit just at the thought of her being here with me.

  Dangerous.

  “I’ll make some toast in the pan.” She’s looking at me, and I force my mind back on track. “If you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind,” I say and settle in a kitchen chair to watch her. I’m pretty sure she’ll regret this. That she’ll hate cooking in this kitchen, and it will show on her face. She must be disgusted. She must be bored.

  But she smiles and hums a tune I don’t recognize as she moves around, wiping the counter with a wet cloth and searching for a pan in the cupboards.

  Miles comes in and sits next to me. Together we watch her slather butter on the bread and place the ham and cheese neatly on top, heat up the pan and prepare the first piece of toast. I’ve never seen anyone do it this way, but the smell is heavenly. Her small hands move gracefully, efficiently, dishing out the toast on a plate. She turns to place it on the table, and Miles swears softly.

  I should scold him for swearing, but I can’t, not when I see the blissful expression on his face as he digs in.

  “Good, huh?” I mutter, and he nods several times while chewing.

  “See?” Tessa says, turning back to the pan. “No traces of caviar or rosemary can be found in this dish. It’s safe for consumption.”

  I laugh out loud. Christ. I lean back in my chair, trying to look anywhere but at her. “Sounds good.”

  “Wait your turn, Mr. Hayes.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She pulls her hair forward, over one shoulder, and my gaze is caught by her exposed neck. Her skin looks smooth and flawless—and if memory serves, it feels like silk. Her black sweater molds to her breasts, and they are fucking magnificent. Her pale mane shimmers like stardust.

  Oh, fuck. Poetry? This is really bad. Get a grip, Dylan.

  “Here you go,” she says and leans over me to place the dish on the table.

  She smells of burnt sugar and melted butter, and her warmth does crazy things to me. I hunch over my plate, glad the table is hiding how hard I’m getting—again—at her proximity.

  This is ridiculous. We fucked not three days ago—but that was a mistake, and I told her so, and at least… At least I’d like to be friends.

  Being friends is safe. Safer. Friends last more than lovers. That’s what I’ve tried to do, but wanting her has always complicated things, forced me to stay at a distance, not to give myself away.

  Dammit. I can’t stop wanting her. Why can’t I stop?

  “Something wrong?” she asks, and I shake my head and concentrate on eating. The toast is good. It’s excellent, in fact, and I tell her so.

  “It’s just toast,” she says. It strikes me how she never believes just how amazing she is.

  Well, if the speed at which both Miles and I are inhaling her toast doesn’t convince her we like it, I don’t know what will.

  “I thought you were leaving town,” I say. My stomach is full and not trying to consume itself anymore, allowing for clearer thought. “But you’re still here.”

  “Yeah, I’m still here.”

  Putting down my fork, I study her face. Her normally bright eyes are dimmed. “Why?”

  It seems too big a question to be contained in one word—why are you here, why are you helping me, why were you leaving and why did you decide to stay?

  “I’m not ready to leave,” she says, and I read all sorts of things into that, things I shouldn’t. Like maybe she’s not ready to give up on me yet, and talk about wishful thinking and major confusion.

  “Because I asked you to stay?”

  Her pretty mouth flattens, and she turns away to put away the pan. “I’m not sure why.”

  Fair enough. “I’m glad you’re here,” I say softly, not sure she hears me.

  Later, Miles drinks his hot chocolate, smiling at Tessa when she strokes his hair, and then I take him to bed.

  “She’s pretty,” he tells me as I tuck him under the covers.

  “Yeah,” I say, unable to deny it. “Now sleep.”

  “Will she keep coming after Teo is fine?”

  “We’ll see,” I say. I wish I knew. Probably not. “Night, Miles.”

  Taking a bracing breath, I return to the kitchen, stall outside the door. Teo was a baby when Mom left. Miles was two. He doesn’t remember her really, can’t even recall her face. He didn’t feel the crushing pain and despair I did. The sense of abandonment. The anger and unbearable sadness.

  I was fourteen. I felt everything. I went to bed every night unable to sleep, wondering if she ever loved us at all, if it was all a lie. If it was because I wasn’t clever enough, good enough—for her, for anyone. I mean, if my own mother left me, why would anyone else stay?

  I watched Dad struggle with the same questions, with the same anguish and distress. I saw what it did to him, how it broke him and drew him under. I swore to myself this would never happen again, would never happen to me.

  And if that’s a little like choosing death, so life won’t hu
rt you, then so be it. The deed is done, and it’s too late to go back.

  ***

  Tessa is standing by the kitchen window, looking out into the darkness. I see her ghostly reflection in the glass. A fairy princess caught in a broken mirror.

