by Mimi Strong
“Can’t you use those songs? The ones you already wrote?”
His eyes pull away from mine and travel down. I feel his attention on my lips, my neck, and then my chest. I’m wearing only a thin camisole, with no bra. I swear my nipples are hardening, just from Dylan looking at them.
He gets a devious look, grinning like he knows what he does to my body. He knows the effect he has on me.
“Forget the songs,” he says, his voice low and husky. “Maybe I need to spend more time finding my inspiration.”
I keep my hands folded on my lap, over the pillow that’s resting there. I’m afraid that if I move, even the smallest gesture, he’ll pounce. He’ll fly off that chair and toss the pillow across the room, then he’ll take me again. The idea makes my skin prickle.
The research I’ve done about recording labels comes flooding into my brain.
“Dylan, wouldn’t you do the songwriting after you sign a development deal? They could hook you up with some other people, like a co-writer.”
His dark eyes move up and lock on mine again. There’s a renewed fire there, in the gleam of his eyes.
“I don’t want a co-writer,” he says. “I don’t want a co-anything. I’m a lone wolf.”
“Lone wolf? Is that where you got your last name? And don’t wolves live in packs?”
His upper lip curls in a wolfish grin. “Smarty pants,” he says.
“Top of my class.” I grin, feeling proud. “Don’t worry about the songwriting. Just sign the deal and then take your time.”
“That’s not the plan.”
“I don’t know the plan. And before you try to pump me for more information, I don’t work for Q. I don’t know who the hell that is.”
He swivels the chair away from the light cast by my lamp. His eyes are in shadow and his eyebrows arch up, making him look dangerous.
“Sure you don’t,” he growls. “I may be drunk, but I’m not blind. There’s no way someone as sweet as you would want to be with a guy like me.”
My jaw drops open. Is Dylan joking, or is he really clueless about how hot he is?
I stammer, “You’re really cute. And you’re talented.”
He swivels away, until he’s in profile to me, looking down.
“You’re paid to say those things.”
“I really like you,” I say softly, my voice almost a whisper.
“I wish I could believe you.” He swivels further, so his back is to me.
Seeing him turn his back on me shifts my mood. I don’t feel like arguing with Dylan over how much I like him. If the way I gave my body to him earlier tonight didn’t convince him of how I feel, I don’t know what else I can do.
He’s really quiet. I wonder what he’s thinking about, but I’m too proud to ask.
There’s a squeak in the hallway, outside my door. I shoot the closed door an angry look. That had better be the house shifting in the night, or one of my roommates is going to get a butt-kicking for eavesdropping.
I breathe quietly, straining to hear more sounds.
Minutes pass, and there’s no other noise.
“Dylan, I’m sorry about your writer’s block,” I say to his back. “We can talk about everything tomorrow. After all the drinks are out of your system.”
He doesn’t move. Not even a twitch.
My eyes roam across his back, taking in the shape of his muscles at rest. His rib cage expands, widening with every inhale and falling with every slow exhale.
“Are you sleeping?” I whisper.
He keeps breathing.
“You’d better not be planning to scare me,” I say softly. “If I get up right now, you’d better not jump up and grab me, or I’ll scream. I’ll scream and I’ll punch you. Remember, I do owe you one black eye.”
I set aside the pillow and scooch down to the end of my bed.
By the deep, raspy sound of his breath, he’s sleeping. But I can’t let my guard down or he’ll scare the crap out of me.
I get on my feet and tiptoe over to him. I give his shoulder a gentle shake. He mumbles something incoherently and keeps on sleeping.
I turn the chair around and look down at his face. I lick my thumb and wipe the glitter off his cheek. His thick, dark eyelashes flutter, but his eyes don’t open.
“Hey. You can’t sleep on a chair. You’ll get a crick in your neck.”
He keeps on sleeping, adjusting his head so his cheek rests on his forearm, which is still across the back of the chair.
