by Unknown
Though it nicked her pride to put voice to her thoughts, she knew that if anyone would have answers for her, it would be Dylan. In so many ways, he was a mirror image of her. The other side of her coin.
They were different in a lot of ways, but they were alike in many, too. They were both stubborn and arrogant and ambitious and competitive. They were both damn good writers, attractive, and fantastic in bed.
Hey, if a girl was being honest with herself, then she might as well be honest about everything.
And where they differed . . . him being laid-back while she was sometimes incredibly uptight . . . well, maybe they could help each other. Maybe she could convince him to lean into certain aspects of his life more, and he could teach her how to relax and stop obsessing about every little thing.
“So,” she said slowly, using the tip of one perfectly rounded, paint-tipped finger to draw patterns on the bit of sheet that covered his upper thigh, “hypothetically speaking, if one wanted to loosen her grip on the purse strings slightly, how would one go about that?”
He grinned at her, apparently amused by her complicated phrasing of what was in essence a simple question.
“Well,” he said, mimicking her serious tone, “one could start by sitting down and figuring out how much one spends on the necessities each year, and then comparing that with one’s annual income. I think you would be pleasantly surprised to realize you’re probably a lot better off than you believe. Then, one might hire a financial planner to help squirrel away some money . . . maybe open some investments, buy into some mutual funds, start contributing to a retirement fund of some sort.”
A sparkle lit his eyes as he continued. “You may be interested to note that you aren’t even allowed to take money out of a Roth IRA until you turn fifty-nine without being penalized, which means that any money you contributed would just be sitting there, earning interest, and you couldn’t touch it. If you opened an account now, think of how much money you’d have saved up when you finally did retire.”
His brows were waggling now, and she found herself nearly smiling, nearly feeling lighthearted about her finances, which wasn’t a sensation she could ever remember experiencing before.
She had a savings account, of course, but she’d never thought about some of the things he’d mentioned.
Finding a financial planner whose job it was to see that she stayed afloat, didn’t spend beyond her means, and would always have enough to fall back on in case of a rainy day . . . even if that rainy day turned into a full-blown tsunami season.
And the stock market . . . she’d always been too nervous about money, wanting to keep it with her—as close as possible to being right there in her hand—to actually buy into something like that. But if she started small and got involved in some low-risk investments, she thought she could let go of her white-knuckled grip long enough to see if they actually worked out to her benefit.
She liked his last suggestion best. She’d never thought of starting a retirement fund outside of the one provided by her employer, but it made total sense. Not only would she have more control over it, but it would be that much more of a cushion to fall back on later, as well.
She considered it all for a moment, wondering if the modicum of tension she felt loosening near her stomach and leaching out of her body through the soles of her feet could become a permanent sensation. Could maybe even grow and expand until she didn’t need an entire roll of Tums to get through the bill-paying process each month.
Meeting his gaze, she said, “I find your philosophy interesting and would like to subscribe to your newsletter.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “You’ve got it. I may have to stop at the library on the way home, though, to read up on some of this stuff. Or, you know, talk to my dad, who happens to be a CPA.”
Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open. “You’re kidding me! So you really do know about all this financial planning stuff.”
He shrugged one strong, bare shoulder. “Some, yeah. What I’ve picked up from him over the years, and then if I have any specific questions, he’s happy to answer them. He’s always after us kids to do this, do that—prepare for our financial futures, sock something away for a rainy day.”
“You jerk,” she rapped out, socking him lightly on the chest. “You had me believing you were some kind of financial whiz kid trapped in a jock’s body, and here you have an inside source. You’re a money tease!”
His amused expression deepened, and he rubbed at the spot near his shoulder where she’d punched him, acting like the light tap had actually hurt.
“Look who’s talking. I offered you a thousand dollars to teach me to knit and you’ve been taking your own sweet time about it. Do you think I don’t know you’ve been farming it?”
Her cheeks flushed at being called out, because that’s exactly what she’d been doing.
“I had to. Otherwise you might have zipped ahead to win our wager, and I couldn’t let that happen. Just be glad I didn’t teach you to knit rows of knots or something equally devious. I may not have been the best teacher, but at least what I’ve shown you so far is the proper way to knit. Besides,” she told him, keeping her face tipped away, “that makes me a yarn tease, not a money tease.”
“A tease is a tease, babe, no matter how you slice it. Lucky for you, I like that in a woman.” He waited a beat, and then added, “And I think it’s about time for me to be in charge again.”
A wicked glint slid behind the lapis blue of his eyes a split second before he sprang forward, knocked her to her back, and pinned her to the mattress. She gave a shriek of surprise before the air was driven from her lungs.
Holding her arms above her head, he grinned down at her, his body pressed to hers from breast to ankle. His scratchy legs tickled her own, and only his shirt on her body kept them from touching skin-to-skin from the waist up.
It did nothing, though, to keep intense, immediate awareness from swamping her senses and sending a shock of hot, demanding desire straight to her core.
Lord, what this man did to her with just a touch, and sometimes just a look, should be illegal. What they did together probably was illegal in twenty-five of the fifty states.
