Love You Truly (Buttercup Hill #3)

Chapter 20

Mallory

“Oh, I’m going to kill him, I really am,” I mutter, marching to my front door. I can’t believe Felix has the gall to show up here again after I told him to leave me alone the other night.

The guy is persistent, I’ll give him that, but that’s all I’m willing to give him.

I shouldn’t even open the door, but that will all but guarantee he comes back again with some new plan to get me to let him back into my life and into my plans for Buttercup Hill.

“Not happening,” I say, whipping open the door.

I’ve been meaning to install a peephole or get a camera or whatever, but it’s pretty safe here, and we have a full staff of strapping men working the farm a hundred yards away. I always feel comfortable opening my door.

Dash’s brow creases in confusion, and the corners of his mouth tug down into a frown. “Sorry?”

Oh. It’s not Felix. I need to calm down.

Now I have Taylor Swift lyrics running through my head as I size Dash up. Judging from his navy blue track pants and the beads of sweat on his brow, he jogged here. He wears a tight workout tee that rolls over the contours of his chest and abs like it’s enjoying committing the shape of his body to memory.

Oh wait, that’s me.

Rufus saunters past me, gives Dash a cursory sniff, and disappears around the corner of the house.

“I thought you were someone else.” I cross my arms over my chest defensively out of habit. The last few times someone came to my door haven’t gone well.

He quirks an eyebrow, and a smirk forms on his lips. “I can only imagine.”

If he’s insinuating that I may have a long line of ex-husbands or even suitors calling on me, I want to set him straight. I haven’t spent the past several years busting my hide to take business classes for people to continue seeing me as a tease who’ll do anything to get what I want.

“I was referring to my ex.”

“I assumed as much.” He crosses his arms, but it doesn’t look menacing when he does it. It looks hot. His backward baseball cap makes him look younger than his thirty years, and his muscles all look pumped from whatever he just did. He smells like a mixture of clean sweat and a foresty body wash or deodorant.

No one smells good after a workout. No one except this man, apparently.

I wish I hadn’t noticed, but he’s making it nearly impossible at this distance.

Some people go to the gym or go for a run and look like a sweaty mess. Hair askew, clothes wet in awkward places, faces too flushed. Not Dash.

His biceps flex under the short sleeves of his shirt, roped forearms folded across his chest. The sun kisses his cheekbones and highlights the sharp line of his clean-shaven jaw. Blue eyes dance mischievously. He’s dangerously handsome, and I can’t get a full inhale of air into my lungs without my pounding heart tripping me up.

He should always walk around like this. I almost tell him as much, but then I regain some shred of my senses.

But man…was he this smoking hot when helping me up from a puddle of pickle juice?

Or is it just that damn baseball cap and the rippling chest muscles?

I need to regain control of the situation, so I lean against my doorjamb and pin him with a stare. He glances down at the cutoffs I’m wearing, and from the way he swallows hard, I think he likes what he sees.

I shift my weight into one hip, leaving the other leg extended out in front of me. I watch Dash’s eyes scan the length of my leg slowly before raking up the rest of my body. He doesn’t stop until his eyes reach my face and land on my lips.

I pull my bottom lip through my teeth, and he stares, swallowing hard once more.

Balance of power restored.

“What brings you here?” I ask.

Dash looks at me blankly for a moment as though I’m not speaking words he understands. Like one tanned leg is enough to scramble the thoughts in his brain so thoroughly that he’s forgotten why he came.

Blinking a couple of times, he regains control.

“Why’d you ask me out?”

Oh. That.

I wasn’t expecting him to show up here, and I really wasn’t expecting to have to answer that question, so I defer.

“Wasn’t it obvious? I wanted a date.”

He shakes his head and takes a step backward as though I’m slightly toxic. “No. That’s not it.”

“What makes you so sure? You don’t even know me.”

“I think I know you a little bit. Why’d you ask? Of all the guys in town, why’d you pick the one with a reputation for being a flirt.”

“I don’t even really remember. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

“Bullshit. Tell me.” He keeps asking, and I get the feeling he doesn’t plan on leaving my porch until he gets an answer. Unlike Felix, whose persistence riles me up, something makes me want to give Dash what he wants.