“You must be really tired,” I say.
I lean down and kiss him on the cheek, and then on the mouth.
His lips react to mine and push back, but he’s definitely asleep.
I try to get him out of the chair, but it’s awkward. Suddenly my life has become a slapstick comedy movie. I try putting my hands under his arms and lifting him, but he’s too big. Those muscles of his must be dense.
I peel one of his arms off the back of the chair, but he swats me away sleepily and pulls it right back again.
After a few minutes of battling him, I feel annoyed.
“Fine, sleep on a chair,” I say. “Mr. Stubborn.”
I climb back into my bed and snuggle down under the covers.
This isn’t so bad, actually. With him asleep like this, I can stare at him all I want, without getting embarrassed.
I reach for the lamp to turn it off, but change my mind. I don’t want the room to be dark. I’d rather enjoy the view.
I wonder what he’ll do when he does wake up.
Chapter 6
The sun is up. The room isn’t bright, so it’s probably around seven.
I’m completely still, not even moving enough to lift my head and check the actual time on my alarm clock.
Dylan is on the bed, behind me. I can feel his presence, and hear him breathing.
I sweep one hand back, under the sheets. My fingers contact something. His butt or his hip. He’s on the other side of the blankets, on top of the covers.
I roll over slowly to face him. He’s on his side facing me, his arm folded under the pillow. His eyes are closed, his breathing soft. I can see movement under his eyelids—his eyes darting back and forth in the REM stage of sleep.
Even though I’m warm under the covers, a shiver passes over my arms and up to my ears.
Dylan Wolf is sleeping in my bed with me.
Well, technically, he’s on top of my bed.
Close enough.
He’s wearing his jeans and shirt, but he’s taken off his belt. I spot his belt near the foot of the bed, draped over the back of the wooden chair. His shirt is riding up, showing about an inch of skin on his side, above the waist of his jeans.
I reach over for that inch-wide sliver of skin and run my finger along it. He doesn’t move. I nudge the fabric up, baring him to the bottom of his rib cage. His stomach is cute in this relaxed state. He’s still incredibly fit and toned, but in this relaxed state, his navel actually sinks in a bit, like mine.
My fingertips drag down to his navel and circle around, then travel up his mid-line. He doesn’t have much hair on his tanned abdomen, but there’s a fine line along the center.
I sweep my finger down, circle around his navel and run my finger down further. My body reacts to touching and looking at him—just looking at this bit of skin below his navel. My pulse quickens, and a feeling between my legs makes me aware of myself.
He’s really here. In my bed.
My fingertips trace his midline down, stopping at the button of his jeans.
I glance up at Dylan’s face. His eyes are still closed, but the movements behind his eyelids have slowed. He’s still and calm.
Slowly, I shift my other arm out from under the covers, careful not to disturb him. This bed isn’t nearly as large at the one at his place, but it’s a double. There’s room for two, even though the bed isn’t long. Dylan’s feet extend past the foot of the mattress.
I trace the center line of his abdomen with one hand, my other hand resti
ng on his side. His skin is hot and welcoming. I slip my hands up under his shirt, bringing one palm up along his chest and the other up his back.
“Mmm,” he moans.
“Are you awake?” I whisper.
“No.” His eyes are still closed, but he’s smiling. “I’m still sleeping. Take my shirt off.”
He rolls onto his back and lifts his arms up while he curls forward in a sit-up. I tug at the shirt and pull it off over his head. He still doesn’t open his eyes. He settles back down in the previous position, on his side facing me.
I put both of my hands on his warm chest. He’s very calm, only moving to breathe. I move my hands down, over his nipples. They harden at my touch.
My breath catches in my throat. I bite my lower lip, surprised at the sensation in my body. My nerves are tingling, especially between my thighs. The skin on my back prickles with heat.
I run both hands up his hard chest muscles and to his neck. The tiny specks of his beard on his neck feel good against my palms. Grounding me. This is real. I can feel his pulse, strong and steady in the arteries along his neck.
