Bad Boys After Dark: Dylan (Bad Billionaires After Dark Book 2)

by Melissa Foster

  His chest warmed at that. “Careful stroking my ego. You’ll give me a big head.”

  She lowered her voice as they passed a group of people and said, “I don’t think that’s caused by stroking your ego.”

  “God I love it when you’re dirty.”

  They window-shopped, laughing as they tried on silly hats and meandered in and out of stores in a flurry of carefree kisses and sexual innuendos. They lingered in a bookstore, and Dylan was surprised to find they enjoyed many of the same mystery authors.

  “I can’t imagine that you have much time to read,” he said as they walked out of the store.

  “I don’t, but I do like to read.” She looked over his shoulder. “What’s going on over there?” She squinted as they walked toward a crowd of people on the corner, then stopped cold and gasped. “Oh my gosh. Are they…?”

  It took Dylan a minute to make sense of the colorful bodies they were seeing.

  “They’re naked!” Tiffany said, looking as embarrassed as she did intrigued. “In the middle of the city!”

  He pulled her toward the crowd, catching sight of a banner that read, BODY PAINTING DAY. “Let’s see what’s going on.”

  “Dylan!” She hurried to keep up. “I don’t need to see this.”

  “We need to see this,” he insisted, and continued walking toward the crowd.

  “Hi! Want to get in on the fun?” A woman with a mural of leaves painted over her arms and chest and a jungle of greens, browns, and golds over dimpled skin and rounded hips greeted them at the edge of the crowd. She was completely naked and painted from scalp to toes and didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed.

  Tiffany, however, turned bright red and averted her eyes. Dylan kept his arm around her for fear she’d bolt.

  “Hi,” Dylan said, marveling at the artwork on her body. “That’s incredible. Who did it?”

  “Jacob.” She pointed at a young guy with a paintbrush in his hand, currently painting a man’s thighs. “But there are about eight artists here. Any of them can do it.”

  “Great. Thank you.”

  “I’m not doing this,” Tiffany whispered when the woman moved on to greet another couple.

  “We need to do this,” Dylan pleaded. “We don’t have to get naked, but when will you have another chance to do anything remotely like this?”

  “Do I need a chance?” Tiffany laughed and shook her head at the same time. “I am not getting naked and letting a stranger paint me.”

  He wrapped her in his arms. “Okay, not naked and not a stranger. How about if I take my shirt off and you strip down to your bra, and we paint each other?”

  Her eyes widened like little moons. “You want me to take my top off in the middle of the sidewalk?”

  He looked around the bustling crowd. If ever there was a time for her to go topless it would be now, but his possessive side suddenly roared to life, stomping over the impulsive urge. And hell no, he did not want her standing out there in her bra. “Not really, but I want to do this with you. It’s an experience we’ll never forget.” He scoped out the shops along the street. Holding her hand, he walked toward a clothing store. “We’ll buy you a tank top.”

  “You seriously want to do this?” She was laughing now.

  He pulled her against him and her smile was so big and so natural, he took a moment just to soak it in before saying, “I want to experience everything with you, summer girl.”

  “How can I say no to that?”

  Half an hour later, armed with paintbrushes, they stood among the sea of naked, painted bodies. Tiffany wore a new tank top and cheap cotton skirt so as not to ruin the nice skirt she’d worn. Dylan was shirtless, and getting more revved up by the second as he thought about painting Tiffany.

  She licked her lips as she touched the paintbrush to his chest, looking mischievous and uninhibited. “I’m going to get paint in your chest hair.”

  He dipped his paintbrush in a can of green paint and dragged it along her breastbone. “I’m going to get paint all over you, sweet girl, so you can feel free to paint as much of me as you’d like.”

  She stepped closer, applying the cool paint down the center of his chest. “This feels naughty.”

  “I like being naughty with you.”

  Her cheeks pinked up, making him want to get even naughtier.

  “Do you want to know what I’m painting?” He painted along her shoulder, trying not to get lost in the way she was eyeing him hungrily, or in the feel of the cool paint on his heated flesh.

