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But it does. That’s what he’s telling me and I really don’t know what to do with that information. He cups my face and stares down at me. “You’re making me crazy, Allie. You know that, right?”
“You didn’t say that like it was a good thing,” I whisper.
“I’m not letting you leave, not when we both want you to stay.”
And when I would tell him that’s not an answer, he’s kissing me, drinking me in, and I’m confused, trying to resist, but he’s Dash, and he has this way of touching me and unraveling all the common sense I might own.
He turns with me, pulling me onto his lap, almost as if he’s telling me I have control now, but we both know I don’t even come close to one inkling of control. Certainly not when he’s already kissing me again, molding my breasts to his chest, the scent of him like a drug, the taste of him, addiction defined. And the more he kisses me, the more I spiral with my need for him.
“I need to be inside you, Allie,” he says, his voice a near growl of urgency.
My body spasms with his words, with exaggerated need, anticipating what I’ve wanted for what feels like a lifetime. “Yes,” I whisper or maybe I don’t. Maybe I think my response. We are frenzied in the shift of our bodies. He anchors me, holds me steady and it’s my hand on his shaft that guides him inside me.
He enters me, stretching me, sensations spiraling through me as I slide down the length of him, and when I have all of him, he murmurs, “About damn time, baby.”
Yes, I think. About damn time.
I must actually say it because he smiles and nips my lips. “Allie,” he says softly, almost tenderly, I think, maybe. I don’t know. His hands are all over me, touching me, and everything melds together as one big sensory overload. And then he thrusts his hips, and I catch his shoulders, holding onto him, pressing into him. He’s watching me, watching every reaction, every pant, and moan, as if he’s trying to learn me. I touch his face, and he catches my hand, kissing it, pressing his lips to my palm.
The air pulses alive with our passion, and every shared look that seems to speak words we never say. Passion that lives and breathes, and drives us further and further into our little world that cannot last forever, I know. He knows, too, but it’s now. It’s right now. And we’re a collision of him and me, an explosion on the edge. I ride him, his eyes all over my body, his hands with them, but it’s not hard and fast. It’s slow and sultry. And when our mouths collide, we’re suddenly wild, almost furious, and I’ve never been out of my own skin, trying to climb under someone else’s, but I am now. But this can’t last, it won’t last, and I know that ending comes so soon, too soon, and it does. My body quakes on top of his, and I bury my face in his neck. His arms close around me, holding me to him close, his hips pumping—once, twice, three times and then he’s right there with me, a low guttural groan escaping his lips.
I don’t know where that explosion begins or ends, but I collapse against him and him me. For long moments, I’m just there, on top of him, against him. At some point, Dash shifts our bodies, and lays us down, grabbing napkins and cleaning us up. And then he’s on his back on the couch, and I’m lying there beside him, my head on his shoulder. Neither of us talks. I’m warm and comfortable, my body sated and heavy from vodka and sex. I don’t have it in me to move just yet. I’ll go home in a minute.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
I blink awake to the sound of the rain that is frequent in Nashville, pitter-pattering on the window, confused by the unfamiliar ceiling. I sit up only to have a sheet fall away and the realization that I’m naked. My eyes go wide and I grab the sheet again, yanking it to my chest. I suck in a breath to realize that Dash is not only standing at the window, but he’s fully dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, his feet in boots, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand.
Awkwardness overwhelms me and I don’t know what to do. I scan for my clothes but my dress, I remember now, is in the closet. And since I can’t seem to locate a small blanket, or anything for that matter, to wrap around me, I pretty much have two options. I stay where I’m at or I hunt down my dress—naked.
I’m staying here.
