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“You don’t have a girlfriend right now, do you?” she asks me as she works the hooks.
I watch the straps on her shoulder, waiting for them to go lax. Do I have a girlfriend?No.I shake my head.
The pink bra loosens, and she peels it off, her breasts spilling out for me. I suck in a breath, and the bra disappears. I don’t know where.
“No one’s ever seen me naked,” she whispers.
Jesus, she’s beautiful. Pink nipples already hard, the curves of her flesh perfect, and I’m dying to touch her. I want to feel her in my hands.
Dylan stands there, steam billowing around her wet skin, and she starts to raise her arms but then lowers them again, resisting the instinct to cover herself.
I’ve seen her naked before, but this is the first time she’s aware of it.
And she’s giving it tome.
I lower my eyes, suddenly guilty. This was all a game. A bluff. She shouldn’t have given this to me.
But she never runs when she should. Dylan is childish and defiant and frustrating, but she’s pure. What you see is what you get, and she just wants us all to be happy. Nothing she does ever comes from a bad intention. She would give you the clothes on her back.
I shouldn’t be fucking with her right now.
But I don’t want to leave.
“Can you turn around?” I ask her.
She does, and I push the rest of my clothes off, stepping up to her and stopping within an inch. She slips her panties down her legs, and after our clothes are forgotten and the water runs hot around us, I look down at her ass and my dick throbbing for her.
“Sorry I don’t have any bath toys,” I joke.
“I do.”
It’s just a murmur, but I hear it, and it takes a moment to process what she means. I exhale a laugh. “Seriously?”
She has a vibrator?
“Seriously,” she says. “It’s waterproof. Aro and I bought them online one night on a high of rum.”
She reaches over to the dish and grabs a new bar of soap. I take it from her, wetting her washcloth and soaping it up. I hand both to her over her shoulder, tempted to wash her myself.
“I haven’t even opened it.” She continues facing away from me, rubbing the cloth over her breasts slowly. I stare down over her shoulder, watching her.
“I was so nervous when it came in the mail,” she whispers. “I thought the box might readGiant Vibrating Penison the side.”
I chuckle, despite the ache in my groin. Her dad would not handle that well. I grab the soap from her and start running it over my chest.
“I haven’t had a chance to try it out with no one in the house yet.” Her soapy fingers massage her breasts before gliding down to her stomach. “I just hid it in my hope chest.”
“Your hope chest…”
I remember that. A huge treasure trunk that sits at the foot of her bed and holds her dreams. Traditionally, girls back in the day put things in there to start a home with their husbands when they got married. Linens, china, family photos.
Dylan, daughter of Tatum Brandt, was never taught to do that. She used it to hold her secrets. Pictures of her celebrity crushes, a Mercedes hood ornament she ripped off the car of the doctor who stole her mom’s promotion at the hospital when Dylan was thirteen, and her bloody bandages sealed in a Ziploc bag from skinning her arm in her first motorcycle accident that her parents never found out about.
She also kept pictures of places she wanted to go, notes she and her friends passed in class, and the ashes of Madman, her parents’ beloved dog. Their honorary “first born.”
I don’t know what she keeps in there now. I mean, other than a sex toy.
“Aro says an orgasm from a vibrator is ten times better than one from my fingers,” she tells me. “I’m hoping that’s true.”
