Only in My Dreams (24 page)

He pushed her backside. “Kneel.”

She scooted up on the bed, bringing her knees up.

“Keep going. Until you can grab the headboard.”

She did as he instructed, moving completely up the bed until she could grasp the top of the carved wood.

“Yes, just like that.” His voice was dark and rich. It slid over her like a delicious caress. “Part your legs.” His hand grazed down the back of her thigh and then up the inside until his finger found her moist heat. He slipped his finger into her sheath and she closed her eyes in ecstasy. He spoke low next to her ear. “My cock will go in just like that.” He nipped her neck and then tongued her flesh with hot, lush strokes. He thrust his finger in and out. “Just like that.”

She moaned and clutched the headboard. Her hips moved in rhythm with his finger.

“Yes, Sara. Fuck my finger, just like you'll fuck my cock.”

She could hardly believe the things he was saying to her, or the way it was driving her completely wild. She wanted more. “Put your cock in me.”

He chuckled and bit her neck again. “Hold on.” He left her for a moment and she saw him reaching for the bedside table drawer. He pulled out a condom and she heard the sounds of him tearing open the wrapper.

He moved quickly because his cock nudged her opening and then he eased inside of her. He went slowly—agonizingly so, but she appreciated his care. He held her hips until he was seated completely and she felt his thighs flush with the backs of hers. He ground against her, his groin pivoting, but he didn't thrust.

“Aren't you going to move?” she asked, desperate to feel his friction.

He cupped one of her breasts, pulling the nipple downward and giving it a little pinch. “Needy, aren't we?”

“Now you're just being mean.”

“If you think for a second that this isn't as torturous for me as it is for you, you aren't paying attention.”

“If it's torture, why do it?” She pushed back against him, mimicking his grinding movements.

“God, Sara, you're so . . . because it's wonderful, exquisite torture.” He withdrew almost completely and slammed into her again.

She grabbed the headboard tightly and gasped. “Again.”

He complied, pulling out until only the tip of his cock grazed her entrance and then he thrust forward, filling her until she cried out. “Again,” she demanded.

Over and over he stroked, with rough, deliberate precision until she finally yelled, “Faster. Please.”

“You're killing me.” He tugged on her earlobe with his teeth and then kissed her jaw and neck, his mouth hot and open, his tongue fierce and possessive. All the while, he fucked her, his cock moving in and out with an ever-faster rhythm. The orgasm building inside of her made the others tonight pale in comparison. She felt like she was made of a million pieces that were barely held together and at any moment they were going to fly apart.

His hand skimmed down from her breast and found her clit. He pressed and she came hard, a kaleidoscope of light and color exploding behind her closed eyelids. Ecstasy claimed her and she succumbed completely. He continued to move, which only prolonged her orgasm. A moment later he cried out and pulsed into her one last time. His hand gripped her shoulder as his muscles clenched and she felt him go rigid behind her.

“Be right back,” he murmured, leaving her.

Sara crumpled onto the bed and snuggled beneath the comforter and sheets. They were so soft. So inviting. She closed her eyes.

She heard him come back to the bed because a floorboard creaked nearby. “I hope you don't mind, but I'm staying the night.”

“I never would've given you that third glass of wine if I hadn't expected it.”

She opened one eye and looked up at him. “I know.”

“I'll be back in a minute after I turn everything off.” He leaned down and kissed her softly on the lips.

Sara sighed as he left and burrowed deeper into his bed. It had been ages since she'd felt so content, so . . . happy.

By the time he got back, she was trying not to doze off. He climbed in next to her and she snuggled back against his chest. His arm came around her waist and held her close.

“You look like you're almost asleep,” he said. “I've never seen anyone nod off as fast as you.”

She smiled but kept her eyes closed. “It's funny. I have a terrible time falling asleep usually. I almost always take melatonin—it's another part of sensory regulation. It's hard to go to sleep and hard to wake up.” She yawned. “But with you, it's no trouble. Like you're magic.”

