The Love Series Complete Box Set

by Melissa Collins

  I sink my teeth into his shoulder, whispering “gladly.” Sliding down his body, his skin feels like hot silk—a heat I can’t wait to taste. Settling in between his legs, I lean back on my haunches, taking in the sight of him, spread for the taking. Holding the base of his cock steady, I lean forward, swirling my tongue hotly around the broadness of the head, savoring the salty bead of moisture waiting there for me. “Hmm,” I moan before taking more of him into my mouth.

  His hand secures itself to the side of my face, holding me in place as he shoves more of himself down my throat. I let him fuck my mouth, enjoying the feel of him sliding deeply, back and forth. “So good . . . ahhh . . . Conner . . .” incoherent grumbles follow as he bulges and grows in my mouth. “Too close . . . Con . . . stop . . .”

  I stop not because he tells me to, but because I have other plans. “What do you want?” Expectant eyes look up at him and unsure ones look down at me. “You.” He takes the easy answer.

  I move from between his legs, pressing the entire length of my body against his. His fingers fumble at the snap on my jeans and I steady his uneasy hand. “I figured as much,” I snicker, playfully. He pulls a rueful face at me, taking a deep breath. “I think I teased you enough. So,” I hold his sexy stare. “Tell me how you want me and that’s exactly what you’ll get.”

  His hand snakes up around my neck, pulling me in for a wildly passionate kiss. I’m no mind reader, but this kiss tells me everything I need to know. He wants to get lost, to feel something, and he wants me to be the one to give it to him. Blindly, he reaches over to the nightstand, and pulls out a bottle of lube and a condom. His lips fall away from mine, but he holds my face in his hands, making sure I don’t look away as he speaks. “I want you to make walking impossible tomorrow.”

  I try to stop it, but even in my current state of crazy, lusty need, the bubble of laughter that fills my chest escapes past my lips. “What’s the matter? Don’t think you can do that?” he prods, egging me on and silencing my laughter.

  “I’m gonna fuck you so hard, you won’t be able to walk for a week.” My response silences him. I release his wrist, and, with more deftness than he had before, he unclasps my jeans and begins to shove them down my hips.

  To make things easier—and in turn, to get inside of him more quickly—I stand from the bed and lose the pants. Dylan’s mouth wraps around my cock before I can even reach for the condom and lube. The sight of him propped up on one elbow, with the other hand wrapped around the base of my dick as he nearly swallows me whole is almost more than I can take. The wet heat of his mouth, the searing fire in his eyes, the branding roughness of his touch almost makes me melt into the floor. His too-long hair begs to be tugged, pulled at its ends. “So good . . . so fucking good.” The beat of my words matches the pace of his tongue swirling up and down every inch I have to offer him.

  When I’m seconds away from coming down his throat, I pull away, pushing him down onto the mattress. As I roll the condom on and lube up, Dylan situates himself on his hands and knees. I trace my fingertip down his spine, over his crack, probing ever so softly at his ass. His eyes roll back as he looks at me over his shoulder.

  “From the minute I first saw you, I wanted you,” I moan against his skin. I plant a trail of kisses along the path my finger just traveled, dripping some lube on my finger. “Lean forward.” My command is obeyed instantly.

  With his head buried against the pillows and his arms slack at his sides, he looks like an offering from the Gods. His moans are nothing more than muffled noises as I spread him wide. “Don’t make me beg, Con.” He twists his head to the side, making sure his words aren’t misheard.

  With my fingertip poised against the tight ring of muscle of his ass, I press forward, the motion barely perceptible. “What if I want you to beg?” I push forward the tiniest bit. “What if I want you to writhe and squirm, screaming my name for more?” He pushes back against my finger, but I retreat, wanting control over what I know he’s feeling.

  We play cat and mouse for what feels like an eternity. He pushes back; I pull away. I give him a centimeter; he wants an inch. Just like I’d planned, he gives way first. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just . . . God . . . please touch me, fuck me, do anything to me, make me feel something.” The last plea trembles and shakes as it falls from his mouth—the honest desire in those words makes me relent.

