“No more closed hearts.” It’s a promise I make to myself.
“Hello, hello.”
I look over my shoulder. Tommy stands behind me. I let go of my father’s hand and stand up to give him a quick hug. “Hey, good to see you.”
Tommy hugs me back, but it lacks warmth. “This is Julia. My girlfriend.”
A petite girl stands behind him. She has long dark hair, silky straight, and she smiles shyly at me. “Nice to meet you, Julia.” Her smile grows a little bigger.
My father stands and waves at them both.
Tommy steps back and takes Julia’s hand. “Have you seen Dylan? He’s supposed to meet us here.” There’s a tinge of anger to his tone. I look around and see Dylan by the door. His eyes are cold—in a way I haven’t seen in a long time. I attempt a small wave but drop my hand when he walks toward us.
There’s something odd happening here. Tommy’s stiffness and Dylan’s cold stare. Dylan’s arms are crossed over his chest and his shoulders are pulled back, making him seem even taller. Julia’s gaze jumps between all of us and then away. Awkward silence ensues.
My father moves his chair back and steps around it with a hand extended toward Dylan. “Hi. I’m Becca’s father, nice to meet you.”
Dylan shakes his hand.
“Father?” Tommy glances at Dylan and back at my father.
Tommy shakes my father’s hand next. “You don’t look old enough to be Becca’s father.”
“Good genes run in the family,” my father jokes and winks at me. There’s curiosity in his eyes.
Everything clicks into place then. Tommy and Dylan thought I was with a guy on a date or something like that. They might not be the only ones. Several people watch the exchange. Familiar faces from Riggins, mostly students, but a few employees too.
“This is my father, Robert.” I gesture at my father. The word dad stuck in my throat. “And this is my friend Tommy and Dy—his brother, Professor Beckett. And Tommy’s girlfriend, Julia.”
My father gestures at the table. “Do you want to join us? We can get a couple more chairs.”
Dylan shakes his head and speaks for the first time. “Thank you, but we don’t want to disrupt your family time.” He glances at me. “Miss Jones, I’ll see you around.”
Being called by my last name after what we shared is jarring, but necessary. Female gazes follow him across the room and to a table in the corner behind me where he sits with Tommy and Julia. The urge to look at him, see what he’s doing, has me standing still.
My father sits down, and I do the same, divided between being glad and annoyed that I can’t see Dylan, but he can see me.
My father’s all too knowing eyes are on me. They crinkle in the corners. “A professor, huh?” There’s no judgment in his tone, not even a little.
“He’s not my professor.” I pull my chair in.
“That’s better, I guess.” He is still smiling.
“What do you mean?” Honesty be damned, I’ll deny this ’til the end.
“I don’t know.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “He looked pretty pissed until I introduced myself. And, by the way he keeps glancing at us, I’m not sure he believes it.”
I hold the end of the table to keep myself from turning my body to look at Dylan. There’s no way to discreetly do this.
“I’m happy for you. I like your friends. I can tell they care.”
“How? How can you tell from just meeting them for a couple of minutes?” I let go of the edge of the table, grab a fork and pick at my cold pancakes.
“Easy. You didn’t see them when they walked in. I did. There was pure happiness in that young boy’s face when he saw you. Then his brows scrunched when he looked at me. And your”—he lowers his voice—“professor, had the same reaction, but in a much more subtle way.”
I try to fight a smile and fail. “They’re good people.”
He looks around. Pushes his empty plate away. Leans into the table again. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do. I’ve never earned that right, and even if I had, you’re an adult and a smart one at that.” He nods once. “Be discreet and careful. And if he hurts you in any way, call me. I can still kick his ass.”
I don’t know if I should laugh or cry. I do both. I’m still wiping the corners of my eyes as we get up to leave. My gaze immediately goes to Dylan. His eyes soften for the space of a breath before turning aloof and away from me.
My father walks me to my car, and we hug goodbye. I unlock the driver door.
“Becca?”