Only I can’t.

I don’t want to tell him the real reason I asked him out. Now that I’ve gotten to know him, there’s no way I’ll tell him.

Besides, having him standing here is giving me a whole other reason that will sound equally plausible. Or at least that’s what my lady boner is telling me.

“I wanted a date. A night of meaningless hookup fun. Thought you might be good for the job.”

He knows I don’t see him that way now, so it surprises me when his face falls as though he was really hoping I’d say something else.

A wave of regret washes over me. I didn’t mean to hurt him. Is that what just happened?

“Really?” He looks skeptical, as though he can intuit the real reason. I know he can’t, but still. How does this guy keep leaving me off-balance?

“Yes. Really.”

“And now? Is that still what you want?” He winces a little at the question like he doesn’t want to ask it, but he needs to know.

I start to answer, but the words won’t leave my mouth. So I just nod.

I do want it, but not for those reasons.

Sure, it’s been two years since I’ve been with a man. Two long years. For most of that time, I’ve been fine. Haven’t missed the complications of a relationship. Definitely haven’t missed Felix or the type of guys who get possessive and try to run my life for me.

I don’t just want a man. I want him.

I want the conclusion to all those kisses that left me aching to dissolve into Dash’s body and lose myself in his capable hands. The more I get to know him, the more I want all of that to come with real emotions on his part, but I know I can’t ask for that, so I’ll take the physical part if that’s what he’s offering.

“I do want it.” I grab his shirt and pull him toward me. “You?”

“I’m sweaty,” he protests, yet he’s here.

“I don’t care.”

“What if I care?”

“There’s a shower upstairs.” I point, and his pupils dilate. The blue of his eyes intensifies.

“Careful, Mellow Yellow. I might take that to mean you want us to shower together.”

“Maybe I do,” I say boldly, even if I’m unsure what I mean. The words fall from my mouth as though my rational brain has come unhinged from my basic thoughts—he’s here, and I want him.

Dash takes a step closer to me. Ordinarily, this would feel like nothing, a meaningless adjustment in proximity. Instead, it feels like everything.

Just moving a couple of inches closer, Dash has the effect of a force field, and I’m drawn to him like he’s a hot, sexy magnet. I step forward and meet his gaze, challenging him to make another move.

We stand only inches apart, and I feel a hum of vibration throughout my body. Dash’s pulse thrums beneath the taut skin of his neck, and I want to lick him right there, taste the salt and sweat. I watch his hand move slowly toward me until he cups my chin. His touch feels hot against my skin, and ripples of heat rush down my neck, dead-ending at my core.

This is lust, pure and simple, and I’m here for it.

His thumb rubs circles beneath my chin, and I suck in a breath. It seems impossible for such a small movement to elicit such a strong feeling, but there it is.

Dash tips my face up slightly so it’s aligned perfectly with his. I have one more chance to stare into the stormy blue of his eyes before he’s too close for me to focus, and my eyes drift shut.

Then his lips are on mine with all the heat and intensity of my daydreams. This isn’t soft or tender. We’re not in love. This is feral, hot, and driven by need.

I want him, and now that he’s here on my doorstep, I can’t let him leave without seeing this through to the end.

Dash kisses me like he’s on a mission to save himself before the end of the world, and I’m his only hope.

He feels like mine.

His tongue sweeps across my bottom lip before he nips at it. Gently at first, teasing. Then he bites down harder, and a jolt of heat races straight to my core. I move closer to him, pressing against his leg because I suddenly need some kind of friction. I need everything all at once, and we’ve only been kissing for ten seconds.

Our lips stay locked to each other as I take several steps backward, walking us in through my front door. Dash kicks it with his foot, and it slams behind him. Now that we’re inside, away from the bright sun, the mood changes.

Dash pulls me harder against him, our bodies melting into one another while our tongues tangle, and Dash runs his hands through my hair. There are almost too many senses firing at once for me to untangle them, so I don’t even try. What’s the point of listing the ingredients in a chocolate soufflé when it tastes so damn good?

“Upstairs?” I pant against his mouth.

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Dash nods, and we fumble up the narrow staircase from my entryway to the large loft where I have my bedroom and a small office. We’re kissing and touching and looking down so we don’t trip, eventually making our way to the top step.