  “No. I want to see it after.”

  He took his time, putting thought into painting what he felt represented the woman she was and the girl she’d been. He wanted to paint a dozen different pictures, to capture all of the aspects of her personality. Sensual, alluring, sharp, determined…When he reached the edge of her tank top, her nipple peaked against the tight fabric, and she lifted her eyes to his. Passion swam in them, drawing him closer. The nearer they stood, the hotter their connection burned. When she painted over his nipple, he got hard. All he could think about was stripping off her clothes and painting the rest of her gorgeous body. He wanted to paint the word mine between her legs and tread carefully over her heart.

  He couldn’t resist painting over the tank top, covering the curve of her breasts, sinking his brush into her cleavage. She was practically panting, holding his gaze as his brush circled each nipple, but she didn’t stop him, and that heightened the sexual tension between them. Every stroke brought a shallow or hitched breath. He drank in every gasp, every flicker of heat in her eyes. He painted every inch of her shirt, her arms, her neck, and they turned each other around and painted their backs. He’d paint her mouth if he could. It was one of his favorite things about her. Whether she was speaking sharply, sassily, or seductively didn’t matter. He was falling for everything about her.

  They painted in silence for a long while, the sexual current between them so raw he was sure everyone around them could feel it. She painted his arms, his neck, his ribs.

  “Babe?”

  “Mm-hm.” Her brows knitted in concentration as she painted over his stomach muscles, and then her tongue slicked over her lower lip.

  He couldn’t resist following it with his own.

  She looked up at him and dragged the brush along the waist of his jeans, trapping her lower lip between her teeth as she did. She made a sexy little noise, and the darkness of her eyes told him she was just as hot as he was. They’d just fooled around a few hours ago, and it should have been enough to hold them over until tonight, but he needed her now.

  “We should have done this at home,” he ground out.

  The corners of her lips rose and she grabbed his head with paint-laden hands just as he reached for her. Their mouths came together in an urgent, messy kiss.

  “The paint,” she said between frantic kisses.

  “Don’t care.” He lifted her into his arms and her legs wrapped around his waist. Her hands moved over his slippery skin as they kissed. He wanted to tear the tank top from her body and feel her naked skin against him. She moaned into the kiss, stealing his thoughts until nothing else existed except the feel of her in his arms and the taste of her mouth. Dylan had never felt so possessed, or so wanted, in all his life.

  TIFFANY’S EYES OPENED as their mouths parted and the din of clapping filtered into her lust-addled brain. Dylan held her beneath her ass. Her thighs were pressed around his waist. He was looking up at her like she was the only thing that existed, and it made her heart swell. They both turned toward the clapping at the same time, and were met by about fifty or sixty sets of eyes on them and a loud round of applause. There was no room in her happiness for embarrassment. Dylan reached one hand up and cupped her cheek. She felt the slide of paint as he drew her mouth toward his.

  “How about an encore, beautiful?”

  They both laughed, and the crowd roared as their mouths came together again. Quicker this time, but every bit as hot. Everything after that was a blur of cl
apping, shouts about how cute they were, and, “Encore.” And then they were running along the sidewalk toward their apartment building, stumbling as they kissed and laughing more than she ever had.

  “My place,” Dylan said as they tumbled into the elevator in each other’s arms. They made out on the way up, getting paint on the walls and all over each other.

  In his apartment, he tossed the bag with Tiffany’s clean clothes and her purse on the floor and led her toward the master bedroom.

  “We’ll ruin your sheets,” she said, and tugged him by the belt loop against her. “Kiss me again. I love kissing you so much.”

  And he did.

  A lot.

  He kissed her slowly and sensually, holding open her mouth, sweeping his tongue over hers, sending tingling heat down her limbs. They stumbled into the bathroom. When he took the kiss deeper, her back met the bathroom wall, and they slid along the tile. He stripped off her clothes, and she helped with his, and then their hands were everywhere. They kissed and groped, their slick bodies writhing together like mating snakes. She was certain she’d burst with need. As if he’d read her mind, he kissed her so perfectly sweet and rough they slithered down to the bathroom floor, their bodies intertwined.

