Chapter Twenty

Cade

The feel of Dylan’s slick walls pulsing around my shaft is almost too much.

I lift her leg a little more and begin to thrust quickly, in a tempo that is sure to get me to orgasm. Between her tight, wet heat, the pulsing of her muscles fighting each of my thrusts and retreats, and the small sounds she makes, I am all…

Most…

There.

My balls draw painfully tight and I can feel that tingle at the base of my spine.

I know if I were to flip her to her stomach, I’d be there in two thrusts, flat, but I can’t—won’t—do that to Dylan. Pregnant or not pregnant.

Not this time.

Not when I was only learning her body.

Five thrusts later and my cock is engorged to its fullest girth and Dylan’s channel is still pulsing hard around me.

I was so close.

So, so close.

I closed my eyes and focused on the feel of her, the bare feeling of her. She was wet. Slick. Hot. My cockhead hit her cervix when she tipped her hips just the right way.

Like she did right now.

“Dylan!” I thrust my hips against her and my cock jerks inside her, the spurts of cum nearly painful. My orgasm is almost like an edged one; as if I’d been holding back.

Trying to take myself to the absolute highest of highs.

I grunt with each pulsing release, and it feels never ending.

Finally, my body starts to calm, and I press my forehead between Dylan’s shoulder blades. Her hand that had been on my ass is now up in my hair, and I turn my head so I can attempt to press a kiss to…whatever my mouth reaches.

“Let me get a washcloth to clean you up,” I manager to mumble, and when I pull from her holding grasp, I moan at the loss.

I want to be buried balls deep in her all of the time.

Reluctantly, I move into the hall and to the bathroom, finding her washcloths. With one, I clean myself, not caring that the water isn’t warmed up yet. I run the second cloth under the stream of water until it’s hot though; I’m not putting a cold cloth to Dylan.

When I get back into the bedroom, I’m pretty sure Dylan’s sleeping; she doesn’t make a sound when I clean her. Debating to toss the cloth or bring it to the sink, at the very least, I decide to do the not-pig thing, and return it to the bathroom.

Then, I crawl back into bed behind Dylan, and pull her close.

Content, I let myself fall asleep.

***

The next day and a half is a blur of falling in love with Dylan O’Neill.

I sit beside her as she presses ‘post’ on her #MeToo post.

I hold her hand as she does a phone interview with New York Times, and then with People magazine.

She is the very picture of strength, and I am so fucking proud of her.

I can’t wait to watch the world realize they fucked up by painting her with the wrong red brush.

We make love again.

And again.

Too soon though, it’s time for me to leave.

Dylan walked with me to my truck and she hugs me hard now, right before I open the door.

I take her face in my hands and bring her face to tip upward. “I probably won’t make it back down next weekend but if you need me, if you need me for anything, let me know. Please.”

She nods in my hands but says nothing.

“I will call you every night and every morning,” I promise, to which she shakes her head.

“You don’t have to. You’re busy.”

“I made a mistake last time, Dylan. I made you think that I wasn’t thinking about you; when that’s the furthest thing from the truth. I will call you in the morning and then before I head to bed. Okay?”

She nods again and as badly as I want to make the moment stretch out longer, I know I have to head to the airport or I’ll never make my flight. LAX can be a hell of an airport to get through, and I’ve already chosen to shave off as much time as I can without really cutting it down to the wire.

I kiss her, ending it before I really want to, then watch as she steps aside so I can climb up into my truck.

God, I don’t want to go.

She waves as I pull out of my spot and I make the decision I’d been playing with before.

We make it through this, we continue this thing…

And I may just give up acting for good.