Forget (23 page)

His words hit so close to home. My first instinct is to shield my eyes from his penetrative gaze, but I refuse to be
that
girl. “If I’m that girl, then who are you?”

“I’m the guy who gets what he wants. The lucky bastard who gets to watch Little Wing spread her wings and fly.” His gaze moves from my eyes to my lips to the hint of cleavage peeking out from underneath my tank top.

I struggle to catch my breath. My lungs move up-and-down in exaggerated movements.

His hand trails up my abdomen, between my breasts, until two of his fingers brush across my mouth. “I’ve never seen lips like yours. They’re so full, so red. They make it impossible for me to think about anything but kissing you senseless.”

My teeth snag at my bottom lip.

Green eyes grow hooded. His fingers dislodge my lip, running across it softly. “Christ, I love it when you do that. Let me have a turn.”

“I want to let go tonight,” I say.

He blinks a few times, surprised by my words. He’s so close I can smell his cologne. Good God, it’s intoxicating and I almost moan from the scent. My focus hones in on his lips, watching them push out a little as he processes my words. “With me, Little Wing?”

I nod.

“Say it.” It’s not a question.

I swallow my fears. “I want to let go. I want to lose myself with you.”

“I want to taste these lips again,” he says, leaning closer, brushing his mouth tenderly against mine. “Fuck, I
need
to taste these lips again.” He takes my bottom lip between his teeth, tugging roughly and then his tongue swipes across it, soothing the sting.

Within seconds, his mouth is on mine—sucking at my lips and swallowing my moans. His tongue slides into my mouth, and I shiver against him. A deep growl spills from his throat as he continues to kiss me with slow, drugging movements.

I’m not tiptoeing along the edge of a cliff. I’m diving headfirst into this moment with Dylan. I’m the girl that he believes I can be. The one on stage who isn’t scared of being exposed. Instead, she finds liberation in it. I fearlessly melt into him.

My hands grip the cotton material resting against his chest, pulling him closer. I want him closer.
Need
him closer. I want his lips and hands and tongue all over me. I need him everywhere, all at the same time. He’s that one song I could listen to over and over again. I want Dylan on loop. All day. Every day. For an infinite amount of time.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, eyes staring deep into mine.

I choose to show instead of tell. My hand grabs his, moving his fingers down my waist to my thighs until they’re underneath my skirt. We’re looking directly into each other’s eyes when I drag his fingers between my legs, pushing them inside my underwear.

With his free hand, he hitches my leg up, resting it against his hip. The change in position opens me further, baring my skin to the cool night air. My head falls back when he pushes my underwear aside. One finger brushes past my sensitive flesh, rubbing back-and-forth in careful, yet assured movements.

“There. Right there
,”
I beg, eyes rolling heavenward.

We’re secluded in this dark corner of the terrace, but faint sounds of music and drunken bursts of conversation remind me of our location. Warring emotions wrestle inside me. Anyone could walk out here. Anyone could see this. My spine stiffens in response.

“Don’t think about it, love. Don’t get lost inside your head. Stay right here with me,” he says through trailing kisses, starting at my jaw and moving to my neck. “Stay right in this moment. Let me make you feel good, Brooke.
Fuck,
I need to make you feel good.” He sucks a bruise into the sensitive spot behind my ear, and then his lips find mine again, kissing me breathless.

Within seconds, I’ve turned back into a puddle of want, my body melting back into him.

“Tell me. Tell me to keep going. Tell me not to stop,” he whispers against my lips.

“Don’t stop, Dylan. I need more.” God, I do. I need more,
so much more.
I’ve long forgotten that someone else could witness our erotic display, too caught up in the urge to relieve this overwhelming ache. And holy hell, I can’t remember the last time someone touched me like this.

He obliges. His thumb circles my clit, teasing and slow at first and then speeding up until he’s pressing rhythmic circles against me. My knees shake. Fingers tremble as they grip his shoulders, trying to find some sort of leverage because surely, I’m going to spin out of control.

With expert fingers and a positively sensual mouth, he plays my body like an instrument. “Fuck, you’re drenched,” he groans, slipping one long finger inside me, his thumb still strumming my clit.

I hear a doorknob rattle in the distance. Quiet voices meet the still night air.

Dylan freezes and I immediately miss his perfect touch.

“
No
. . .
Don’t stop . . .”
I start to plead, but his lips silence mine. He shushes me with a whisper, turning our bodies away from the two strangers walking out onto the terrace, shielding our intimate state.

To anyone else, we could be kissing or locked in an embrace, not standing here with Dylan’s hand underneath my skirt, pushing me towards the edge of blissful insanity. I can’t believe how brazen I feel, too lost to care who hears me. I’m half tempted to shout at them to go back inside.

His lips are on my ear. “Don’t let them hear you when you’re coming all over my hand. Only I get to hear those sexy sounds of yours.”

I bite my lip to stifle the moans that his confident touch spurs.

He continues to build a heavy throb between my legs. In the distance, I hear a guy offer a girl a cigarette. She says yes. I want to say
yes
too. Dylan rocks his palm against me, slipping another finger inside. And then, I want to scream
yes
when he adds a third finger, stretching me to this intense edge of pleasure and pain. My hips grind restlessly against him.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Let go, Little Wing. Let me see you fly.” He pulls back slightly, eyes locked onto my face. His expression is a perfect mixture of wild desire and adoration.

