Revenge #4 (4 page)

He reaches between my legs and runs his fingers over the center of the fabric. I gasp at his touch, straightening up and tilting my hips.

“So much trouble,” he says, like he’s talking to himself.

“G-strings are actually practical. No panty lines across the back.”

He inhales through clenched teeth and reaches around to grasp my butt. He kneads and squeezes in a way that makes me giggle nervously. He lets go and reaches down under my leather seat. Something whirs, and my seat begins to glide back at the base and recline at the same time.

My seat’s almost flat now. I relax back, my head on the headrest. Dylan rotates to face me and climbs over the center console. He curses the car’s small interior as his elbows thump against things, but he does fit on my side. He’s kneeling between my legs, facing me.

OMG.
Now? Here?

I glance out the window at the parking level. There are no other cars parked down here, but one could drive down any time. Anyone could see us.

He grabs me by the hips and shifts my body up along the seat. The leather squeaks from the movement. I don’t understand what’s happening. He loops his forearms under my thighs to hold me in place, and lowers his chin into the space between my parted legs.

His beautiful lips bear down on my lace underwear. I gasp in surprise and elation as he breathes against me. The heat penetrates the thin lace fabric easily. I don’t know if I’m ready for him to do this to me. I start to say something—something about our dinner reservations, or the fact that we’re in a parking garage. All that comes from my mouth is a soft moan.

Both his hands are busy, holding me so I don’t slip down the slight incline of the seat. With his lips and tongue, he delicately moves my underwear to the side. The fabric is stretchy, and moves easily out of the way. I’m bare. Exposed.

He licks and kisses my bare skin.

OMG. I can’t even remember my own name.

He pauses for a moment and says, with a laugh in his voice, “You can breathe now. Just breathe, and then tell me what you want. Or just grab the back of my head.” He chuckles. “Let me coax that wild girl out of you. I know she’s in there.”

“Um.” I glance down and see his eyes shining up at me. “I’m not wild. I’m shy.”

His eyes seem to glow, catching the dim amber light outside the car’s windows.

“Don’t you know? It’s always the shy girls who are the wildest of all. Jess, let yourself be free. You can be a wild animal with me. It’s what I want. It’s what I need.”

I nod, and then I close my eyes and tilt back my head.

He descends on me hungrily. It’s getting more intense with each lick.

I cry out in pleasure and reach around for something to grab onto. My fingers touch a handgrip on the ceiling, above the door. I hold on with both hands.

I moan and twist on the seat as he thrusts his tongue against and into me.

Just when I think I’ve peaked, he takes me higher. He’s relentless, not pausing long enough for me to catch my breath.

His lips and tongue play me, and music fills my body until I hit my climax. My mouth opens, and sounds spill out. My body shakes, and my eyes are shocked open by a thumping sound. It’s my left palm, banging against the upholstered ceiling.

My body twitches and quivers. Every color flashes behind my eyes, my body a conduit for extreme pleasure.

I move my left hand down from the ceiling and thread my fingers through Dylan’s silky hair. He responds by driving his tongue against me and sending me over the edge again.

When he finally pulls away and lets me slide back down to the seat, my legs are shaking.

He smoothes my stretchy underwear back into place.

With a sly smile, he says, “Your wild side looks good on you.”

I smooth down my hair with both hands and wipe my forehead with the back of one hand.

“My hair’s all crazy, isn’t it?”

“Not crazy.” His eyes flash. “Just wild enough.”

I would probably blush right now, but my cheeks are already hot and flushed. I look over my shoulder out the car window, making sure nobody’s around.

Dylan moves back over to the driver’s side of the car, cursing as his knee bumps the gear shift on the way over. He groans as he settles into the driver’s side bucket seat.

I locate the seat controls on my side and get my seat back to upright position.

“Did you bang your elbow?” I ask, feeling giggly. “Want me to kiss it better.”

He turns and gives me a dangerous look. “It’s not my elbow that’s giving me grief. But you can kiss it better if you want.”

I glance down at the bulge visible in his jeans. OH MY.

