Dylan (Inked Brotherhood 4)

“Sean. And Dad,” I find myself confessing into his solid chest. With my eyes closed, it’s dark and warm, and nothing can touch me. I can pretend Dylan really does care. That he wouldn’t rush to my rescue if he didn’t.

I squeeze my eyes shut more tightly, until I see stars.

“Your da

d hurts you?” he asks tersely, his voice rumbling in his chest.

“No. Told you, it’s nothing. My fault.”

His big hands smooth over my back, tracing my spine. “I bet it’s not your fault, Tess. What happened?”

“The usual family politics,” I say, horrified when my voice hitches.

“What sort of politics?”

I don’t want to talk about it. Don’t want to open up to Dylan, who shredded my heart and never looked back. Problem is, I want to believe his concern is real. I want it too much. I want to believe he cares about me like I do about him, and we all know where that train of thought has gotten me so far.

This illusion of concern and safety will fade soon, and I’ll be left alone once more. Which is perhaps why I lift my arms, putting them around him in turn, holding him to me, now that he’s here.

The powerful muscles in his lower back shift, bunching and releasing under my hands, as he walks me backward. I don’t know what he intends to do, and I gasp when he lowers me on the sofa and leans over me.

He still hasn’t shaved, and his golden stubble catches the light. I raise my hand, longing to run my fingertips over its roughness, over his cheekbones and jaw line.

He’s breathing hard. His lips part, the silver ring catching the light.

“Tess…” he rasps. I stare right into those electric blue eyes, and my heart stutters.

Crap, this shouldn’t be happening. How can I keep my defenses up when he’s so close, when I’m struck by the full force of his maleness? When I’ve waited for so long to have him look at me so hungrily, when I’m right where I’ve dreamed to be?

Just this once, I tell myself as his mouth crushes on mine, the metal ring pressing into my lips. I dig my nails into the back of his neck, dragging him closer, as close as I can get him. I ache to feel him on me, inside me.

He’s as affected as I am, I realize, when he presses his lean, strong body to mine, letting me feel how aroused he is. His hard length pokes my thigh, hot and thick.

I throb so badly between my legs I think I’ll go mad if I don’t do something about it. I need him. I need Dylan to touch me, to enter me, to make me come.

He breaks the kiss, drawing back to look into my eyes again. “Christ, Tessa… Want you.” He groans against my lips, his hips rolling. “Need to be inside you.”

“Yes,” I murmur, “Yes.”

He attacks my lips again, licking and lightly biting, his tongue stroking mine. I pant into his mouth, my nipples hardening and my core throbbing madly, just from his kiss. His hand pushes my short nightgown up, sliding it over my hips, and his hand moves up to cup one breast. His thumb flicks over my nipple, and I let out a cry, lost in his mouth.

He keeps kissing me as he works my breast, squeezing and lightly pinching, making the pressure between my legs mount higher and higher, until I’m almost sobbing with need.

And then he slips his hand down, under the flimsy fabric of my panties, and strokes me where I ache the most.

My back bows off the sofa as I come in a series of mind-blowing pulses. The world vanishes for a while as I fall back to earth from the outer reaches of space, among stars and comets.

Holy shit.

“Hey there,” Dylan whispers, his lips tracing my cheekbone—warm lips and the cold sting of the ring—then the shell of my ear, making me shudder all over again. “Fuck, you’re hot as hell when you come.”

Don’t know what to say. In fact, I think I’ve forgotten how to speak, and I just lie in his arms, unable to move.

He draws back a little, frowning at me, but then his expression clears and he grins—a sexy, panty-melting grin that makes my body clench again. His hips roll forward, and the evidence of his rock-hard arousal jabs me, thick and powerful.

And I want more. I want him, inside me, thrusting deep.

Holy crap, I shouldn’t. We shouldn’t. This is wrong on so many levels it’s not even funny. I’m supposed to have moved on, leaving the past behind.