His fingers, those eyes, that look on his face, it’s all I need to fall over the edge. My climax barrels through me, shaking every nerve inside my body. I bury my face into his chest. My teeth latch onto whatever they can find to stifle the need to scream out my pleasure. I bite down,
hard,
and feel the vibration of his growl against my lips.

“Oh fuck, that’s it, Brooke,” he whispers into my hair. His fingers prolong it, pushing deeper inside of me, prolonging the overpowering euphoria. He slows his movements as the last waves roll through me, and then slowly, pulls his fingers out.

Lips press a soft kiss to my forehead, before adjusting my underwear and skirt, and gently disentangling my thigh from his hip.

“C’est trop bon,” he mutters. “Je ne serai jamais le même . . .”

I start to ask for a translation, but he when he whispers, “Fuck, you’ve wrecked me, Little Wing,” I forget what I even want to ask.

Strong arms hold my body tightly to his. Emotions—that I refuse to admit—wait at the recesses of my brain, wanting me to face what his words have just done.

Walls crumble to the ground and fear clogs my throat when I wonder what will remain once the dust settles.

He leans back, gazing into my eyes. “We need to go inside and drink or dance or have mind-numbing conversations with French celebrities.” Dylan grabs my hand, pressing it against the straining bulge behind his zipper. “My willpower is hanging by a mere thread.”

Good Lord, he’s hard.
I stroke him lightly through his pants.

He stirs, but before I can take it further, he quickly pulls my hand away. “All right, that’s enough.” A pained smile appears on his lips. “Not to be an arse, but we really need to go inside before I do something I regret, like fuck you against this wall.” He pushes into me, grinding his hips against mine, before pulling himself away again with a guttural groan.

I grab the waistband of his jeans, attempting to tug him back into me.

He stands his ground, shaking his head.

I tilt my head to the side, questioning his words. “Why would fucking me against the wall be regrettable?”

Dylan embraces me firmly, practically growling into my ear. “Believe me, there’s not a single time or place that I would regret sliding my cock inside your perfect cunt. That would
never
be regrettable.”

How can he make the word cunt sound so sexy?

He bites my lip playfully. “But I would regret letting someone else see how fucking beautiful you look and how amazing you sound when you come. The thought alone makes me enraged.”

I lean back, biting my cheek to hide my satisfaction. “You’re kind of a caveman.”

He nods, smirking like the devil. “And you’re all kinds of wild and savage.” He glances down at his t-shirt and then explains, “Which is another reason, why we need to go inside.”

My jaw hits the ground when I see drops of crimson seeping through the white cotton. “Oh my God!” I shout, ignoring the startling yelp from the woman on the other side of the terrace.

I guess they really had no idea we were out here.

“I did that?” I question in disbelief, running my fingers along his chest.

Dylan nods, amusement shining in his eyes. “This is definitely your handiwork, and now, you get to play nurse.” He grabs my hand, tugging me towards the door. “Let’s go, love. Time to bandage up my war wounds.”

IT TAKES A LIFETIME
to open my eyes. Bright light beats against my head like a drum. I hold my palms to my temples, trying to hold my head together because surely it is in pieces. I have no idea how much I drank last night, but I’d say I got carried away. I remember playfully bandaging Dylan’s war wound and then dancing with him in the living room until dawn.

I think shots of tequila might have been involved. I’m woozy at the mere thought of
that
liquor that starts with the letter T. This is one of those times I’m cursing myself for drinking so much and swear I’ll never do it again. My skull hurts. My body hurts.
Everything
hurts.

Once my retinas regain their ability to focus, I note that I’m not in my hotel room. I’m lying in a giant bed covered with a soft, white comforter and fluffy pillows. There’s a folded piece of paper lying near my hip.

Drink the water . . . Don’t leave . . .
God, he’s bossy. I’d smile if it didn’t make my face hurt.

The combination of a horrible hangover, sunlight practically blinding me, and the fact that it’s still before nine in the morning is kicking my ass. My brain is robotic, processing simple demands and nothing else. Beep Bop Beep. Sit up. Drink Water. Don’t puke.

I chug the entire glass and start feeling less robot and more human. I untangle myself from the blankets and sheets, and pad across the hardwood floor, taking in my surroundings. Everything is white—white walls, white ceilings, white shelves. I peer across the banister and find the living space and kitchen area below the loft style bedroom. Despite its simple appearance, this apartment—
or is it called a flat?
—is gorgeous. I like the minimalistic decorating approach that Dylan has showcased. It’s all clean lines, thoughtful accents, and clear surfaces. And not at all what I would picture for a bachelor.

I fix myself up in the bathroom, washing my face and throwing my long locks up into a ponytail. I even brush my teeth with my finger and Dylan’s toothpaste because let’s be real, hangover breath is not attractive.

As I’m staring at my reflection, flashes of last night start to filter through my head in chaotic bursts. The party . . . Claire’s gorgeous apartment . . . Lindsay crashing my visit to the bathroom . . . Dylan’s gorgeous smile . . . the terrace . . . his lips on my neck . . . his fingers inside of me . . . leaving the party with him . . . literally falling into his apartment . . . him kissing away my drunken giggles . . .

Holy shit, did we have sex?

I wince at the idea of having sex and not remembering it. Lord knows I should remember doing
that
with
him.
And I’m not even going to think about the fact that I’ve never been a one-night-stand kind of girl. Although, sliding his fingers up my skirt doesn’t necessarily fall into the taking things slow category.