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“Dash…” Callie moans, her voice rising. “Please…”
“God, I love it when you beg.” I lift my head to watch her as I slowly rub through her soaking panties. Callie’s mouth falls open.
“Oh…”
“More?” I tease, easing her panties down, and reaching for her again. Fuck, she’s so wet. Wet, and tight, and ready for me, but I force myself to go slow, keeping up the pace on her clit that’s driving her crazy, making her flushed and panting, whimpering with every touch until she’s shaking, and I’m pretty much holding her up.
I pause, watching the color in her cheeks, and the way she’s breathing shallow.
Callie’s eyes fly open. “Dash!” she exclaims, frustrated. “Don’t stop!”
“What’s the magic word?” I tease.
She glares. “Now!”
I laugh, and stroke her again, faster this time. Callie grips my shoulders. “Fuck, Dash, right there! Fuck.”
She’s close, I can tell. “My girl gets whatever she wants.” I thrust two fingers into her wetness and pump, and damn, her cry of pleasure just about ruins me. I press the palm of my hand against her clit, angling my fingers the way I already know she loves, and sure enough, her body stiffens. “Dash!” her cry rises, desperate, and then she’s coming apart, clenching around my fingers as she gasps my name over and over.
It’s the sweetest damn sound I’ve ever heard.
Callie gasps for air, lifting her head again. She laughs, eyes bright, hair falling down around her shoulders, skin flushed with desire.
I did that.
I feel pride like nobody’s business as I smooth down her skirt and step back. “So, about that drink—” I begin, but Callie just laughs.
“Nope. We’re still just getting started. And now it’s your turn to beg.”
She grabs my hand, and yanks me towards the bedroom, and I thank just about every God I can think of that I made my move.
Because this passion right here? This is about as real as it gets.
16
Callie
So much for ‘what happens in Palm Beach, stays in Palm Beach.’
I wake the next morning in Dash’s bed, to the faint sound of his murmuring coming from somewhere else in the loft. It takes me a few groggy seconds to realize he’s talking on the phone rather than having a one-sided conversation with his refrigerator, which is probably my first thought because I’m already starving.
No surprise, given the workout he gave me.
Three times.
I lounge happily for another minute before getting up. We were in such a hurry on our way to the bedroom last night that I barely noticed my surroundings, but now I look around curiously. I always think you can tell a lot about someone by where they live, and this place has ‘ice-cool bachelor’ written all over it. The place is light and bright, with soaring ceilings and an industrial-chic vibe, and vintage leather furniture. As big as my aunt Celia’s apartment is, this place dwarfs it several times over: The sleeping area itself is about as big as my whole apartment, with a primary bathroom and walk-in closet.
I slip into Dash’s robe, and snoop—I mean, investigate—the bathroom. Since this little detour wasn’t exactly planned, I didn’t think to bring any morning-after supplies, and I’m hoping to find a spare toothbrush somewhere. I open the vanity drawers.
“Jackpot!” Inside is a row of unopened toothbrushes, deodorant, razors, and an assortment of luxurious facial products. Perfect. But it’s not until I’ve squeezed a dollop of Crest gel onto the bristles that the truth hits me:
Dash must have a lot of overnight guests, to keep the drawer stocked like that.
I pause, trying not to feel jealous. Of course Dash has entertained other women in his apartment. It’s like I told Georgia back at the party: I should be thanking them all for equipping him with such amazing skills, not feeling a creep of insecurity.
I know he’s experienced. Like, very experienced. Casual flings are like his bread and butter.
Is that what this is to him?