It’s lighter again up here, and Dash stops to glance up. “Wow, cool.”

“Yeah. Skylights.”

We sound like cave people. Our brain cells are too busy calculating how to kiss some more and get each other’s clothes out of the way.

Arms wrapped around me, Dash walks me backward until my legs hit the bed. He holds me close, and I blink up at him, wondering what he’s thinking about me, my bedroom, and this crazy idea of hooking up. “Do you make your bed every day?”

He smiles or, rather, smirks while his eyes drift around the room, taking in a mismatched set of furniture—a tall dresser painted antique white, two bedside tables in raw oak, a giant fluffy comforter on the bed, and yellow throw pillows on a green upholstered bench at the foot of the bed.

It always strikes me as amusing when people say things without self-editing. I do it all the time, and it feels comforting to have Dash do it now. It softens his hot guy facade. I’m sure he doesn’t care a bit about whether I make my bed, but the thought entered his head, and instead of resuming kissing his way down my body, he asked the question.

“I don’t always. In fact, about two days a week.”

He’s still smirking. “So…did you just have a feeling you’d bring someone up here to see it today?”

“Nope. Just lucky, I guess.”

I’m not sure what he’s getting at. Does he really think I make my bed on weekends because I think a guy may end up in it?

“I do feel lucky.” His voice comes at me like the growl of a cheetah, and I have no problem being his next meal.

“Yeah?”

He nods and licks his lips. Then he pushes me backward, and I topple onto the bed with Dash on top of me. He holds himself above me, and I reach up to run my hands over his muscled arms.

“Don’t move a muscle. Just let me make you feel good.”

“Seriously?”

Bending to kiss me again, Dash sweeps his tongue along the slit of my mouth until I open for him. His tongue melts against mine and answers my question ten times over. Moving down my body, Dash pushes my shirt up, exposing the skin of my stomach. The cool air in my house gives me goose bumps. Oh wait, no…that would be Dash doing that with his tongue.

“Yes,” he growls.

Holy moly. A girl doesn’t need to be told twice to lay still.

I’m pretty certain Dash has a magic tongue. Everywhere he touches me, my skin flames up like he’s igniting kerosene with a lighter. I shudder as he reaches his hands up, pushing my shirt higher until it hits my chin, and I wriggle free of the annoying, unnecessary fabric.

Then, ahh. Dash’s tongue circles one nipple while his hand plays with the other one. My breath leaves me in a shaky exhale, and I reach for something, anything, to grip. When my hands land on Dash’s back, I sink my fingers into his muscular form until he lifts his face to mine with a sparkle in his eyes.

Shaking his head, he reminds me, “That’s not laying still.”

“But I need to touch something. And you’re the something.”

Placing each of my hands back on the bed, he ruffles up some of the covers and shoves handfuls of the feathery down into my fists. Then he resumes his ravaging of each breast until I moan.

I feel weirdly jealous of all the women who’ve gotten this treatment before me and also grateful because they’ve clearly made it possible for Dash to be as talented as he is today. I decide to focus on that part. No reason to get all in my head about other women when I’ve asked to be another in the long string of them.

Sliding my pants slowly down my legs, he runs his fingers along the skin of my thighs. I slip out of the sweatpants and lay beneath him, naked except for a flimsy lace thong, not at all uncomfortable with him seeing new parts of me.

I’m nervous because I want and don’t want this at the same time. Or let me rephrase. My body wants this, and it won’t shut up about it. That much is clear. It’s like a bell ringing in my head telling me it’s long past time for me to have a good time with a man.

That other part of me…the part that doesn’t want it…that’s the romantic part. It’s the woman who screams silently, telling me I should hold out for real romance and the kind of relationships with the type of men I know don’t exist. It’s easy to quiet that voice because I have the weight of experience on my side. In all the years I dated, I never met anyone who came close to satisfying what I wanted—intense chemistry and deep understanding. It was always only one or the other. Or a bit of both. Or neither.

I know better than to keep holding out for something I won’t find. I’m mature enough now to focus on my goals for Autumn Lake like an adult.

Yet…doesn’t mean I can’t have a little fun.