He kissed her hair. “Glad I can help.”

She started to drift off, but not before she heard him say, “Thank you.” She wanted to ask why, but sleep claimed her before she could.

Chapter Fourteen

D
YLAN WAS DOWNSTAIRS
brewing coffee when Sara peeked her head in. Seeing him, she stepped into the eating nook and pivoted toward the kitchen. Her smile was tentative with a hint of sensuality. She wore his robe again, looking sexier than anyone had a right to be.

“Morning,” she said. “I don't suppose you have any tea?”

Shit, no he didn't. His regret must've shown because she rushed to say, “It's okay.”

“Not a coffee drinker?” He asked. She shook her head. “How about orange juice? And breakfast?”

“Sure, that would be great.” She perched on one of the bar stools while he filled a glass.

Damn, the last time he'd had sex more than once with a woman—let alone three times in a twelve-hour period—had been his ex. It went completely against his post-divorce coda: keep everyone at arm's length because it's simple and neat. Why then had he been unable to resist Sara?

She looked at him over the edge of her glass after sipping her juice. “Do you regret last night?”

Why not confront the elephant staring them down? He admired—and appreciated—her for it.

If she was going to be direct, he owed her the same courtesy. “Not particularly. Or this morning, either.” Sexytime the third had been a slow, seductive, wake-up call that still had his blood humming.

She set her glass down on the counter. “Good. So here's the thing. I know we said we shouldn't do . . . this. But I have to be honest. My life is pretty full of crap right now and hooking up with you—sorry, for lack of a better description—makes me happy. Is it wrong that I want to hold on to that?”

He wasn't sure where she was going with this, but his guard was firmly in place. Two-night stands were not his thing, but three-night stands had to be verboten. Especially with the dangerously alluring Sara Archer. But he understood that she wanted this, enjoyed this. He couldn't deny that he did too. “No, it' s not wrong,” he said slowly, judiciously.

She relaxed, her mouth inching up at the corner. “Then I'd like to propose we do this again. Just this—the physical thing. Well, and the friendship because you have to agree we're friends at least.”

Yes, he did. Which was odd in itself. He didn't have woman friends. He did, however, have guy friends who enjoyed a “friends with benefits” scenario with some of
their
women friends. And one of them had recently parted ways with his “friend” quite badly. As expected, one of them—her—had developed deeper feelings and when they hadn't been reciprocated, it had all gone to hell. Dylan couldn't risk that, not with his job on the line.

“As much as I enjoy our trysts, I wouldn't want future hook-ups, to use your word, to affect my employment.” She
had
intimated that an entanglement could affect his consideration for the future phases.

A spot of red bloomed in each of her cheeks. “It won't. I never should have said that the other day—about you not getting the other phases. I was upset. You get that, right?”

He did. He'd been worked up, too. But trust in a relationship was pretty hard for a guy who typically went it alone. On the other hand, he couldn't deny his crazy, seemingly insatiable attraction to her. Last night, all rational thought had completely vacated his mind, and he'd liked the sensation of losing himself in her.

She interrupted his thoughts. “What are you thinking about?”

He shook his head. “You. This. I'm still not sure.”

She leaned forward, displaying her cleavage. “Anything I can do to persuade you?”

He couldn't suppress a smile at her brazen flirtation. “Lots of things. How do we know this won't end badly? I don't want to hurt you.”

She sat back and crossed her arms. “You're assuming I'll fall for you and you'll have to crush my little feelings? Get over yourself. I'm the one proposing this, just like I did back in January. If I get all clingy and weepy, you have full permission to pull out the ‘I told you so' card. Deal?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but she held her hand up and cut him off. “No, please don't try to tell me what's best for me or make decisions for me. I get enough of that crap from my family. This is something I get to do. For me.”

“Actually, I'd been about to agree. Far be it from me to try to manage your life,” he murmured with a small smile before sipping his coffee. He set his mug down. “I have one caveat. This is strictly between us. I don't want anyone to know. Not your family. Not my crew. No one.”