  Instinctually, he pushes down onto my fingers as I press them forward, nearly sitting on them as I scissor them opened and closed. “Ahhhh . . .” Dylan’s voice reverberates off the walls, bouncing around us like a symphony of pleasure.

  Over the latex surface, I stroke myself once more, needing more than just the feel of my own hand. The crown of my cock rests in his stretched opening, teasing, tempting. This time, when he leans back onto me, I don’t stop him. “Take it, Dylan.” I hook my arm around his hips and drag him onto me, pushing forward, fucking him hard at the same time.

  “Oh, fuck,” I groan, sliding into and out of his body. I lose myself in the tight heat of his body. Unrelenting, with no end in sight, I drive into him over and over, my name falling from his lips, and his from mine. He props himself up slightly, giving me the room to reach around and stroke his rock hard dick at the same pace I pound into him.

  A mindless feverishness takes over and my body moves on its own accord. What was once a measured and calculated thrust is now erratic and frantic. “Holy fuck . . . Ahhhh . . .” Tiny pulses of his asshole squeezing me as I glide in and out of him push me over the edge. “Fuck . . . Dylan . . . oh, fuck! I’m coming . . .”

  He pumps into my hand, his backward thrusts drawing my own orgasm out of me as I thrust into him one final time. The room fills with the sound and smell of sex. Sweat covers our bodies, making our skin slick as I collapse on Dylan’s back.

  With his cock still in my hand, begging for release from his pending orgasm, we lay there for a minute as I catch my breath. The need to have him back in my mouth is overwhelming, though it wars with my need to stay inside of him.

  My hunger wins out over my desire.

  With one quick move, Dylan is on his back, spread before me, making my mouth water. I don’t allow him anytime to say or do anything. His dick is hitting the back of my throat before he can even register what’s going on. Working his shaft with my hand, I let him fuck my mouth, his hips gyrating against my face with unparalleled need. Sliding my other hand under his ass, I hold him fast to my face, nearly gagging on his length. My still-slick fingers find their way back to his hole, easily sliding back inside. With one subtle swipe against his gland, his dick grows in my mouth, the salty tang of him coating my tongue. “Pull away, Conner. I’m coming,” he grits out past his clenched jaw.

  I let my tongue glide back and forth against the veined ridges of the underside of his cock as I shake my head, dismissing his concerns of coming in my mouth. My fingers fuck him harder as my mouth sucks him deeper. A loud growl of a moan fills the small room as he shoots rope after rope of hot, salty cum down my throat. My own cock twitches to life as the tanginess of his orgasm fills my mouth. “Ahhh . . . my God . . . fuck . . .” he pushes himself down into my throat on one last, powerful thrust, cupping the side of my face with a rough hand as he does so.

  When the final pulses of his orgasm recede, we roll to our sides, facing each other, breathlessly staring into each other’s sated faces. His hand is still on my face. He tenderly strokes the pad of his thumb along my swollen lower lip. With more passion and emotion than I ever expected, Dylan whispers his lips against mine, before taking my mouth in an all-consuming kiss.

  It’s one from which I’m not sure I’ll ever recover.

  With his forehead leaning against mine, his lips curl into a satisfied smile before planting one final kiss to my mouth.

  “Dinner?”

  As if on cue, my stomach grumbles. “Yeah, who would have known it would take that much energy to make someone lose the ability to walk for a week.”

  Our joined laug
hter is amplified by the closeness of our chests. “It was worth it,” he declares, hooking his leg around mine, pulling me even closer to him.

  A verbal response is not necessary, as I pull him into my arms and let my kiss do all the talking for me.

  Quietly, and with a permanent smile plastered to our faces, we get dressed and make our way back into the living room. We were so quick to attack one another that the food is still hot. After making up our plates, I grab the DVD from the table and we settle on the couch.

  I toss the movie into his lap as he asks, “What did you bring?”