“I meant kiss my elbow better,” he says, still laughing. “Don’t worry about this. I’ll survive, and dinner will be more fun if I’m thinking about what I’m going to do to you next.”

I blink at him, still in a daze. “Right! We’re going to dinner. We already got postponed once, by stupid Nick.”

“Stupid Nick?” He starts the car’s engine. “It was the stupid false alarm, remember?”

I clap my hand to my forehead. “Right. The false alarm.”

Dylan’s eyes linger on me, flickering with suspicion.

I glance at the digital clock readout on the car’s dashboard. “Are we late for dinner?”

He leans over and gives me a quick, comfortable kiss, then backs the car out of the parking spot.

“We won’t be late the way I drive,” he says, grinning.

I buckle my seatbelt.

Dylan drives fast, but not like a criminal on the run this time.

We arrive at the restaurant only a few minutes late for our reservation. We’re still well ahead of the dinner rush.

The place is cozy, with tables set close to each other.

Our little round table is so small, we can lean across and kiss each other over the low candles.

It’s also French, with a menu I can’t even read, much less order from. I tell Dylan to order for me. My menu doesn’t have any prices on it. I’m worried about ordering something I can’t eat, that’s also expensive.

When the waiter comes by, Dylan asks him questions. In French. He gives the man our order, and the two of them chat away about this and that.

I’m stunned. He speaks French? What else do I not know about the guy?

Something pops nearby, and I let out a surprised shriek.

Everyone laughs, including the other waiter, who’s just arrived and uncorked champagne. As he pours my glass, he apologizes. He says they usually uncork in the back, but I’m so beautiful that all the waiters want to stand by my table.

At least that’s the basic gist of what I think he’s saying. I don’t know, because it’s all in French.

Over the next hour, we are served several courses of food. It’s all tiny portions, on big plates. Everything is rich and filling. I keep eating and eating.

“That’s tarragon,” Dylan says, his dark eyes sparkling in the candle light. “I told you about my friends who own a restaurant, didn’t I? They taught me everything I know.”

“About French food?”

He changes his grip on his knife, grasping it in his fist, like a weapon. “They’re responsible for my table manners. I used to hold my knife like this.” His eyes flick up to meet mine, and he pretends to stab the meat on his plate.

I laugh, loud enough to turn heads around us. I clamp my hand over my mouth.

Dylan pulls the champagne bottle from the bucket of ice and refills my glass. Two waiters race over to assist, but he shoos them away.

“Those boys can’t keep their eyes off you,” he says. “That sapphire dress almost makes your brown eyes blue.”

“Easy there.” I wave for him to stop filling my glass.

“Do you know that old song? It’s by Crystal Gale.
Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue.
”

“Sure, I know the song. I’m a music buff, remember? That’s why I’m a lowly intern at Morris.”

I lean forward and crinkle my nose at the glass of champagne. It’s too full to pick up, so I take a slurp off the top. My slurp is a noisy.

OMG. Everyone’s looking at me. I’m the dumb country hick who’s already had too much champagne and just slurped like a two-year old.

Dylan doesn’t laugh at me like I expect. He just watches me over the candles, his face dreamy, like I could do no wrong.

“Do you like that Crystal Gale song?” I ask. “Do you sing a cover?”

“No.” His forehead furrows and he leans to the side in his chair, looking casual. “It’s not a guy’s song. It’s about a girl who’s crying, because her lover has moved on. She regrets treating him bad, and begs him to come back.”

The way he dismisses the song so easily bothers me. My head feels light, like the champagne bubbles have drifted up there. Most of the bottle has gone into my glass, not Dylan’s.

“What’s wrong with all that?” I lean forward and rest my forearms on the table. “A man can cry. Especially if he knows he fucked up. He probably should cry. And grovel.”

Dylan tenses, but stays in his casual pose. His eyes dart back and forth between mine.

“Real men don’t grovel.” His lip curls in disgust. “I hate that word. Grovel. You never hear about a woman groveling. It’s weak.”

“Oh, yeah?” I say, challenging him. “I’d totally grovel, if I did something wrong and felt bad.”

His expression gets serious, and he moves forward quickly. With his elbows on the table, he leans across the small table. His forehead is so close to mine, I can feel his heat radiating.