“I completely agree. The last thing I need is my family offering their opinions and advice on my love life. Er, sex life,” she amended with a grin.

“Excellent. I can't think of anything worse than people knowing I'm boinking the boss.”

“Boinking?” Her eyes sparkled with mirth. “Is that what we were doing, boinking?”

He came around the bar to be closer to her. She pivoted on her stool to face him. He lowered his voice. “Would you prefer I called it screwing? Or maybe I should go literary and call it ‘making the two-backed beast.' ”

Laughter burst from her mouth and she brought her hand up to cover her luscious, kissable lips. “Please don't. I'd rather you called it fucking. In fact, I don't care what you call it as long as we do it again soon.”

He leaned down, bringing his lips a mere breath from hers. “Count on it.”

She pressed her mouth to his for what should have been a chaste kiss with the absence of tongue, but which stirred him just the same. “I thought you were going to make breakfast.”

He kept his lips against hers. “You distracted me with talk of fucking.”

She put her hand on his chest and pushed on him until he stood upright. “Cook. Actually, I should probably get home. I disappeared last night and things were . . . not good.” Her features shadowed and for the first time since their shower last night, he saw the return of her anxiety.

“Stay as long as you like. Really.” He picked up his coffee and took a sip. “I was going to make bacon and eggs.”

She glanced up at him. “Bacon?”

He rounded the island and went to the fridge. “Hard to say no to, isn't it?”

“Impossible. The situation at home will still be there. Unless Kyle's done what we're all expecting and left.”

He put the eggs and bacon on the counter and shut the fridge. “Was he the source of last night's problem?”

“Somewhat. It was the stuff with my assistant and then he was home and I just . . . I just lost my cool. The worst part is that Mom overheard.” She blanched and looked down at the counter. Her fingertips slid up and down the orange juice glass. “I told Kyle that maybe I should deal with my frustrations by doing what he did—leaving. I said I'd put my life on hold, with disastrous results given my assistant's takeover play, and that I should've just put myself first like he did.”

Dylan pulled out a mixing bowl and started cracking eggs. “Ouch. What did he say?”

“What could he say? He left four years ago and didn't look back. It took Alex's suicide to bring him home. Who knows what actually precipitated his supposed permanent return?”

Dylan's conversation with Kyle rose in his mind. Kyle had been noncommittal, but Dylan had sensed there was something lurking under the surface. He didn't know if Kyle had come home for a reason other than the project or if there was something else entirely. “You don't think he's here to stay?”

She shrugged. “He says he is, but who knows what he really intends? He's worked really hard to stay away.”

Dylan actually felt a little defensive for the guy. Maybe he had a good reason for leaving and staying away and for not sharing that reason. Dylan knew what it felt like to be the odd one out and to want to keep things to yourself, because in the end it was easier that way. “You don't think the death of his brother would be sufficient reason to come home for good?”

“Then why didn't he?” She crossed her arms. “He came home for the funeral,
went back to Florida
, and then came back for the revelation of the trust. Then he went
back
to Florida
again
for a few months. Why not just move home immediately?”

Dylan grabbed the milk from the fridge and splashed some into the eggs. “Maybe he had to resolve some things. It's not easy to pick up and move cross-country. I've done it when I was in the military and it takes some planning.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you defending him?”

“Only playing devil's advocate. It's a bad habit.” It had been the only way he'd dared to present his own opinions, which often differed from those of his stepfather—by pretending he was just offering an alternate point of view. He'd learned to keep his judgments to himself when it came to family. “You're perfectly entitled to your hurt and outrage,” he'd been about to say,
and I told him to come clean with you the other day
. But stopped himself before he embroiled himself completely in their family drama.
Step back, man
.

She slouched on the stool. “Thanks. I have to admit being angry with him is exhausting. But I'm still not ready to forgive and forget. I do need to talk to Mom though.” She scrunched her face up. “I feel really bad about that, actually. In fact, I'm going to get dressed while you cook, if that's okay.”