His face remains relaxed, his eyes still closed and a smile on his mouth. I want to kiss him, but this quiet moment is too good to end.
My hands move up to his cheeks, his beard slightly raspy against my palms. I reach back down along the front of his body, my hands moving slowly and steadily. He flexes his abdominal muscles as I pass over them, highlighting his six-pack.
Feeling brave, I go further and unfasten the button of his jeans.
He doesn’t move. I blink down at the top of his jeans.
A girl shouldn’t ask questions if she’s not prepared for the answer. And she shouldn’t unzip a guy’s jeans if she’s not…
I pull my hands away and float them down, over the thick fabric of his jeans. The folds of fabric conceal, but not for long. Along the vertical line of the zipper, a shape takes form. I press my fingers against the length with hesitation. Dylan’s body responds by straining against the zipper.
Dylan’s breathing slows, until it seems like he’s holding his breath—holding his breath and waiting for me to do something.
I guess I’m taking too long, because he reaches down himself and unzips his jeans. He curls forward on his side and wiggles out of the jeans, kicking them off the boot of the bed along with his socks.
Now the only thing between my hands and him are his black underwear. The fabric is thick and stretchy, leaving very little to my imagination. A hard length waits for my touch. I run my fingertips along the side and all the way up, to where it’s pushing out the top. There’s a gap where the waistband is pulling away from his body.
Feeling bold for a moment, I reach in with one hand and grip him with my bare fingers.
Dylan groans and thrusts against my hand
I’m so shocked that I immediately pull my hand out and squeal, clutching my arms to my chest.
“You,” he growls.
“What?”
“Why’d you squeal like that?” He chuckles. “Are you scared? You make me feel like a monster. Like I’m Godzilla.”
“You are kinda big.”
He moves quickly, rolling me onto my back as he climbs on top of me. The blanket and sheets are still between us, but I can feel his hardness against my body. My hips roll in response. I want him.
“Kinda big?” he growls. “How would you know? You’re a virgin.”
He dives his face into the side of my neck, rubbing his chin on my shoulder and nibbling my earlobe.
I squeal and squirm around underneath him. “I’m not a virgin anymore,” I say breathily.
He grabs my arms and pins them to the mattress, then moves his upper body away from mine to look me in the eyes. I’m finding it difficult to breathe, even though his weight isn’t on my chest. It’s the sensation of him between my legs that’s making me lose my mind.
His dark brown eyes are gleaming in the morning light spilling in through the window.
How can it be that he just woke up a minute ago, and looks perfect? Even his dark hair, a bit mussed up from sleeping, looks amazing.
“You’re not a virgin?” he asks, his eyebrows knitting together in fake concern. “But I dreamed of a virgin.”
“Something happened last night,” I say. “The guy looked a lot like you.”
He shifts down in the bed, and now his hardness is right between my legs, pressing against my sensitive area. I’m already trembling from the pressure. He grinds against me, and my whole body loosens and tenses up in a new way. I gasp as pleasure radiates out from my center.
I need to get him away from there, and to stop grinding against me. If he keeps going, I’m going to climax right here, on the other side of all these blankets.
Still pressing my arms against the bed, he buries his face in my hair, next to the side of my neck. He keeps moving his body, rolling against me as he licks my neck and sucks my skin at my pulse points.
I’m so hot underneath the blankets, it’s like I have a fever. I want to get out from under the covers and tear my clothes off, but I can’t move. I’m pinned under him, with no choice but to relax my legs and open them out. I stop trying to push him away and angle my hips up. Underneath my panties, I’m sensitive, but the feeling isn’t small or confined. The nerves seem to extend to every part of my body, making every inch of skin cry out for contact.
Dylan nips my earlobe, making me moan.
He chuckles and rubs his cheek against mine, then kisses my neck again.
His voice is deep and gritty, growling, “Come for me.”