“Jessica Lynn Rivera,” he says slowly. “When have you ever done something wrong and felt bad? Have you ever betrayed a lover?”

My breath catches in my throat. Is he joking, or testing me? What does he know, or think he knows?

His eyes are dark, and the anger is there. And pain. He’s been hurt. By a woman. I search his eyes, sinking into their depths and hoping to find some clue.

His forehead is so close to mine, I feel a static charge between my hair and his hair.

My voice is a raspy whisper. “Dylan, who hurt you?”

He blinks and pulls away.

“My wife,” he says. “She destroyed me. And that was before she even died.”

“I’m so sorry.” I bite my tongue to keep from asking him what the hell happened. I want to reach across the table and shake him until he spills it. But I can’t. You can do that sort of thing with your best friend, but not the guy you’re dating.

“She cheated on me,” he says, staring into the candle between us.

On the exhale, I say, “Is that all?”

His eyes flick up and lock on mine. A cold chill runs through me.
I’ve said the wrong thing.

“Yes, that’s all. You’ve probably figured out the rest, so don’t look so surprised.”

I shake my head, the room rising up all around and suffocating me. “No, I don’t know.”

He looks away from the table.

“There was talk of making a made-for-TV movie out of her story, but I wouldn’t sign the life rights. Can you imagine that being your fifteen minutes of fame? I would have been the dumb schlub. Married to a woman who has an affair with her student. Then she convinces him to stab her husband to death for the insurance money.”

My jaw drops open.

Dylan continues talking, like it’s not even about him, but something he saw on TV. “The husband wakes up during the attack. There’s a scuffle. He gets the knife away from the kid within a few slashes.”

“Holy f—I mean, wow. I didn’t know about that, I swear.” Shaking my head, I think back to the few things Dylan has said about his wife. “I thought… you said she shot someone? Was that a joke?”

“The joke was on the kid.” Dylan rubs his chin thoughtfully. “She pulled a gun from the nightstand and shot him. Lucky for him, she was a lousy shot. I took the gun away from her before she could kill him. And so he lived to talk about their plans.”

“She went to jail?”

“No. The kid was young. Confused. Kept changing his story.” He leans forward again, leaning across the table.

“They didn’t press charges?”

“Not before she died.” His voice dead level, he says, “Her car had a mechanical problem. With the brakes.”

His dark eyes locked on mine, he presses his lips closed and waits for my reaction.

My body is frozen. I feel like an enormous weight is pressing against my chest.

I feel like I’m underwater.

Drowning.

The air is heavy.

After Dylan tells me about his past, and the things his wife did, the air around us feels dense.

My mouth is dry. I wish Dylan hadn’t mentioned the part about his wife’s brakes. Or that he wouldn’t have said it in such a terrifying way. Maybe he didn’t mean for it to sound so menacing.

I study his face as it moves through a bunch of different expressions, like he’s wrestling with conflicting emotions.

He must be agitated from visiting traumatic memories.

I guess this is what people mean when they talk about their
demons
. I have some unhappy moments in my past, but nothing like what Dylan’s been through. No wonder he freaks out sometimes.

The waiters come to remove our plates.

We sit silently until they return with dessert.

I stare at the fancy pastry before me. This dessert has so many chocolate curls and decorations, it barely looks like food.

My appetite is long gone. It doesn’t help that now I’m imagining the bloody scene of Dylan being attacked with a knife. That must be how he got the long scar on his back, just under his rib cage.

“You’re quiet,” he says. “Does that mean we can close this chapter and move on?”

“Sure.”

“You know everything now. I’m not holding back. We’re good?”

I think about it for a few minutes. Something’s bothering me.

“Dylan, I thought you said you
stood by
your wife. That she went through a hard time and people turned their backs on her, but you didn’t?”

He frowns down at his plate. “Do you think it’s possible to believe two completely different truths, at the same time? To believe she was innocent, and also that she wasn’t? Can you imagine holding both of those truths in your heart?”

“But one is more true than the other, isn’t it?”

His eyes flick up to mine. “Does wanting to believe something make it less true?”