Freedom (19 page)

“Take your shirt off,” she demands.

“Whatever you say.” The t-shirt gets tossed.

“And don’t ever call me princess again,” she adds, splaying her hands down my chest and running her fingers down my stomach. “God, Dylan, you are…” Her breath hitches and her eyes roam over my chest and arms with desire.

Having her look at me with appreciation and lust makes me feel like both a self-conscious sad sack that needs to convince a woman he is the one for her and a selfish, greedy bastard who wants more of her in every way.

She begins stripping off her own clothes while I remove my jeans and briefs. I didn’t plan on using her somber, depressing encounter with her ex as a way to get her into bed, however I am not going to pass up this opportunity, especially when she’s taking the initiative.

I chuckle when she reaches into her nightstand and pulls out a condom.

“I took a stash from your room. Thought they might come in handy here,” she says as she tears the package and rolls the condom on my hard cock.

I am too mesmerized with her actions, her hands and how she looks naked beneath me, to say anything. As I admire her creamy skin and perfect tits with rosy pink centers, she literally slams me with a kiss and pushes her hands against my chest so that I fall over on my back. She quickly straddles me, holding my cock firmly in one hand while she braces herself against the headboard with her other hand. When she pushes up on her knees and begins rubbing herself with my cock, that image alone is enough to make me come.

I grit my teeth and try to hold everything in, but then she arches her back and pushes her perky tits out and I have to fondle them. I am rough, squeezing her soft flesh at the same time that I try to push myself into her. She manages to keep me from thrusting into her by moving up higher on her knees and keeping a firm grasp on my cock so it only grazes her wetness.

She is teasing me.

“Ah, fuck, prince—babe.”

“Oh, you almost made a fatal mistake. One more princess and I would have stopped and you’d go poof.” She smiles.

I hold her hips and use more force to pull her onto my hard, aching dick.

“I need you now,” I grunt out.

“I know.” Her voice is husky as she rubs the tip of my cock against herself, moaning. “And you’re making me so wet.”

I am ready for this cock tease to end. I consider tossing her on her back and plunging into her, yet she beats me to it by impaling herself on me in one move.

“Thank God,” I groan.

She throws her head back and uses both hands on the headboard to thrust against me in a long, slow rhythm. I grip her hips, afraid I will come too soon then I move my hands back to her nipples and fondle them until she moans and grinds harder against me.

“That feels so amazing,” she says, opening her eyes.

She looks down at me, her hair cascading wildly around her. She looks like a sexy feline creature, aroused beyond recognition. I am so fucking turned on; I need her to come this minute.

I rub my thumb against her clit. She is so wet I need to slip two fingers between our grinding bodies. I use my other hand to tease her nipples. She grips the headboard tighter and begins slamming into me faster, grinding and thrusting. She is losing control and, as she constricts against my cock, I know I am pretty much done, too.

“Come,” I hiss. “Come.”

“Hey, stud, saying it doesn’t make it happen faster,” she says breathlessly.

“Please,” I grit. “Don’t think guys have the ability to hold out longer when their dicks give the orders. There’s a hierarchy here. Dick, dick, dick, Dylan.”

She laughs and then her eyes glaze over as she climaxes. Her face flushes while she continues to gyrate with the orgasm rolling through her. She lets out a long, deep moan as her arms begin to lose their hold on the bed frame. I grab her waist and thrust up violently, and in a matter of seconds, my release is just as explosive. She is going boneless in her euphoric state, so I have to hold her up and finish driving myself into her.

I shout out as I empty every last bit of myself and then let Emma’s body fold onto me. We are both breathing hard. My brain is attempting to refocus and come back to reality, but it is impossible with this beautiful creature clinging to me. I deposit her gently on her side so I can get rid of the condom. When I return to the bed, she is stretched out with one thigh crossed over the other as if she is posed like an acrobat. Her eyes are closed and she looks content.

“The answer is yes,” I say, sliding in next to her and wrapping an arm around her waist.

She opens her eyes and turns her head towards me. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, we’re together. Whatever it is you think you owe Robert, you’re not with him. I don’t know where we’re going, but we’re together.”