  Folding my legs under my body, and leaning against the arm of the couch, I already feel comfortable in his home. I shrug, pointing at the movie, indicating he should turn it over and see for himself.

  “Are you kidding?” he snickers.

  “What?” I mumble around a mouth of food. “You said it was a good movie.”

  Rolling his eyes, he drops his plate on the coffee table, walks over to the DVD player, and hits play on Field of Dreams, shooting me a look of mock-disbelief as he walks back to the couch.

  As we watch the movie, it becomes more and more obvious that it’s more than just a movie for Dylan. The distance between us grows by the scene and by the end of the movie, I’m not sure he’s even on the same plane of existence as me. “You okay?” He looks as if his emotions are simmering on the surface.

  He reacts to my voice as if he’s just realizing I’m sitting next him. “Huh? Oh, yeah. I’m fine.” Without looking at me, he stands to clean up our meal, letting the credits roll in the background. I follow him in the kitchen, and help clean up. He leans against the counter, seemingly warring with something.

  “I’m gonna get going.” I break the awkward silence, hoping that it hasn’t been caused by what we did earlier.

  “His name was Shane,” he calls out quietly, forcing me to turn back to him. His arms are folded over his chest. Staring down at his bare feet, I can’t imagine what’s in his eyes that he doesn’t want me to see.

  The loud scrape of the chair against the tile floor fills the stilted silence. I sit and slide out the chair next to me, waiting for Dylan to sit and talk to me.

  Resigning himself to the conversation I’m silently asking him to have, he huffs and sits. “He was my best friend. We grew up together, me, him and Reid.” Dylan’s pale blue eyes are cloudy, like there’s a storm brewing, cresting and threatening to open up. “He was Reid’s brother,” he clarifies. His fingers tap a nervous rhythm on the table, only stopping when I place my hand on top of his.

  “What happened?” At my question, Dylan looks down at our joined hands, takes a deep breath, slowly allowing his eyes to meet mine.

  “He killed himself.” Raw and harsh, the words spill across the table, taking on some kind of amorphous shape, like a puddle of milk. This mess, however, doesn’t seem like it has been so easy to clean up. Dylan takes my stunned silence as a cue to carry on and explain more.

  The story of their love is both inspiring and devastating. It’s one of finding out who you are by allowing yourself happiness in someone else, only to have that person, and, in turn, everything that made your life worth living, taken from you. Forming the words and speaking them aloud, I can see the pain in Dylan’s eyes, hear it is his words as if simply saying them is like chewing on thorns.

  Recounting both the happy and sad times, Dylan weaves a mesmerizing story—I have to actively remind myself that it’s his life and not some movie, or a plot of a book. Though, hearing about both Reid and Shane’s father, I’d like to think he was fictional. Sadly, the world is filled with plenty of evil to completely validate his horrid existence.

  “In the end,” his words cut through my stunned silence, “I pushed him away and never got to say goodbye.” Dylan stands, walks over to the sink, and for some odd reason, starts washing the dishes, as if they’re cleanliness is of paramount importance.

  The plate slips from his hand, breaking into pieces; holding onto the memories outweighs the need to hold onto a dish.

  “Dyl, I . . .” stammering, as I walk over to him, I’m not really sure where I’m going with my own train of thought.

  He holds his hand up to stop whatever words he thinks I might say. “Don’t. You don’t need to tell me it’s not my fault, or Shane needed help, or his father pushed him too far.” His attitude sets an icy chill in the room. His defenses are up, like a frozen wall in the tundra. The cool glare of his eyes tells me there’s no way I’m getting through. I only wish I had known what the hell I said to freeze everything.

  I grab a dishtowel from the counter and wrap it around his hand. “You’re bleeding.” The explanation isn’t necessary, but it allows me to at least step closer to him, to try to pull him to my side and wrap an arm around him. Shoving away from me, we stand at opposite ends of the counter.

