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“We’ll figure it out. I promise. Right now, just fuck me.” I don’t care about Dylan McAlister’s money. I’ve never cared about his money. His fortune is slipping away and I still fuck him. I’m not sure when I won’t want to fuck him.
He thrusts his cock inside me. He rides me harder, then harder still, burying himself deep, then deeper within me as if I am his last piece of sanity. As if I’m the last bastion between him and the monsters that have come to steal what remains of his courage; the thieves that have come to claim his soul. I lose track of time. The world falls away, and I orgasm. “Oh, God.”
He comes moments later in shakes and shudders. “Fuck, Evie. Fuck!” He collapses on top of me, spent, our hearts pounding, our bodies slick with sweat. We catch our breath and I lie in his arms, tracing circles on his firm chest. I’m satiated. I’m happy. I’m a hot mess. My emotions are slinging around like hash browns frying on a grill. Are they mine. His? Right now I don’t care. “I had no idea sex could be this good.”
“So good, Lucky Charm.” He tucks a lock of disheveled hair behind my ear. “But it’s past time you go home.”
***
12
Empathic
EMPATHIC
I blink back tears. “You don’t want me around?”
“Of course I want you around. Hey, don’t cry. I’m sorry.” He wipes a tear away.
I run the heel of my hand across my cheeks. “I’m a hot mess.” Familiar feelings claw at me, shred my heart.
“Hot but not a mess. Look, I’m so comfortable with you, feel like I’ve known you forever, and that’s a problem.” He sighs. “Because I’m always going to want you around.”
“That’s good,” I say, sniffling. “That’s excellent. When’s the next game?”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re going back to Chicago,” he says and kisses my forehead.
“When’s the next game?” I ask, more determined.
“Tomorrow. Memphis.”
“I’m still on vacation, old man. I’m traveling with you.”
“Nope,” he says, pushing himself out of bed, walking over to his clothes lying on the back of the chair. “I’ve gotten you in enough trouble.”
“Who’s going to die if I take the rest of the week off?”
“You. Madame Marchand will have your head on a platter.” He throws clothes into his carryon suitcase. “She sounds like she tortures kittens for fun during her off hours.”
“You talked with her on the phone?” I ask getting out of bed, making my way to him.
“Yes,” he says. “After I passed the background check.”
“Huh.” I didn’t know she’d actually talked with him. Why does this feel disturbing? “Behind her hard as nails exterior Madame’s a total softie,” I circle my arms around his waist, kissing the back of his shoulder. Standing on tip toes to kiss the colorful bite marks on his neck that I gave him when his dick was buried deep inside me. “She’s a total marshmallow.”
“Bullshit,” Dylan says, covering my hand with his large one. His hand fits perfectly on top of mine.
I feel so safe. I feel so – oh fuck am I falling in love with this man? Is that what’s wrong with me? I haven’t fallen in love since I was thirteen years old and that was with Wyatt Wolfe and look how terrific that turned out? We ran over him in Mom’s car and broke him.
Jesus Christ, what am I doing? If I go further -- will I hurt Dylan McAlister just like I hurt Wyatt Wolfe? He’s right. I need to leave. I need to get the hell away from him. I need to go home now.
“Okay. I’m not going to argue with you,” Dylan says. “That’s a waste of time. I’m taking you up on your offer.”
“You are?” Dread dukes it out with excitement.
“Yes,” he says. “Get dressed. We need to eat. We’re leaving for the airport in three hours.”
“Okay,” I say.