He’s standing on the other side of my car.
“I don’t think I ever said this before, but I’m real proud of you. And I’m proud to call you my daughter.” His words reach to me with invisible fingers that heal everything they touch. That gap inside shrinks and fills with something tender, fragile and unknown. My hands go to my chest. I want to cradle this moment like a newborn baby. My vision goes blurry behind my wet lashes. I blink away the wetness. My throat too tight to speak. I mouth the words instead.
“Thank you … Dad.”
Chapter Forty-Five
I park in front of his house, turn off the car and watch rivulets of rain running down the window. Dylan didn’t text or call after that weird encounter yesterday. It’s better this way. I’d rather talk to him in person, see his face, read his reactions. “Now, if I could only get my ass out of this car and knock on his door. Yeah, that’d be great.”
I don’t even know if he’s home. He could be on campus. If he’s not here, it wasn’t meant to be. I pull the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, tuck my hair in, get out and jog up the driveway, water splashing with each step I take until I’m under the safety of the veranda.
I wipe my hands on my jeans, square my shoulders, breathe in and ring the doorbell.
Wait.
Nothing. No sounds come from inside. No steps on stairs, no click of a lock. The steady drumming of the rain is the only sound around me.
I lift my hand to try one more time. I catch a movement to the side of the house. A dark moving blur that stops inches away from me.
Dylan. He’s dressed in all black. Jogging clothes plastered to his body and his hair in a disarray of wet locks.
His rapid breath sends smoke signals into the chilly air. He smells like rain and earth and something entirely him. It’s a drug that pulls me closer until we’re nearly touching.
“Becca …” My name forms on his lips.
My fingertips trace his eyebrow, track a water droplet on his cheek, palm his face. I step closer still, stand on tiptoes and brush my mouth against his. He tastes like rain, mint, and hope. His skin is cold to the touch, but his lips are warm and tender. And when he kisses me back, I open up for him.
All gentleness disappears.
His mouth takes mine, hungry and possessive. His hands pull my hood back and tangle in my hair. He positions me the way he wants me and deepens the kiss.
I meet his demands willingly. Mold my body to his, the heat burning inside growing bigger despite the cold and our wet clothing. My feet leave the ground, and we’re moving. He braces my body against his, one arm around my waist and the other angling my head to his.
We end up inside the house and pressed against the closed door, all without him letting go or ending the kiss.
When he pulls back, our rapid breaths mingle, the front of my clothes are nearly as wet as his. He touches his forehead to mine. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I lost myself when I saw you there, standing at my door. I thought I was hallucinating for a second. Until you touched me, I wasn’t sure you were real.”
“I’m real. And I’m here. I needed to see you.”
He picks me up, pulls my legs around his waist, and walks to the back of the house and up the stairs. “First let’s get you a towel.”
He carries me to the second floor and down a hall. He stops at his bedroom door and kicks his sneakers off before bringing me into a room painted in shades of gray. A large bookcase holds hundreds of books
. Abstract paintings add bright splashes of color. The wall behind the mahogany king-size bed is darker than the rest and across from the bed there’s a fireplace. He walks through another door and sets me on the bathroom counter. This room too is decorated in soft gray and white. Both rooms are spotless. He takes two dove gray towels from a shelf and gives me one of them, setting the other on the counter next to me. Dylan pulls his wet shirt up and over his head. It comes off in slow motion, peeling away from his skin an inch at a time. The wet fabric clinging like a desperate lover who doesn’t want to let go.
He’s all lean muscle and golden skin with a dusting of dark hair on his chest. I can’t peel my gaze away from him either. He shivers when the cold air hits his bare and damp torso. I fist my hands into the towel he gave me to keep from touching him.
But why? Why should I deny myself in this? Why should I deny myself at all?
