Blur (Changing Colors Book 2) (9 page)

“What the fuck, Brooke?” He stands upright, hovering over me.

My palm moves to slap him again, but he’s stops me, long fingers gripping my wrist.

“I fucking hate you. I wish I could just forget you,” I snap, attempting to smack him with my other hand. But he’s too quick, grabbing hold of my other wrist.

In the blink of an eye, my back is pressed against the brick wall. Both of my wrists are still in his hold, hands held tightly above my head. His emerald gaze morphs into darkness. “You don’t hate me, Brooke. You wish you could hate me, but you can’t.”

“How do
you
know how I feel?”

“Because I feel the same bloody way,” he growls. “You don’t think I wish I could hate you? Forget you? But I can’t. I can’t fucking get you out of my head.”

My lungs heave erratically, breasts brushing against his chest.

“I can’t hate you, Brooke. Not when I can remember how fucking good we were together.”

Tears burn the back of my throat. I turn my head, unable to keep my eyes locked with his; too afraid the intensity of that emerald gaze will push me over the edge.

“I know what you taste like,” he whispers against my cheek. “I know what you sound like when you come.” His voice turns husky. “I can still remember what it feels like to have your pussy wrapped around me like a bloody vice, milking my cock for every last drop.” He releases one of my hands, gripping my chin and forcing me to look at him. “Tell me, Brooke. How do I forget that?” His lips hover over mine, too close. “How. The. Fuck. Do. I. Forget. That?”

It’s when he starts to move towards my mouth, fully intent on melding our lips together, that I yank my face away. “No,” I say, whisper-soft.

His brow furrows, eyes interrogating my soul.

And for the second time, before he can kiss me, I beg, “Please, no, not on the mouth.” I know I should say more, tell him how I really feel, but the words,
I can’t bear it, your kiss will break me
, get stuck in my throat.

Dylan’s angered growl vibrates against the pulse of my neck, letting me know it’s the first time he’s actually hearing those words. He latches on, sucking and licking and kissing my skin. It’s as if my refusal to give him my mouth is a punishment. Like I’ve just denied him the world.

Which is wrong, so completely wrong. I’m the one being denied. I’m denying myself
everything.
Not being able to kiss him feels like breathing under water—my lungs filling with fluid, causing this scalding burn inside my chest. My body desperate for it’s lifeline, for it’s will to live and reason to breathe.

I whimper when his teeth sink into my skin, nipping at the sensitive flesh below my ear. His mouth turns soft, kissing and licking across my skin, down my shoulder, across my collarbone. He hovers above the hint of cleavage that’s bared beneath my simple black cocktail dress. And then swoops in, raining hard, open-mouthed kisses between my breasts, moving the dress down with his chin, eventually baring my chest.

His tongue darts out, licking across his bottom lip. His hands cup my breasts, kneading the aching, heavy flesh. My eyelids flutter, head falling back against the brick. I clench my thighs, trying to relieve the throbbing between my legs. Dylan’s calloused thumbs rub across my nipples, urging them to tighten and pucker beneath his ministrations. His breath is a rough rasp across my skin as he leans forward, sucking one pert nipple into his mouth for a brief moment.

I moan, chest moving up and down in short, erratic pants as he moves south. His fingers grip my hips, sliding the material of my dress further up my thighs. I cry out, knees buckling beneath me, but he’s there, gripping one of my legs and lifting it over his shoulder.

Dylan kneels before me, one strong hand grips the thigh resting on his shoulder—simultaneously steadying and spreading me—while the other hand lifts my dress, exposing my panties. The throbbing builds, reaching my spine, and morphing into shivers rolling up my back and down my arms.

And I’m wet, so very wet. The night air feels even cooler against the damp material between my thighs.

His lashes shadow his face as they sweep down. His hooded gaze peruses my body, gliding across my exposed skin.

I’m desperate for him to touch me. There’s no way I’ll stop this—I want him too badly.

Need him.

Crave him.