His face hovered centimeters from hers, his warm breath washing over her, raising gooseflesh along her arms and chest. Just below the hem of the shirt, the proof of his arousal nudged at her, and she wanted nothing more than to spread her legs and invite him in.
“I’ve got you, my pretty,” he murmured in a soft, mesmerizing voice, tracing his lips along the line of her jaw. “And your little dog, too.”
“Sorry,” she said in an equally low voice, “there are no dogs here, only one lonely little pussy in need of some petting.”
To emphasize her words, she opened her legs and let him fall even farther into the cradle of her thighs.
Heat like that from an atomic explosion filled his countenance, and she thought she actually heard a snarl roll up from his throat. His teeth latched on to her neck, gently nipping at a line of muscle that ran all the way down to her clavicle. At the same time, he lifted her legs straight up along the line of his chest so that her ankles rested near his shoulders.
“It’s deeper this way,” he hissed in a strained voice, “and I’ve been dreaming about having your ankles up around my neck since the first time we met.”
“Just as I thought,” she huffed, finding it none too easy to speak with her body twisted awkwardly, and desire humming in her veins. “You’re a perv.”
“Not perverted. Just horny, and intelligent enough to notice a smokin’-hot woman when I see one.”
Grasping his cock, he found her opening and drove inside, sending the oxygen from both her lungs and diaphragm like a balloon with a slow leak.
One thrust and he was buried to the hilt. No preliminaries, no foreplay. But then, none were necessary. She was as hot and ready for him as though he’d spent hours priming the pump. Maybe more so.
Her blood pounded through her v
eins, sizzling like live wires and sending hot rushes of sensation to all the right places. Her skin tickled in anticipation. Her legs, sticking straight up in the air, shook with need.
And between her legs, where Dylan was stuffed tight, filling her almost to overflowing, she was swollen and wet and desperate for satisfaction.
His rough palms ran up and down her legs, grazing her thighs both inside and out, her bottom, behind her knees, her taut insteps. And he pounded into her, long, hard strokes meant to bring her to orgasm in record time.
“What about you?” he asked, his words broken by the slam of their bodies and the exertion of energy. “What did you think about me the first time you saw me?”
“I thought . . . too bad I hate this guy; he looks like he’d be a really great lay.”
His lips twitched, even as sweat dotted his face and chest. “Oh, yeah?”
She rolled her eyes, recognizing a worm in the water when she saw one. He might be fishing for compliments, but that didn’t mean she had to bite.
“Don’t push your luck,” she warned. “And stop talking. You’ve got work to do!”
He didn’t stop grinning, but he did shut up and turn his attention back to curling her toes and sending steam shooting out her ears.
While her fingers curled into the sheets and she arched her back, panting as excruciatingly pleasurable sensations began to build, his slow stroking of her lower body turned into a strong, solid grip. First at her knees, then her thighs, and finally her hips. He held her tight, bringing her forward and back to meet his powerful thrusts.
In only seconds, their movements grew faster and more frantic. Their mingled gasps and groans, along with the low creak of the bed rocking beneath them, echoed through the room.
She bit her lip to keep from whimpering, but couldn’t remain completely silent. “Yes,” she breathed. And then again and again, the soft words slipped from her mouth, “Yes, yes, yesssss.”
Dylan held her gaze, his arm, chest, and abdominal muscles pulled taut, his face flushed with the need for release.
“Come for me,” he commanded, his words punctuated by low grunts and the rhythmic slapping of their bodies. “Come now.”
He was at the very edge of exploding, but he needn’t have worried, and no orders or requests were necessary, because she was right there with him.
Heat flooded her system until she thought she might spontaneously combust. Her nerve endings were alive with need and awareness, rising to the very surface of her skin so that even the air around her felt like a caress.
Around his cock, her internal muscles fluttered and spasmed with approaching climax. It was there, shimmering, vibrating, hovering just out of reach.
And then, with one hand still digging into the flesh of her hip, Dylan reached between her legs and over her mound to slide his thumb into her plump, wet folds and press firmly against her clit. That was all it took to send her screaming, bucking, shuddering into orgasm.
She would think later that it was a wonder her neighbors didn’t call the police and report a murder taking place in her apartment, but at that moment she couldn’t have held back if a thousand deadly vipers had been poised to strike at the slightest provocation.
Her mouth was barely open, ready to voice her completion, when Dylan followed her over. His thumb stayed on her clitoris, circling, rubbing, and he continued to both thrust into her and yank her against him as he gave a harsh shout and ground out a crude, “Fuck, yes” just before his body went rigid and he poured himself inside her.
He collapsed atop her, nearly folding her in half, but it took a good five minutes for the discomfort to even sink in.
“Um . . . Dylan?” she managed, and only had to clear her throat and lick her dry lips twice to get it out.
“Hmm?”
“You’re crushing me. Not to mention turning me into a cheap card table.” Her legs were still caught inside his arms, against his chest, her ankles pushed practically to her ears.