I slide off the counter. My feet taking me closer to Dylan. I rub the towel over his chest, shoulders, arms, stomach. He’s frozen in place. His shallow breath is the only thing betraying his perfect replication of a statue. I circle around him, rubbing the towel on his back. That’s not enough. I drop the towel to the floor. Trace his shoulder blades with my fingertips. He sucks in a breath. Every muscle comes to life under my touch. His reaction empowers me. I splay both hands on his back, cover every inch of naked skin, circle back to stand in front of him.
His gaze meets mine, his eyes dark and his face flushed with restraint. I start with his shoulders, run my hands over his biceps, down his forearms, the inside of his wrists, my palms brushing his until only our fingertips touch.
Then start again with his chest, graze his pecs, move down to his stomach, trace each muscle and dip in his abs and obliques. He shivers under my touch. I lean into him, inhale his scent. He smells like rain and lust. I kiss the center of his chest, taste his skin, trace a finger around the edge of his jogging pants.
“Becca …” My name is a plea.
I press my hand into his chest, his heart beating wildly under my palm. “Touch me.”
His fingers wrap into my hair, his mouth is on mine, demanding, pushing in, nibbling. There’s nothing gentle about this kiss. Nothing tentative. No holding back.
He kisses my neck, licks at the hollow of my throat, nips at the curve of my shoulder. His hands find their way under my hoodie and T-shirt, and his touch is cool on my heated skin.
Too many layers between us. I want his skin on mine. I pull my hoodie and T-shirt off in one go.
“This … is … not … slow.” The words come out between shuddered breaths as his gaze traces the curves of my breasts.
“I don’t want slow. I don’t want to wait. I don’t want to hold back.” I have never been more turned on in my life.
“You sure?” His hands shake on my waist.
“I am.” This moment is mine. This moment is for me. Just me. Not an escape. Not an eraser of the past. This is me choosing myself.
His gaze searches my face. “You can stop me. Say the word, and we’ll stop.”
“I don’t want you to stop.” I kick my shoes off. I need everything off of me.
“But if you change your mind, remember. You lead, I follow.”
I unbutton my jeans, push them down my legs, socks and all. I stand in front of him in plain blue cotton panties and my bra. “This is me leading. Now take me to your bed.” I don’t know where this sudden confidence came from. But the certainty that this is the right choice, that he is the right person, vibrates with every fiber of my being. I have never been surer of anything else in my life. “Make love to me, Dylan.” Please.
He takes my hands and walks backward into the bedroom. He pulls the covers back. Crisp, white sheets frame his figure. His gaze never leaves my face. He sits on the bed, pulls me between his legs, his forehead rests on my stomach. I run my fingers through his hair, soft, unruly, still damp from the rain. He brushes his lips on my stomach and hips with a thousand light-as-air kisses. His hands trace the outside of my thighs, the back of my knees, my lower back with such a tenderness it’s almost unbearable. No one has ever touched me this way. With so much care and … love? Is this what a loving, unselfish touch feels like?
Dylan stands, frames my face with his hands, kisses me and kisses me and kisses me until all the breath has left my lungs, and I’m drowning in desire and lust for more. So much more.
“More, Dylan. More. Touch me.”
His hands go to my back, he unclips my bra. I let it fall to the floor. Still not enough. I remove the last barrier—my panties join the bra on the floor.
His gaze slowly drifts down to my chest, stomach, and lower. He sucks in a breath. “Beautiful.”
He picks me up and lays me on the bed. The sheets are cool against my hot skin. He stands still for a moment, then tugs the rest of his wet clothing down muscular legs. He’s naked now. Miles of tanned skin and lean muscles. I can’t take my eyes away from him. His damp skin ripples with shivers. He reaches for a small remote control on the night table, and a moment later, orange and blue flames come to life in the gas fireplace across from the bed. His fingers touch my calf and trace up my leg as he climbs onto the bed and settles next to me. The temperature in the room is warmer now. If by the fireplace or his proximity, I can’t tell. He braces himself on an elbow, a leg propped over mine.
“Can I touch you?”
No one ever asked me this before. “Yes.”
