Dylan (Inked Brotherhood 4)

He’s silent for a bit. Then he sighs. “Not for me, huh? You’d leave me to starve?”

“You’re a big boy, Dylan. You can make your own food.”

He says nothing, and I turn to find his gaze on me, dark and unfocused. He’s braced on the wall as if in pain. I’d worry, but then I notice the front of his gray jogging pants is tented, so the only one I’m worried about is myself.

Because I’d give in if he asked to take me here and now, on the kitchen table, on the floor. And I won’t.

With an effort, I turn back to my task, heat climbing my neck. My breasts feel heavy and tingly when I imagine his hands, his mouth on them. My core throbs in time to my heart.

Crap.

“You could make omelets,” Dylan says from behind me. “There’re eggs.”

“Is that what you normally make?”

“Guess what, princess,” he mutters. “I cook lots of different things. I cook every day. Who do you think takes care of everyone here?”

“I thought the standard fair would be take-out,” I say, my mouth on autopilot.

“Take-out is expensive and unhealthy for kids. I was gonna make fish fillet in butter sauce, but I know you hate fish, so I won’t offer to make it for you.”

I stare at the eggs I have been taking out of the box. I didn’t know he ever paid enough attention to me to know what I like, or not like. It’s sweet of him—and dangerous for me. “Yeah, I’ll pass.”

“I also make a mean steak and great burgers. You do like those.”

I do. Oh God.

Caught like a deer in headlights, I try to focus on what I’m supposed to be doing. This is some sort of sick joke of the universe, because I want to be angry with him, and I can’t, not when he’s being thoughtful and kind.

I hear him step closer behind me, and goosebumps run over my skin. His hands close around my waist, and his warm breath feathers against my neck. His hard body molds to my back, letting me feel his arousal, his desire.

This was a bad idea, and I knew it. This is… Oh God, I want this. I want him.

His muscled arms wrap around me in a full body tackle, and he kisses my neck, his lips hot, the ring piercing shockingly cold. His teeth scrape on my sensitive skin. His hands slide up and cup my breasts, kneading them, his thumbs brushing over my hardening nipples. I gasp and he does it again, over and over, sending bolts of pleasure down my center.

How can I think when he’s doing this to me even as we’re standing, fully clothed, inside his kitchen?

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers in my ear. “The most beautiful girl in the whole world.”

“Dylan…” What is he doing? Wearing down my defenses with his touch, with his words, his voice so rough with need, familiar, deep and sexy.

“Stay, Tess.”

So tempting. But I can’t let him do this again—give me pleasure and then drop me from up high, letting me crash to the ground.

“I can’t.” I can’t help how breathy my voice is, but at least it’s steady. “I can’t do sex without feelings. Told you.”

His hands tighten on my breasts, and I whimper. “So you loved every guy you’ve been with?”

Anger works its way up my chest.

“Fuck you, Dylan Hayes.” I twist and push him off me. He lets go and steps back, his hands clenching at his sides. “You’re the manwhore, not me.”

“Seriously?” He glares at me, and it only makes me madder. “From the moment we broke up, whenever I’d look around you’d be in some random guy’s arms.”

“I’ve kissed many boys.” First, it was to get back at him. And then… Then it was a distraction from seeing him fooling around with every skirt in sight. I wanted him to think I slept with every guy around. I wanted him to be jealous. But what really broke me was the fact that he never even seemed to care.

“As I said.”