CHAPTER 16
Zoe
His lips, strong and supple, encircled mine, and his tongue made patterns in my mouth. He tasted like whiskey and strong coffee. I pressed my hands against his stubble-covered cheeks, rejoicing in the roughness of that brown hair, and wrapped my legs around his hips, pulling him closer and closer.
He moved his firm, commanding lips from my mouth to my ear, where he leaned in and whispered, “I’ve been wanting to do this since the moment I arrested you.”
“Do anything you want to me,” I murmured back, relinquishing any ideas of control. “I’m yours.”
He needed no further urging. He pinioned my hands over my head, clamping my wrists together, and let his mouth wander down to the bottom of my light tank top. His teeth bit the frayed hem, and slowly, so slowly, dragged it up — over my belly button, over my ribs, over my breasts, and finally, over my head.
“Oh, fuck.” Did I say that? Did he say it? I was pass the point of caring.
Crouched over me, he tilted down until his lips were almost at my nipple, which had become erect to the point of pain. I wanted to grab the hair on the back of his head and smash him forcefully into my breast. But I resisted, allowing him to lead the dance.
“Do you like this?” he asked. His breath pulsated over the surface of my sensitive tits, causing each individual nerve ending to spark.
“Yes,” I replied, in a tone so low it was nearly inaudible. Not that I needed to say anything, my body was talking loud and clear.
“What was that?” he asked teasingly, obliging me to whimper for his touch. Bastard.
This time, on the brink of desperation, I said, “yes, yes and yes and yes. Please, Dylan.”
That was good enough for him. He caught my nipple gently between his teeth and began to lap at it, slowly and then rapidly, swirling around the tip, all while cupping the other breast in a hand and squeezing it until I bucked upwards with arousal.
Desperate for his lips once more, I dragged Dylan’s attentive mouth off my breasts, and up to meet my mouth. We locked lips, and I forgot everything except for the present, except for Dylan and his beautiful body.
He drew back from my lips, just far enough to ask tauntingly, “How about this?” I felt a hand trail down my stomach as a finger positioned itself over the top button of my jeans. “Do you like this?’
“Please,” I begged simply. “I want you.”
He unbuttoned a single button. I couldn’t wait for him to feel how wet I was and to fucking do something about it. My body tensed with anticipation.
And that was when the phone rang.
“Shit,” he muttered. My eyes, which had been nearly rolling back in my head, quickly refocused on his face.
“What?” I questioned frantically, anxious to have his fingers crawl into my underwear, and move into darker recesses of my body.
He didn’t answer my question, but rather clambered off me, shifting into a crouch position, and reached into the pocket of his jeans. He sifted out a phone from his pockets, tapped the screen, and began speaking to someone on the other end.
“Yeah, Ma, what’s up?”
Pause. Silence.
“Really?”
Another pause. I was beginning to get nervous. Why was his mother calling? Didn’t that seem weird?
“All right. I’ll be back in twenty, maybe thirty. You good ’til then?”
Pause. My hackles were raised.
“Sure thing. See you then.”
He hung up with a frustrated growl.
“What?” I said urgently. “What is it?”
He rubbed his temples, shot a frustrated glance at my naked breasts — which I now sensed were entirely inappropriate for the situation — and averted his gaze to the floor, as if suddenly polite and restrained. I crossed my arms over my chest, protecting the exposed nipples from the chilly air and stood up.
“That was my mother,” Dylan said slowly.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, it’s fine. It’s just that…” he hesitated. “Well, I have a son.”
My heart thudded in my chest. A son?!
Just when I’d thought our situation couldn’t get any more complicated, there was a child in the picture. Dylan was a father. I began getting ahead of myself, wondering if I could date a dad, whether I was mature enough for everything that entailed. The ceaseless stream of over-analytical problem posing was interrupted by his voice, thank God.
“I have a kid,” he repeated. “And my mother usually watches him, but she needs the night off for some kind of mahjong game. Girls’ night, I guess. And she’s done so much for me, in terms of taking care of Danny — that’s his name, Daniel Bradley Robertson — she’s been great since, since… the death.”
He skidded to a halt, unable to go further. I wavered a little, unsure what to say that would make the situation better. What could I say? While I debated how to respond to this new information and coming up with a long list of what not to say to him, he typed a text. When he looked up from the phone, his face had turned illegible.
“I texted Tom for a ride, I’ve had too much to drink,” he said in a low voice. “He’ll be here in a minute. We shouldn’t have done this. It wasn’t fair to your criminal case, or to Danny. He needs a mom, not a girlfriend.”
“But—”
“I have to go.”
He grabbed his jacket, slung it over his shoulders, ran his hand through his hair and stormed out the front door, leaving me bare-chested and disoriented.
Were we not, only seconds ago, making out on the floor, grinding into one another’s pelvic bones and losing ourselves in ecstasy? It had all changed faster than I could fathom.
He’d left me high and dry — or in my case, high and extremely wet.
I slid from my standing position, down the back of the sofa, until my ass landed on the floor, knees firmly crooked in front of me. Languidly, I allowed my hand to lift from the chilly wooden floor, to rest on my thigh. From there, it traced the soft gooseflesh of my inner thigh until it was resting on my mound.
If Dylan couldn’t finish the job, I thought resentfully, I’d just do it myself.
Although I was angry with how things had changed so quickly, I hadn’t been this aroused in months and I wasn’t about to waste this feeling on resentfulness.
His face and body flooded my mind. I allowed an image of him to appear before me, clad only in a pair of jeans. My hungry fingers inched their way to my clit as the ghost of Dylan removed his jeans, leaving him in only spectacularly well-fitting boxer briefs. He looked like a twenty-foot-tall underwear advertisement that had shrunk to a life-size version in my living room.
I began to pluck at my clit, using my hooked ring finger to strum my clit while my longer fingers found their way inside of me. My various digits worked in unison as my body began to tense and shudder.
The vision of Dylan swiveled his hips, dancing as the real Dylan had danced in this room only minutes ago. Although I was a fan of movie classics, it didn’t mean that I wasn’t imagining Dylan’s face and body moving a bit like Channing Tatum’s in Magic Mike.
“Oh, Dylan,” I moaned, my eyes squeezing shut. “Oh, God.”
I strummed harder with my fingers, digging them into my pliant flesh, willing their pace from a walk to a canter.
Dream Dylan looked on quietly as I brought myself to orgasm in under a minute, writhing and screaming with delight on the floor of my living room.