“God, I’m sorry,” he groaned. His movements were stiff and slow, but he hoisted himself off her, gently lowering her legs back to the mattress before rolling to his side and propping himself on an elbow to gaze down at her.
Reaching across her near-comatose form, he used the tips of two fingers to toy with her loose and now-damp curls. He tugged a thick strand over her shoulder and dusted the nipple of her left breast with the ends. She wouldn’t have thought it possible after what they’d just done, but the tip began to bead and tighten in response to the direct stimulation.
“You probably don’t want to hear this from someone you consider to be your archnemesis,” he murmured in a distracted tone, “but I think you may be ruining me for other women. If we keep this up, my dick is going to shrivel up and fall off.”
An image of that unlikely turn of events flashed in her head and she gave a soft snort of amusement.
“That would definitely be a shame,” she replied. And she meant it. He was so damn good with that thing, it would be a shame to deprive the women of the world of such an amazing and impressive instrument.
But what circled even more menacingly through her brain was his previous statement about being ruined for other women.
A part of her hoped he was right, which was bad enough.
The really scary thing, though, the part that froze her blood and sank to the bottom of her stomach like a stone, was her growing suspicion that he may have ruined her for other men.
Row 16
Dylan stayed at her apartment until early Sunday morning. He cooked breakfast for her, which she found both sweet and disconcerting.
She didn’t want him being nice to her, doing things for her, slipping under her radar and nestling beneath her skin, somewhere close to the region of her heart. That would be bad, bad, bad, bad, bad.
So even though she ate his fluffy scrambled eggs and light, airy buckwheat pancakes—and enjoyed listening to him whistle while he worked, and watching him move around her tiny kitchen in nothing more than a pair of loose, faded Levi’s—she wouldn’t let it get to her, wouldn’t let it mean anything.
They’d had amazing sex six or eight or twenty times, and he was simply feeding her to keep up her strength. No big deal.
It didn’t mean anything, and neither did the naked knitting lessons he’d insisted they continue, which always led to much more fun and creative things to do while naked.
But when he scribbled his father’s phone number on a slip of paper and pressed it into her hand, she could only stand there, dumbfounded while he leaned in to place a soft kiss on her lips, whispered good-bye, and closed the door behind him.
He was only going back to his own apartment. He had some work to get done by morning, he said, and she was sure they’d see each other again soon. If not at The Penalty Box, then when he next showed up at her door looking for more knitting instructions and hot jungle lovin’.
It wasn’t permanent, and every time she came down from a Dylan-induced orgasm she thought had to be the biggest, brightest, best, most amazing she would ever experience—at least until the next one came around—she swore it would be the last time she’d let him touch her. That she would get up, get dressed, kick him out, and tell him never to return.
And every time, she let herself capitulate, let herself play along for just a while longer, let herself bask in indescribable pleasure and enjoy the company of a man who turned out not to be the world’s biggest jackass, after all.
She planned to keep that little nugget of truth under wraps for the time being, though, especially considering she’d based the better part of her career and personality on shouting it from the rooftops and disparaging him every chance she got.
But no matter what they did behind closed doors, or how well they got along when no one was looking, it wasn’t going to last.
She was sure he knew it, too. That as soon as . . . whatever was going on between them . . . ran its course, they would go back to hating each other.
So why, then, had
he given her his father’s phone number and whispered, “Call him. He’ll help you out,” before he’d left?
Why was he so willing to help her overcome her fears of never having enough, and let her be in contact with his family when he knew she would be referring to him by any number of unflattering, thinly veiled four-letter descriptions in future columns and dares?
Staring down at the piece of paper in her hand, she debated calling Dylan’s dad right that minute to pick his brain about her financial future. She really wanted to talk to the man and find out what she was doing right, what she was doing wrong, and what she could be doing even better.
But she didn’t think that simply talking to a knowledgeable accountant would fix her problems. Not all of them, anyway. She had a feeling—heck, she knew—that her anxieties ran deeper than just how many savings accounts or mutual funds she tucked money into.
Until she dealt with the underlying cause of her personal demons, she thought, feeling like she was channeling Dr. Phil, she didn’t think she would be able to take positive steps, move forward, and truly breathe easy.
Crossing the living room, she tucked the phone number beneath the edge of her cordless phone base, then continued on to her bedroom, where she changed out of her Austin Powers Do I make you horny, baby? Do I? shorty pajamas, which she’d finally had the courage to wear in front of Dylan.
Courage—ha! She’d had the time of her life donning them in the dark while he was sound asleep and snoring lightly in her bed, then rousing him with kisses and making sure he saw the lime-green message on the tank top’s iron-on front.
He’d wasted no time in answering the groovy question, either . . . by pressing the proof of his randiness against her hip, stripping Austin and his shag-o-rific slogans from her body, and then spending the better part of an hour kissing her from head to toe. Licking her from head to toe. Making her whimper and beg and shiver with ecstasy from head to toe.
Yes, these were good, good pajamas. She might never wear another pair again, at least not when Dylan was around.