She runs the back of her hand gently up my cheek and then her fingers playfully trace the scars on my head. I am not sure I’ve said the right thing to her. She is quiet and contemplative as she studies the deformed gorges of flesh on my scalp.

“Look at me,” I demand.

Emma’s gaze wanders down to meet mine.

“Are you done with that guy?” I don’t even want to say his name out loud.

“Dylan, I have no intention of being involved with him romantically, if that’s what you mean.”

“Seeing him, feeling sorry for him, agonizing over his situation—all of that does make you involved with him romantically because you are reminiscing with him, leading him to believe that you’re there for him.”

“Then you and I have a very different definition of a romantic relationship.”

“Maybe it’s not intimate… because then I’d have to kill him,” I say and she chuckles. “But everything else you are giving him—your attention… and hope… that’s romance, baby. And you can’t be with me and have that with him, too.”

She looks startled. “Is this an ultimatum? Because if it is, I can move out now and go live with Imogene and Lauren.”

“No.”

“Dylan,” she starts angrily. “No, this isn’t an ultimatum? What?”

“No, I don’t want you to leave, but I’m not going to share you.”

“You’re not. Robert is… I may never see him again. After what he told me today, I think it was his final goodbye.”

“And what if it wasn’t?”

I saw how Robert looked at her. That appearance of hope that Emma could still belong to him. It made me twinge with anger that there is a part of her that belongs to him, those memories of when she was in love with him. If I could obliterate those memories, I probably would; yet I don’t know if I would have ever met her if it hadn’t been for the man and the life she was trying to leave behind.

Eighteen

Emma

My phone call with my father is short and useless. He sounds agitated and anxious to end our conversation. He also does a damn fine job of sidestepping my questions about Vincent Marchetto and whatever rumors are circulating through his underworld network. It sounds like Hades and his minions. I wish it were that simple. A little Greek mythology, I can handle; an evasive father who has a history with the mob, I can’t.

He says my mother is well and having a nice time in Florida with my grandma, and he can’t say any more about Robert or his father because it is in my best interest to be an ignorant boob. Of course, he didn’t put it like that, however that’s what it comes down to when any man tells me he is keeping information from me for my own good.

Fuck. Them. All.

While Dylan throws together our breakfast, I’m thankful he doesn’t bring up Robert. He wolfs down his food with his meds, telling me to stop pushing my food around on my plate. He wants to work out and decides that he is not going to leave me alone in the house while he goes on his usual run, so I have to watch him exercise in the house, shirtless and sweaty, doing push-ups. I am thrilled.

The air is electrified as I knit some rainbow concoction and subtly watch him from behind my knitting needles while Dylan hauls his bench set and weights up from the basement and organizes them in the sparse living room.

“Great, now this place is going to smell like a gym,” I say, but I really don’t mind.

There’s not much else to do out here since our cable went out days ago unless, of course, we want to have non-stop sex. This naturally crosses my mind every ten minutes or so, and with the way Dylan periodically looks at me in-between his bench sets or on his strolls to the kitchen for water, I would say he is thinking the same thing. Besides, since moving to town, I had to give up my gym workouts and haven’t committed to an exercise program of any kind unless you count sex as a legitimate workout, and I do. I have to work off all those home-cooked meals Dylan provides.

It’s just us in this house with the scent of Dylan’s sweat and the atmosphere’s charged with the excitement of our new relationship, wherever that stands. If I weren’t worried about Robert’s safety, this arrangement with Dylan would be perfect. He glances at me, too, as if he is aware of my thoughts, and most likely, it leaves him with some uncertainty about me.

I left Robert because I finally received a wake-up call about the reality of our situation. If we were together, we would never be free of his father, and the sweet idea I conjured up of an idyllic marriage and family would never happen the way I had imagined. Robert is not the same boy I fell in love with, and I’m not the same girl.

It has occurred to me that I am also entering into unknown territory with Dylan. It’s easy to get caught up in the early stages of flirting and sexual desire; it’s another to live together and pretend it is casual, and including Dylan’s issues into the scenario makes it that much more precarious.