  There you go again, man. Fucking stop it.

  I close and lock the door behind me. If she wants to tell me anything nasty—not that I’d blame her—I don’t want my brothers to walk in when it happens. Experience has taught me that locking doors is a good thing in a house with younger siblings.

  “Hey, Tess. Listen, uh…” I rub my eyes. “Thanks for helping out with Miles. And for cooking. I know I’ve been an asshole, and I’m sorry. Sorry for Sunday. It won’t happen again.”

  She doesn’t turn around, and I go to lean on the wall by the window, mentally bracing for whatever she has to throw at me.

  “Sorry,” she finally says. “You’re sorry.”

  I can’t read her tone. It’s neutral. Tired. Sad. It makes me wanna punch something.

  “Aren’t you?” I thought she hated me for it.

  She ducks her head. “It felt good.”

  At her admission, the air leaves my lungs, and a fire is lit behind my balls. Memories of my brief time with her flood me, and suddenly I’m so hard it’s a miracle my fly doesn’t burst open to let my swelling dick pop out like a jack-in-the-box.

  Shit. I turn away and bite my lip to muffle a groan as I reach down in my now too-tight jeans to accommodate my hard-on.

  “Look, I know it meant nothing to you. I get it.” She’s right behind me now, and my breath catches when she trails a hand down my back. “I’m not expecting anything.”

  But maybe I want her to expect more from me.

  I hit the wall with my palm. I want to punch it until my knuckles bleed.

  “Dylan, are you okay?” Her hand travels up to my shoulder, warm, almost weightless, and yet I feel it all the way to my throbbing cock.

  I can’t. Can’t fight it anymore.

  Turning around, I grab her and pull her to me. A startled yelp leaves her mouth, and I cover it with mine.

  Honey, sugar. She tastes like Tessa, unique, wild, thrilling. When her hands come up to tangle in my short hair, I growl at the light sting and haul her closer. It’s not enough.

  Never enough. Fuck, I don’t think a lifetime would be enough with Tessa. Need her naked right now, on me, under me, around me. I grab her legs and lift her, burying my face against the softness of her breasts.

  She whispers my name, her fingers digging into my skull, and it’s fucking crazy how close I am to coming just from that, from her scent, and her body pressed to mine, still fully clothed.

  Though the latter is something I’m about to remedy.

  I walk toward the counter, and her legs tighten around me, so that she’s pressing right on my hard-on, and holy shit, it feels so damn good.

  We crash into the counter, and I have a fleeting oh-shit moment when I think Miles will start pounding on the door to see what’s happening, but when I deposit her on the counter and move between her legs, the world fades away.

  I grab the hem of her sweater and tear it off. Underneath she’s dressed in a red bra that lifts her breasts like offerings. I nuzzle the white, soft mounds, and I pull down her pants and underwear, not even glancing down to see them. I don’t care what she’s wearing. It has to come off, every offending last bit of cloth.

  “Dylan,” she breathes, and I want to kiss her soft lips, but first I need to kiss those breasts that are straining, caught in the red fabric. I reach behind her and unclasp the bra, letting it fall, and replace it with my hands, so I can lift each breast to my mouth, to lick and suckle on each perfect nipple.

  Whoa. Mistake or not, I want her like nothing and nobody else in my life. Her nipples taste sweet, like her mouth, and I take my time, teasing them with my tongue and teeth, until she grabs my head and presses me closer, letting out breathless moans and pleas.

  Then I reach between her legs and find her pulsing center. I push two fingers inside her as I crash our lips together. I kiss her long and deep as I fuck her with my fingers, and she cries out in my mouth, contracting around me again and again as she comes.

  Yeah, every time she’s more beautiful. She’s a goddess. Splayed wide on my kitchen counter, her blond hair wild and tousled, her chest heaving, her eyes wide and pupils dilated, she’s fucking unbelievable.

  Can’t believe how much I missed her. How much sweeter she is than I remember. Better than any memory.

  Her lashes lower, and she digs her heels in my back, pulling me closer. I steady myself with a hand on the counter and swallow a moan when my cock presses between her legs.

  “Off,” she whispers. “Take your clothes off. Come inside me, now.”

  Christ, she’s driving me crazy. I get rid of my sweater in seconds and push down my jeans and briefs.

  The release of pressure is disorienting as my dick springs free, but then her hand closes around it, and I gasp, my hips jerking. I wrap my hand around hers, and together we guide my cock into her.

  No condom, the thought flashes through my brain, but it’s already on overload. I’ll withdraw in time, I think, and push deep inside her heat.