He explores my body, tracing the curves, the rises, the valleys of my geography. Like a cartographer, he maps my entire body, leaving nothing untouched by hands or lips.
My body comes to life under the expert and gentle attention of his lips and tongue. My body is no longer my own, and yet I’m overcome with belonging. A riptide of sensation churns inside me until it explodes in wave after wave of the most exquisite release. I’m spent, sated, and relaxed. When I open my eyes, I find him looking at me, a satisfied smile on his lips. I trace the tiny lines around his eyes, and they spell happiness.
I ache to touch him back, to be the explorer myself. I push up with a hand on his chest. “My turn.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” Need to.
His skin is hot under my touch, firm. He’s all muscle and hard edges. He holds back for a while, letting me do as I wish, but then his control snaps and his hands and mouth are back on me. We battle not for dominance but for surrender, for who gives the most to the other. I can wait no longer. “Now, Dylan. Now.” I need to feel him, all of him.
He palms my cheek, pushing the hair away from my face and making sure my gaze is on him. “You’re sure?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
He reaches for protection on the night table, rolls it on himself, then hovers over me. I pull him down, his body into mine, wrapping my legs around his calves and urging him on. And when he complies, a part of me breaks away like the shedding of a skin that no longer fits. We move together in perfect synchrony, as if this was not the first time but a returning home.
At the end we lie next to each other in quiet contentment, his arm across my middle, a hand on my waist, his body molded against my side, my head tucked under his chin.
I would never have guessed that giving in and trusting someone with more than my body was the key to erasing hurts from the past and gaining a part of myself back.
With everyone before Dylan, I never felt this way—safe, and dare I say, in peace?
I don’t want to move or even open my eyes. What if I do, and it’s all an illusion, and I go back to being less?
Dylan’s hand flexes on my side. “Shh … whatever is going on in your head stop it. I can feel your body tensing.”
“What? No—I’m not—”
He shifts to look at me, holds himself up on an elbow. “Yes, you are. I want to keep seeing you. I want us to be together. And I know it’s complicated. We can’t be a couple in public. Not yet. But in five months you’ll graduate, and then we don’t have to hide anymore.
” He pulls away the hand on my waist and runs it through his hair. Immediately, I miss the contact.
“I’m not very good at relationships.” I shared myself with him, and yet, confessing my shortcomings makes me feel more exposed than my still naked body.
“I’m not that great, either.” He traces my eyebrows with a fingertip. “But we can figure it out together.” Then he traces the line of my jaw. “I want this to work. I like you, Becca. I have liked you for a long time and not being able to act on it pissed me off.”
I stop his hand, hold it on my chest so I can think. “You said that before. That you watched me, but I don’t understand. You don’t really know me. How can you like me?”
He curves his fingers around mine. “That’s just it. I noticed you the first time I saw you at the Maslow building. I paid attention every time I saw you. I have always been drawn to you.” He kisses my fingertips. “I have a confession to make.” He takes a deep breath. “Don’t hate me, but I—fuck, this makes me sound like a creep. I know about your volunteer work. I work with Magda on a few projects.” He watches me.
My first impulse is to pull away, but I force myself to stay and listen. I know all too well I can't trust my first impulse.
“I don’t have any influence on hiring or how she chooses the candidates or anything like that, and I don’t have access to your records either.”
“How do you know, then?”
“I was at her office, maybe a couple of years ago, and you walked by the window. She said, and I quote, ‘that girl has more heart than the rest of them combined.’”
“She said that?” Something flutters in my chest. Magda is not one to give compliments in vain. Or at all.
“She did. And when I asked why, she told me about some of your volunteer work and how proud she is of you.”
“Magda? Magda Kenny, the Queen? Are we talking about the same person?”
He laughs. “Yes. I had the same reaction as you.”
I don’t know what to do with this information.
“Talk to me. What are you thinking?”
I snort. “You sound like a therapist right now.”
Because of Dylan: A forbidden student teacher slow burn romance (Riggins U Book 3) Page 23