I am falling for him, and even though we don’t say it, our bond is growing. I hope I am not leading him on. I think about that every time I have a moment to recall Robert or have a flashback down memory lane, remembering when Robert was my knight. Girls don’t need knights in shining armor, but it sure is nice when they show up, and I have had two in my life now. I hope Dylan is the real
long-term
deal, though.

“Oh, this is wonderful,” Lauren says over the phone when I call to tell her that Carson has offered me the job. “And you’ll be working with Dylan. Good thing he’s mellowed out.”

“He couldn’t have been that bad,” I reply.

“He’s not busting heads anymore.” She laughs, but there is no humor in her tone. “I told you, he and Carson had it rough, but there was a time when Dylan made everything worse. He’d get in fights over little things and would do reckless things.”

“Like what?”

“He was easily provoked and would spin into these rampages. He was a straight-A student, but there was perpetual fighting, getting kicked out of school, college suspensions, and illegal motorcycle races. God, Dylan was all over the place, and I never saw him with the same woman twice.” She laughs again uncomfortably as if it is for my benefit.

“But you said he’s done with treatment and he’s better.” I am trying to picture Carson’s younger brother, who I haven’t met yet. Carson is so mature and professional; it’s hard to believe his brother would be the complete opposite.

“He is getting better,” Lauren explains. “It’s kind of new for all of us to see Dylan this way. I grew up with the guy. His mother’s illness and death was devastating for him because he was just a kid. And then his dad shot himself when Dylan was a teenager. Between puberty and the family illness, Dylan really needed a parent then. His parents’ deaths absolutely destroyed him.

“His father’s side had a history of mental illness, so it wasn’t exactly surprising that Dylan was diagnosed as bipolar, but he wasn’t getting the right assistance. Carson was a teenager, so it’s not like he knew how to help his brother. We saw a lot of Dylan’s explosive behaviors when he was manic and out of control, and then he’d crash into a deep depression—sometimes vocal and angry, sometimes quiet and closed off. The crazy cycles went on for years, but we never got used to it. He could be kind and lovable one day and then moody and pissed off the next.”

“You’re making me nervous about this guy.”

“I’m sorry. It’s not an easy thing to describe. Really, Dylan has such a sweet side to him. He was so cute and used to have this adorable, curly hair. Women would fall over him. He’s still sweet, though sometimes he forgets that we see him in that way. But Carson and my parents all think Dylan is doing great now.” Lauren lets out a deep, tired sigh.

“You don’t sound very optimistic.”

“I am, but it’s only been a few months since he cleaned up his act, so I’m not going to kid you and say it’s finally over and done with. I hope it is. The important point I want to make is that Dylan is a good guy. He’s smart about the business, and I think you’ll get along with him. This job is perfect for you.”

I sigh, wondering what it’s going to be like working with this Dylan person.

What I struggle with is, how well do I understand the ramifications of Dylan’s mental health issue? We joke about it sometimes and use it to lighten a mood, as if it makes us braver and easier to face it head on. The truth is, I wasn’t living here when Dylan was at his worst. I didn’t witness the volatile behavior during his manic stages, and I didn’t know him before his accident and the weeks he spent living in the rehab facility. I have gotten everything second-hand from Lauren and Imogene along with bits and pieces from Dylan.

What if I am replacing Robert with another troubled man that needs more than I can give?

As Dylan secures two large plates on the weight bar, it stirs me from my reverie.

“Those are enormous. Carson is right. It’s overkill,” I say, watching him lock the weights in place.

He is wearing cargo pants, and his bare chest is slick with a sweaty sheen. His brutal workout regime has given him the most spectacular body, and I love staring at his broad chest that narrows down into rippling abs. I have always thought Robert was a gorgeous man, but Dylan is beautiful, both physically and the way he is driven to push himself to the extreme. I assume it’s to chase away bad mojo.

When I put my needles down and analyze his process of aligning the weights, he catches my gaze and grins. I think he likes having me around during his workouts so he’s not enduring his solitary torture in vain.