  She rocked against him, aching to feel him filling her. “I need you, Dylan,” she panted out.

  “Condom. Bedroom.” He pushed up on his palms and she held him still.

  Her heart was beating so hard she could barely think. She wanted him. All of him. Now. “You said you’re clean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Me too. I’m on birth control, so…” She angled her hips until his broad head rested at her entrance. “I want to feel you. All of you. And I don’t want to wait another second.”

  Their mouths met as their bodies joined together, and his hands moved down her hips, beneath her, squeezing the curve of her ass, then along her thighs, and beneath her bottom again. His kisses were deep and intoxicating. Lifting her hips, he sank deeper into her, stroking over the secret spot that sent an explosion of pleasure radiating outward from her core. She moaned, every muscle taut, vying for the pinnacle, which was just out of reach. He lavished her mouth as she disappeared into the feel of his hard heat inside her, filling her completely, then withdrawing painfully slowly, making her ache and crave.

  “More. Faster. Harder,” she heard herself beg.

  He slammed into her, earning moans and gasps that echoed off the bathroom walls. Then he slowed, loving her tenderly. She grabbed his hair, holding his glorious mouth to hers and growing desperate for release. He gripped her ass, holding her hips tight against his as he drove into her time and time again. Each thrust brought her closer to release.

  “Summers—”

  He moved away from her mouth, and she mourned the loss. Then his eyes came into focus, brimming with so much emotion, so much desire, she couldn’t focus, could only want. He guided her legs around his waist, fucking her deeper, until she shattered into a million little pieces, setting off a series of loud, hungry sounds. She clung to him, her body quaking, her mouth spewing needy, greedy demands. And then he kissed her again, and all those pieces came spiraling back together as if he were a magnet, taking her right up to the edge again with each exquisite stroke of his tongue, every powerful thrust of his hips.

  He reared back, his skin a mash of colorful paint, his eyes black as night, tension in every taut muscle.

  “God, baby. I’m so yours.” He buried his face in her neck, his masculine scent surrounding her, his strong hands clinging to her, claiming all of her. And then his arms pushed beneath her torso, his strong hands clutched her shoulders, cradling her body as tight against him as two people could get.

  “Yours, Summers. Only yours.”

  The heat of his hard length hitting all the right spots, the depth of their emotions, and the lustful sound of his voice pushed her over the edge again, and he was right there with her. His breath halted, then exploded with each pulse of his release as they both dissolved into a sea of pleasure.

  Dylan rose above her, his eyes sweeping over her features. He was covered in paint and sweat and the glow of a happy, sated man.

  “We blurred your lines, summer girl.” He stood, bringing her up against him. The bathroom floor and walls were covered with paint. Dylan’s hair was caked with paint, the expressive pictures she’d painted so carefully were smeared, imprinted with their passion.

  She went up on her toes and touched her lips to his. “You promised me a kaleidoscope of colors. I think we hit a solid nine point nine.”

  His eyes heated again. Would they ever get enough of each other? That look made her stomach go ten types of crazy again, and when he grabbed her ass and pulled her against him, she felt his arousal. She was glad she wasn’t alone in her insatiable sexual appetite.

  “I also promised you I’d love every inch of you until you can think of nothing other than how good we are together. We’re just getting started.” He reached into the shower and turned it on. His mouth came demandingly down over hers, and she went willingly—into the shower, into the hall, into his wonderfully big bed…

  “I THINK I’VE found my new favorite position.” Dylan’s arm circled Tiffany’s waist, keeping her back flush with his chest. They fit like two pieces of a puzzle, perfectly snug. Her body was soft and warm, her breathing even, sated.

  “We should clean that paint.”

  “I’ll do it tomorrow,” he said, kissing her neck.

  “This is cuddling,” she said in a voice void of energy, but he felt her heartbeat quicken.