He lets go of my arms, and both of my hands fly around him by instinct. I clasp his muscular back, digging in my fingertips.
“Like this?”
He moves, and I moan. I don’t understand what’s happening. We still have the blankets between us. We’re not even having sex, just kissing. But the pleasure between my legs is growing, about to burst.
“Come for me,” he moans. “I want to hear your sweet cries and feel your hands on my back. If I could, I’d rip off your panties right now and take you, but I’m betting there’s no protection in your dresser. Is there?”
He’s right. I don’t have anything. That’s what was in the back of my mind when I was debating over pulling down his zipper.
“Come for me,” he says.
“I can’t,” I gasp.
“Yes, you can.” He shifts his weight to the side, keeping one leg between mine.
I’m about to ask him what he’s doing when his mouth lands on mine. We’re kissing now, and I’m lost in the sensation of his mouth on mine.
I’m dimly aware of his right arm diving down between us, reaching under the sheets and blankets.
His fingers slip under the waistband of my panties, and then he’s sliding against me. The pleasure intensifies. His thick fingertips slide along where I’m hot and wet.
He swirls around my nub, applying pressure until I’m gasping against his lips. He kisses me and sucks on my lower lip as he slips his fingers inside me.
My eyes roll up and my head tilts back.
I’m gasping even before I explode, waves of pleasure flooding me as I climax.
He kisses my exposed throat.
“Good girl,” he murmurs as I fall apart under his touch. “You’re so beautiful when you come for me.”
Chapter 7
I turn my face to the side, embarrassed. The waves of pleasure are still throbbing through my body.
Dylan kisses my cheek.
Glancing down, he pulls at the blankets between us and straightens them so they’re straight along my neck.
“What are you doing now?” I ask.
“Tucking you in so you can get some more sleep.”
I turn my face and gaze up into his eyes. He has the most tender expression right now. I curl up so I can reach his lips.
We kiss, and then he pulls the blankets taut, pushing me back.
“Dylan,” I say, laughing.
“Go to sleep.”
I shake my head. “I can’t sleep now. You’ve got me all riled up.”
“I have to get going and find my car, among other things.”
“You’re leaving?”
“Remind me. Did I tell you last night about what a fraud I am?”
“You said you were having trouble writing a song.”
“I was, but I think my head’s wrapped around it now. I’ve got ideas.”
I stare up at him, trying to think of a way to make him stay. He’s been here for hours, but we were sleeping, so that doesn’t count. I don’t want him to go, but I’m not going to beg.
“You can write at my desk,” I offer.
He grins. “Nice try. And have you distracting me with your beautiful body, and your hair that smells like cinnamon? I wouldn’t be able to concentrate for a full five minutes. I’d be thinking about burying myself in you.” He raises his eyebrows. “Buried in you? What do you think about that for lyrics? No, too obvious.”
“You could come back. Later.”
He kisses the tip of my nose. “I don’t know how long this will take. Yes, it’s Sunday, and we should go walk around outside, holding hands like normal people. But I have to work. This is really important to me.”
“I’m sorry. Dylan, I support your dreams, I do. I just… like spending time with you.”
He rolls off me, onto his side, and whips down the covers. I reach for the blankets like a crazy person, trying to get them back over myself. I don’t know why, since he’s already seen me naked, and I’m wearing a camisole and panties right now. I guess it’s a reflex.
He tosses the blankets back and laughs at me as he shifts his body down toward the foot of the bed.
“I’m trapped on this bed,” he grumbles playfully.
“Sorry,” I say, apologizing for the second time in less than ten seconds. “My bedroom isn’t very big, as you can see. With the desk in here, I have to keep the bed against the wall. But I could probably shift some things around… if this arrangement is a problem.”
He gets to the floor at bottom of the bed and starts pulling on clothing.
“Don’t sweat it,” he says. “I like your single-girl bedroom. The teddy bear is a nice touch.”