  Holding my hands up in a plea of surrender, I sigh, resigning myself to the fact that I’m fighting a losing battle. “I know you don’t need to hear those things; you’re smart enough to know them on your own, but that doesn’t mean I can’t feel your pain, help you talk some of it out.”

  “I’m fine,” he dismisses, turning away from me as he does.

  “Clearly,” I snap back at him. Not wanting this to get any worse, I know my best option is to leave. He needs some space and it’s obvious anything I say will be twisted and misunderstood.

  “You think you can make this all better?” Dylan’s sarcastic words bounce off my back as I walk into the living room to get ready to leave. Slowly, I turn back to face him. “You bring over a movie and I tell you one part of my life and you’re magically going to fix everything?” he snarls. Reigning in my frustration, I lean against the doorframe and let him finish what he has to say. “This is why I’m no good at this.” His hand waves between us, our would-be relationship clearly the “this” to which he is referring.

  “Why’s that, Dylan? Huh? Enlighten me, please. Because I was under the impression, especially based on before that we were doing this really well, actually.” I mirror his motion just to emphasize the point.

  “All of your getting-to-know-me shit that’s what I can’t do. That’s why I’m no good. I’m still a screwed up mess over it all. No matter how much I tell myself all the things you want to tell me, I can’t get over it. I can’t get over him.” His shoulders sag under the weight of his words.

  “Who says you have to get over him? Why? Is there some law I’m not aware of saying that you can’t hold a place in your life for someone who once meant something to you?”

  “Everything,” he clarifies. “He meant everything to me.”

  I stalk over to him, stand mutely with my face near inches from his. “I understand that. But if you ask me, that’s a shitty excuse for not having to move on, for not having to live your life. I’m not going to pretend to know your pain—hell, even losing my parents is a different kind of loss, but I don’t think Shane would want you to sit around and wallow in a lifeless existence. Don’t you think he’d want you to live?”

  Seething anger roils off him in waves, intensifying the tension. “Don’t fucking tell me what Shane would want.”

  Sighing, I give up. “You don’t want to be with me simply because I want to be here for you and listen to you, fine. Have it your way. I just think you’re using his death as an excuse not to live.”

  “That’s not . . .” His attempt at recovery is just too little, too late.

  “No. Look. I know my fair share about having to start over, about having to heal. You don’t want to let me help you with that, or at least get to know you a little better, then I’m not going to waste my time making you realize those things.”

  This time, when I turn my back to him, he lets me go.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  June 9, 2015

  Appointment number three and I have to say, it’s not getting much easier. Though, I’m pretty sure the weekend with Conner is screwing with my nerves, easily complicating this whole sit
uation.

  “Dylan,” Dr. Baker calls, stepping into the waiting room. “It’s good to see you.” She extends her arm to the side, allowing me to walk past her and into the office.

  Rather than the usual small talk, she gets straight to her pre-planned agenda. “Today I’d like to talk about what happened after Shane died. I think some of your problems may stem from that time.”

  Blindsided by her suggestion, it takes me a minute to recover and digest her idea. “Tell me what happened after you found out about his death.”

  “Suicide, you mean.” The sarcastic cynicism of my clarification doesn’t go unnoticed on her end.

  She nods, “Okay, then. Tell me what happened after his suicide.” Nothing in her tone reacts to the nastiness in mine, making me feel all the more foolish for snapping at her.

  Like a dog with its tail between its legs, I apologize. “Sorry.” She nods again, cool and collected, waiting for me to answer her.

  Simmering in my own frustration, I bounce my leg in nervousness—or avoidance. “There’s not much to say.” She shoots me a look of disbelief. “Fine.” I return the look. “When I went home, I tried to see Reid. I tried to get to the funeral, but I couldn’t.”

  “Couldn’t? How so?” Dr. Baker rests her elbows on the arms of the chair, settling back comfortably, as if she already knows it will be a long story.

  The entire drive home, I kept repeating to myself that it couldn’t be real. Ignoring call after call from my mom and Reid, I knew that he was gone, but somehow by not talking to anyone right away, it made it less real.