  “Move and I’ll spank your ass.”

  She wiggled her ass against his cock and he gave her a hard smack on her butt cheek. She gasped, then giggled, staying perfectly still.

  “We’re not calling it cuddling. We’re calling it…” He tried to come up with a term she’d appreciate. Something that would take the fear of cuddling off the table.

  “Due diligence?” she suggested.

  He smiled and cupped her breasts. “Perfect. Or you can think of it like you would a comfort letter.”

  “How do you know about comfort letters?” She turned and faced him with a curious smile.

  “Don’t underestimate the knowledge of a bar owner. Prepare to be wowed with my contractual knowledge.”

  “Is it as excellent as your bedroom knowledge?”

  He spread his hand flat against her back, pressing her firmly against his cock. “You be the judge.”

  The sexy sigh that escaped her lips brought his mouth to hers again.

  “Mm. You’re distracting.” She touched his chin with one finger. “Wow me with your knowledge.”

  “Bossy, aren’t we?”

  “I told you I was controlling.”

  “One of my favorite things about you,” he said, thinking of how she’d teased and taunted him before riding him so aggressively they’d both exploded in ecstasy.

  “Comfort letters,” she whispered, and kissed his chin.

  “They’re not legally binding.” He swept his tongue over her lower lip. “Often used by an associate company to document its support of an agreement.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “In other words, you can try out the position for due diligence, make sure we’re a good fit. And you can consider my efforts and pure, unbridled enjoyment as support of my claim that we’re perfect together.”

  She rolled onto her back, but he wasn’t going to let her get away that easy. He pulled her now tense body against him again.

  “Talk to me, Tiffany.”

  Her smile faded. “You called me Tiffany.”

  “It’s your name.”

  “I like the other things you call me.” The edges of her mouth curved down into a heart-breaking frown.

  “Then talk to me. When you shut me out I don’t feel as close to you, and I’m a big pussy. I like to cuddle.”

  She laughed. “You are hardly a pussy. But you are more sensitive than most guys, which is nice. And terrifying.”

&nb
sp; “Because…?”

  “Because I feel myself letting go of all my fears and I don’t want my life to unravel.” The seriousness in her voice underscored that fear.

  “Then don’t let it. You’re in control of your life. I just want to be part of it. I know your fears ebb and flow. I feel it in your touch. I see it in your eyes. You get lost in us, just like I do, and then you get scared because you worry that you’ll go all in and I’ll turn into an asshole.”

  She dropped her eyes and whispered, “Yes, even though I don’t think you will.”

  He lifted her chin so she had no choice but to look at him. “Every relationship comes with fear and uncertainty. I’m not making promises I can’t keep. I’m here now. I want to be here tomorrow and the next day and the next. But I’m scared, too. You’re a gorgeous, smart, independent woman, and you could decide tomorrow that these little escapes we’ve been enjoying aren’t what you want. That you prefer to be buried in work because it’s safe and controllable.”

  “You do worry? You’re not just saying that? Because you act like we’re a given.”

  “How do you want me to act? Like even more of a pussy? Because that’s not going to happen. Life’s short, babe. If I die tomorrow, I won’t regret a second of my time with you. But if I hadn’t told you how I feel, or I hadn’t pushed to have more of you when it’s what I want, I’d have regrets.”

  Her expression turned as serious as if she had to make a congressional decision. And he expected that in her mind, she did.

  “How do you escape the fear?”

  “The same way I escape it every time I visit one of the kids who’s undergoing treatment. Because I fear regret more than anything else.” He watched as that sank in, and the tension in her body seemed to ease a little.

  “You’re afraid I’ll hurt you, but what do I gain by hurting you? If I wanted a night with you, I would have had it. If I thought we didn’t have a connection, you wouldn’t be in my bed, and I sure as hell wouldn’t have taken you to meet Gigi, or asked you out, or sent you gifts. Don’t you see? Whether we last a day, a week, a year, or longer is up to us.”