Long fingers slip inside my panties, tugging them to the side. His thumb brushes through my wetness. “Fuck, Brooke. Your pussy is begging for this, for me.” He inhales a sharp breath. “Please, don’t tell me to stop. Let me taste you, love. Let me feel you against my tongue.”

“Don’t stop,” I gasp, gripping his hair with both of my hands.

“
Fuck
,” he groans as his finger slips inside of me, thumb rubbing my clit.

My body shakes, practically screaming,
Yes. Now. Please.
But he takes his time, watching my response to his touch with a headiness that makes my world spin. I feel high, high off him, off what he can do to me. No one else has made me feel this way.

I know
no one
could ever make me feel this.

Even when he’s angry, taking his frustration out on my body, teeth nipping at my skin until I’m breaching the painfully pleasurable cliff, his touch still means more than anyone else’s.

His mouth sucks at the inside of my thigh, before biting down hard enough to mark me. “Tell me you want this.”

“Yes,” I moan.

“Tell me you need this.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me you feel it, Brooke.”

“God, yes,” I whimper. My grip on his hair grows tighter, hips circling towards his face. I’m desperate for his mouth. “I feel it, Dylan. I’ll always feel it.”

I feel his smile against my skin as he nuzzles my thigh. I should be mad, pissed off over the fact that he’s getting me to say things while I’m unraveling from what he’s doing to my body, but I can’t seem to find the headspace. I only have one priority, one sole focus, and it’s him.

I want to feel him,
everywhere
.

Between one breath and the next, his head is buried between my spread thighs. Dylan’s mouth presses against me, licking and sucking at my clit, in rhythm with the finger plunging inside. I can vaguely make out voices and laughter in the distance, reminding me of how very exposed I am.

Anyone could walk back here and find us.

What would they think if they found Dylan on his knees, my dress sitting at my waist, while his head moves between my thighs?

What would they think if they saw just how far gone I really am? My fingers gripping his hair, hips moving against his tongue. Head tilted back, eyes glazed and desperate for more.

I’m lost to this, to him.

“Yes, Brooke. Fuck my mouth, baby. Let that perfect pussy ride my tongue.”

“
Oh god…”
My eyelids flutter closed. I’m drunk off him. I’m so fucking close that I’m seeing stars.

“No one else but me, Brooke. No one else but me can do this to you, give this to you,” he says before sucking at my clit—hard and rough—and it’s enough to push me over the edge. I fall hard, coming against his mouth. I bite my cheek to fight the shouts and screams and cries of pleasure threatening to bubble up from my throat.

My body starts to sag from the intensity, but he’s gripping my hips, lifting me up and pressing my back into the wall. My thighs wrap around his waist. One hand grips my ass while the other works his jeans. He springs free, hard and straining between us.

“I need…God…Dylan…”
I’m begging, feeling too empty.

His shirt brushes across my nipples, as he strokes his large cock, once, twice, and then holds it at the root, guiding himself to me. The blunt head slips inside, and I whimper, “More, Dylan. I need more.”

He works himself in deeper, claiming me. And then, I’m filled with him. So full it’s overwhelming in the most perfect way.

God, I’ve missed him. This.
Us, together.

It feels too good to be real, like a hallucination from a fevered dream.

He doesn’t hold back, pumping hard and deep and rough. His movements are uneven, desperate. Long hands move across my body, searing every inch of my skin. One hand makes its way to my neck, gripping loosely as his thumb brushes my pulse.

My gaze locks with this. Our eyes reflect each other’s emotions. I can see the way he feels about me, but it’s tainted with the underlying anger and pain I’ve caused him.

“Is this what we’ve been reduced to Brooke?” he rasps. “I can fuck your pussy with my fingers, my mouth, my cock, but I can’t kiss you?” His nostrils flare, green eyes turning frigid. He circles his hips, spurring a moan from me. “Is that what you want, love? You just want to fuck me while you’re married to someone else? Because we both know, I’m the only one that can give you this, make you feel this good, make you lose control.”