This is Dashiell Corbett. He has a reputation for hookups, and I have every reason to trust the legend that precedes him. But maybe, just maybe, this is something more. That idea is enough to push me forward.

Dash lowers himself to the floor, and I tilt my head to see him kiss his way along one leg, which he places on the bed, bent at the knee. He does the same with the other leg. And then his tongue lands right at my center, hot and wet against the shred of fabric that separates him from where I want him to be.

I gasp at how good it feels, even through the fabric of my thong. “I was hoping you’d be wet for me,” he says, that same smirk-smile still on his face. “But you outdid my expectations.”

“It’s just a small piece of fabric,” I tease.

“Still soaked.” He pulls the fabric away and sucks my clit into his mouth. I gasp as he circles me with his tongue before sliding the thong down my legs and putting it into his pocket. “And now it’s mine.”

I don’t have time to protest because his tongue is on me, sweeping up my center and delving inside. I can’t stop the moan that leaves my lips each time his tongue goes back for another pass, circling against my flesh and teasing my clit.

Oh. My. God. I finally stop thinking about how Dash got this good at what he’s doing because I’m lost in it. I’m panting. I’m moaning. I’m flying.

There’s no limit to how high he seems like he can take me with his mouth on my most sensitive parts, so I keep flying higher. Higher. Until I’m cresting the top of a peak I’ve never visited before.

The cascade of tiny bursts of light and heat continues, and I ride out the orgasm until I’m not sure whether I’m here or in the middle of a fever dream. The only thing that gives me a clue is the sight of Dash stripping off his running clothes and standing in front of the bed with an erection that makes me salivate.

“Okay, Mallomar, now you can move,” he says, giving his stiff length a few pumps in his fist. I sit up and greedily replace his fist with my own, circling the head and running my hand down his beautiful hard length.

He exhales through gritted teeth and lowers himself onto me as I continue to work him, running my hand up and down his shaft. “Fuck,” he bites out, moving my hand and interlacing our fingers.

I feel drunk on the weight of his body on mine. It’s been a long time since I’ve been with any man, let alone one who elicited so much pleasure.

He circles my entrance, teasing me with tiny previews of how he’ll feel inside until I’m writhing beneath him and moving to position myself better. But he’s toying with me, making me want him more and not giving me what my body craves.

He’s also kissing me, which feels so good—just not good enough. He knows exactly what he’s doing to me. I’m breathless and desperate for another orgasm like the one he just gave me. It’s a drug, and he’s pretending he doesn’t know how badly I want it.

“I need you inside,” I pant, more exasperated than seductive.

He laughs. “Am I frustrating you?”

“Yes.” I hate to admit it because I know it’s what he wants, but it feels like the only way to get what I want.

“Sorry, not sorry?”

He kisses me again and moves so the tip of his erection is just inside me before pulling away.

“You are killing me…” I groan.

“And it feels so good to lose control to someone else. Admit it,” he whispers. I hear a condom wrapper tear open and don’t have the wherewithal to figure out where he got it.

Just as I’m about to agree and disagree at the same time, he pushes inside me fully, and I lose all sense of time and place. Every pleasure center in my body flashes to life at the same time, and I cry out because it’s all I can do. It’s all anyone can do when she’s with a man who feels this good. He’s bigger and thicker than any man I’ve been with, like I’ve been waiting my whole life for something I didn’t know existed.

I want him to stay inside me forever, and that’s insane. It’s certainly not something I’m going to tell him even though I’m pretty sure he already knows from the way he’s staring at me.

He looks like he’s seeing something incredible, eyes wide and amazed—or maybe just scared because I probably look like I feel. Like I never want to let him go.

It’s crazy and it’s incredible and it’s scary as hell because I absolutely need to let him go just as soon as we’re done here because that was the deal.

So I do what any responsible, man-hangry woman would do in my situation, which is to let Dashiell Corbett work his magic tongue and hands—and goddammit, his amazing cock—on me until I’m screaming his name at the top of my lungs as well as things about god and other nonsense because he’s giving me the most incredible orgasm I’ve had in my life.

And from the way he’s cursing and panting my name, he feels exactly the same way.

Which is why I’m totally screwed. Literally and figuratively.