  Fireworks go off behind my eyes, and the room darkens. Holy fuck. I slam my hand into the cupboard above us, trying to control my body, trying to hold off the orgasm threatening to start in my tightening balls.

  Not yet.

  “Dylan…” She’s squeezing me, her hips moving in tiny circles, drawing me deeper, and I can’t breathe, it’s that wicked good.

  “Hold on to me,” I say, and her hands find my shoulders and clasp them. I lift her legs higher, until she’s hanging off the counter. Hanging on to me.

  So that I can push a little deeper.

  We moan together as the pressure mounts. I pull back a little, then push back inside, struggling to keep back a cry of pleasure. This… This is mind-blowing. Trying to get traction, I hold on to the cupboard for dear life as I find a rhythm, rolling in and out, slamming into her again and again.

  Her breathing speeds up, and her mouth falls open. Her nipples are hard pink candies, and I long to kiss them once more, but I can’t stop this orgasm from plowing through me. It’s already starting, I feel it in the clenching of my gut, in my hardening balls, in my swelling dick.

  “Tess!” I open my mouth to say something more, to warn or ask—but I let out a long moan instead, barely managing to pull out in time as I come. My cum splashes her body, covering her from belly to chin, and my hand braced on the cupboard is all that’s keeping me up.

  Holy shit, I think, and the world blanks out.

  Chapter Nine

  Tessa

  As Dylan pulls out of me, I come again. The pleasure ripping through me is blinding, and I sob his name, clutching his shoulders and writhing as he comes on my belly, his hard cock jerking, and his warm seed spilling on me.

  “Fuck,” he mutters, a dark flush spreading on his fair skin, up his neck and on his cheeks. His eyes flutter open, a midnight blue.

  He twists and grabs a towel from a rack, then wipes the front of my body clean. I gasp when the runs it over my hypersensitive breasts. He sweeps the cloth lower, over my bellybutton, and lower, then drops it to the floor and slides his fingers between my legs.

  Oh God. His thumb strokes me in long swipes, and I can’t believe how ready I am for his touch again. His bright gaze glides over me, hot and powerful, as his strokes increase in speed. His thumb moves lower, entering me, and I’m gone.

  I moan out loud as I come again, each exquisite spasm sharp as a blade. He strokes me a few more times, then removes his finger and wipes it between my breasts, his eyes catching fire, dark with arousal. His cock is hardening again, hovering between us.

  I’m trying to catch my breath, my body still rippling with aftershocks, as he stares down at me, his mouth slack and blue eyes hooded. His muscled, tattooed arm trembles by my head, and that ripped chest�
� God, he’s so handsome it’s ridiculous.

  And I’m right where I’d promised myself I wouldn’t find myself again.

  I start to move, and his eyes narrow to slits. He doesn’t budge when I put a hand on his chest and push.

  “I should go,” I say.

  Strange thing is, I don’t regret this. I can’t. I’m not sorry. Can’t regret anything with Dylan. Yet I should be on my way before he tells me again how this is just sex, and he doesn’t love me.

  But instead of moving, he nuzzles my neck and remains right where he is, wedged between my legs.

  “Stay,” he whispers, and I’m not sure I heard him right.

  His hand moves over my face, his fingertips trailing over my lips, his athletic body filling my vision, from his narrow hips to that perfectly defined six-pack, and from the bulging pecs to the broad shoulders.

  “Isn’t it a mistake?” I watch his face. “Aren’t you sorry?”

  “This can’t be a mistake,” he breathes on my skin, his hand stroking my cheek, and I shudder, a great whole-body tremor. “Tessa… Stay tonight.”

  But he doesn’t say more. Not what I hope he will. The way he spoke my name, the way he’s stroking my face… I shouldn’t read anything into it. It doesn’t mean anything.

  God, I want to stay. I waited for years for him to ask me to stay, to kiss me and hold me. So I do the only thing I can possibly do at this point.

  “No,” I say. “I can’t stay.”

  He stills, his hand dropping to my shoulder. His mouth twists, and his lashes lower, hiding the blue of his eyes.

  “Right.” His voice is hoarse. “Of course not.”

  “I can’t do this again, Dylan,” I say, and my heart cracks just from hearing the truth I never wanted to accept. “I can’t.”

  No matter how awesome it was. How incredible. How right.

  He gives a slow nod, and it’s worse than words.

  “If you need anything,” he whispers as I pull on my pants and sweater, “anything at all, just call me. If that bastard of ex-boyfriend of yours bothers you, call me.”

  I shake my head and go out into the cold night.

  ***

  I’m waiting for Miles to finish school when my dad calls.