I’m so turned on, but so pissed off too. I scratch my nails down his back, digging into the cotton fabric, wanting to draw blood, wanting to hurt him physically. He growls, harsh and feral. I wish I could hate him for his words. I wish I could push him away and tell him to go fuck himself, but I can’t. Not right now. Not when he’s buried so deep, his cock rubbing against that perfect spot that has every nerve lighting on fire.

“That’s it, Little Wing, show me how much this pisses you off. Show me how you can’t stand to think you won’t have this for the rest of your life.” He’s driving into me, harder now, both hands grasping my ass.

I lean forward, fingers tugging his collar to the side and latching onto the sensitive skin between his neck and shoulder. I suck and lick there for a brief moment, before biting down, hard,
too hard
, wanting my teeth to hurt as much as his words.

“Fuck.”

My tongue tastes metallic; blood, and I don’t care.

His hand is in my hair, gripping the strands and pulling my head back. A stinging pain shoots up my scalp. “Brooke,” he groans. “It doesn’t have to be like this.” He’s pulsing inside of me, and I’m clenching in response. And I’m lost again, forgetting his words, solely focused on the thickness of his cock inside of me, filling and then emptying.

I’m so full. I’m too empty.

Full. Empty. Full. Empty.

It’s a tortuous rhythm as he brings us to the edge with long, powerful plunges. Every time he’s fully sheathed inside of me, we both moan. And when he slides back out, I whimper, begging for more. For him. For everything. I don’t even know what I’m saying. Too far gone, too fucking lost by the sensations building. I’m burning up, consumed and shaking with pleasure.

I love how it’s always like this with him, but hate that it’s only like this with him.

“Dylan, please,” I cry. I’m close, so close.

“That’s it, Brooke. Let go with me,” he whispers into my ear.

I fall, crashing into my climax, endless waves washing over me. Eyes rolling back, head falling to his shoulder. I’m trembling and shaking and gasping for air with each moan that escapes my lips. And he’s there too, head tilted back, jaw clenched and body straining tight like a bow as he comes with a harsh cry.

Both of us are panting, chests heaving. His arms lock around me, keeping me close. My legs stay wrapped around his waist. And Dylan is still inside of me. We stay like this for seconds, minutes, hours. I’m not sure. It’s like neither wants to break this tiny cocoon we’ve created with our bodies.

A few voices from the front of the bar filter to the outside terrace. Icy cold realization fills my veins. I disentangle myself from him, forcing him to slip out of me with a strangled grunt.

What have I done?

Unable to meet his eyes, I turn away, my back to him as I try to fix the dress that’s a crumpled mess at my waist.

A gasp escapes his lungs. “What is that?”

Fuck.
I can’t believe I forgot. The nerve-endings underneath the black ink ache in response. My skin breaks out into a cold sweat.

He’s right behind me, chest pressed to my back, fingers gripping the material of my dress before I can pull the top of it up and cover what he’s discovered. His thumb brushes across the spot, tracing the design and letters inked into my skin.

Two weeks ago, after Ember and I consumed two bottles of wine over dinner, we ended up at a tattoo parlor. She saw the tattoo I got in Paris, in remembrance of Millie, and wanted to get one too. My sister had
La Vie En Rose
tattooed on the top of her foot, and I got the only other thing I wanted inked into my skin. The only thing that actually meant something. Two words that meant more to me than anything else.
Little Wing.

I told the artist, a young guy named Wes, and he drew the design up. I fell in love with it on sight and knew there wasn’t anything more perfect to have etched on my skin. And now, on my back, below my left shoulder, is a reminder of what I had, what I’ve now lost. It’s a reminder of him. Dylan. The man who’s threaded himself into my heart.

“Brooke,” he whispers. “Tell me what this means.”

Shrugging his fingers off my skin, I fix my dress, and turn around, facing him. His face is a myriad of emotions. Love. Pain. Hope.
Fuck.
“Please, don’t look at me like that,” I whisper, looking down at the ground.