Chapter 13
HOLLY
“Announcing my arrival,” Dexter says dramatically. “In case you’re flashing the neighborhood again.”
Laughing, I walk toward the entry. “And by neighborhood, you mean… you?”
“Yes, your entire neighborhood. Me.”
“Try one nosy, over-punctual architect.”
My heart flutters when I see him standing there in torn jeans and a fitted light-blue shirt that makes his eyes look like summer, turning the brown lighter, almost golden. His brown hair is slicked back, showing a few grays at the temples, and in his hands... are three huge sunflowers. My favorite.
Three, because I once went on and on about how things look better in threes: vases, candles, frames, cushions, whatever. I’d forgotten I even said it, but he hadn’t.
“These are for you.”
He’s given me flowers before, usually on birthdays or after a big win, but this is just sweet and thoughtful in that unapologetically Dexter way. When he passes them to me and I grab the thick stems, I realize my hands are shaking. “Thank you. I already ate but do you want anything? Food? Drink?”
He clocks it instantly. “Nah. I’m not here for food… You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.” I turn before he can read too much, heading to the kitchen in search of a vase. The nerves are back, but I’m determined not to let them ruin the evening. Get a grip. Remember, it’s Dexter.
But I can feel him behind me, as he trails me into the kitchen. I have never been more aware of Dexter’s presence than I am right now.
“You know,” I say, not turning around, “if you’re having second thoughts, we don’t have to do this tonight.”
“I’m not having second thoughts.”
“Okay.”
“I mean, if you’re backing out, I’ll deal. But I’m taking the flowers back. Fair is fair.”
That earns a laugh, shaky but real.
“You having second thoughts?” he asks.
“Of course I’m not.” I take the sunflowers to the sink and try not to tremble like a leaf. “I’m just…”
“Hey, hey, look at me.” He eases the flowers out of my hands, sets them in the sink, and waits until my eyes find his. The crooked grin is gone. What I see now is his calm, serious, and certain face.
He brushes his fingers down my cheek. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”
“I don’t know, I’m just… nervous…”
He doesn’t tease. He just nods, and his hands move slowly over my shoulders and down my arms, grounding me.
“Of course you are. This is huge. We’re about to make a human.
” He lifts both my hands, pressing a soft kiss to each one.
“But I’ve got you. You don’t need to worry. That’s what I’m here for.”
“Are you nervous?” I ask him.
“I’m not.”
I huff. “Gee, thanks.” How can he be so calm when just standing this close to him makes me barely be able to breathe right? “Do you do this often?” I ask. “You know… nine-to-five, gym, home, impregnate the girl next door?”
Amusement lights his eyes, and there it is, his gorgeous dimple, smug as hell.
“All the time. Tuesdays and Thursdays, mostly.” Then he pulls me into a tight bear hug that short-circuits my brain.
His scent, a combination of shower gel and his fragrance with its woody and dewy forest notes, plus another aroma uniquely his, is tickling my nose.
“I’m not nervous because it’s you,” he whispers into my hair.
“That is… the sweetest and cheesiest thing you ever said to me.”
“Judging by your face, I nailed it.”
Yeah, yeah, you did.
“That’s not even my best work.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re lucky I like you.”
“Nah. That’s not luck, sweetheart. That’s what happens when I show up.”
“Dexter, can you be serious?”
“You want serious. Okay.” He leans back, eyes raking over me. “Tell me you’re naked under that robe.”
“I am not.”
His voice drops low and rough. “We’re changing that.”
His eyes lock on mine, then lower. On my lips.
Oh my God. He’s going to kiss me.
Like—right now?
But—
The protest is right there on the tip of my tongue, but it dies the second he leans in a hair’s breadth closer. Close enough to drive me mad. Not close enough to actually kiss me.
“Don’t be nervous,” he rumbles, angling his head. “It’s just me.”
Bu—
I’m supposed to stop this kiss from happening. But he drags his knuckles along my jaw, slow and soft, then dips in again.
B—
Still not kissing me. Just enough to set every nerve on fire. The next thing I know he’s letting his mouth hover so close I feel his breath on my lips.
—
And just like that, I know I’ve lost.
His mouth keeps ghosting over mine. It’s infuriating. The moment his lips brush against mine, just for a second, my heart nearly stops. I go still. It’s all I can manage. In a blink he pulls back again, just out of reach, lips maddeningly close.
My head tips up before I can stop it.
His nose nudges mine. But again, he pulls back, taunting me.
Unfair. Unfair!
Without meaning to, I rise onto my toes, and lean in. And the second I’m finally able to graze my lips over his, I swear he smiles. Oh, he’s playing me. He meets me halfway, and finally, finally seals his mouth over mine, sure and firm. And devastating. So devastating.
A little voice in my head reminds me about the “no kissing” rule. A louder, much more excited voice screams, “Shut the hell up.”
My rules evaporate like fog under his lips. And then he starts moving them.
Oh. Oh.
Well, that’s one way to short-circuit a brain.
His lips—beautiful, hungry, masculine—take mine, tease mine, devour mine. There’s nothing tentative about it.
His tongue traces over my lip. I try to catch it, but he pulls back, not enough for me to miss the touch, just enough for his teeth to close on my lower lip.
The bite turns into a slow pull, and then his mouth is on mine again.
My mouth parts without thinking, and he deepens the kiss, pushing his tongue in with the kind of confidence that sends a shock wave straight to my core.
It’s so much more than lips on lips and tongues caressing.
He kisses the way I imagine he controls boardrooms: decisive, focused, unapologetic.
It’s what I should have expected. Turns out, that’s exactly what makes the kiss so good.
I had no idea. Trust me, I didn’t expect the bolt of desire that shoots straight to my core. Or how fast my knees give out, forcing me to grab his shoulders just to stay upright. Or the way my clit basically overrides every sensible thought in my head.
Instead—
The world tilts on its axis, and I’m falling, falling, falling…
Dexter slips an arm around me, catching me without breaking the kiss.
Between my legs, there’s a throb that makes it suddenly very clear: I am in so much trouble.
“Last chance to back out,” he rumbles against my lips, all impossible.
“Last… what now?” I manage, breathless.
“You’ve known. Same as me.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, lets his hand brush slowly down my cheek, knuckles grazing my skin. “Don’t pretend you didn’t feel this coming.”
W-what?
My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. I rise onto my toes, and kiss him again, mostly to shut him up. I feel his smug grin before he kisses me back, one hand sliding into my hair, cradling my head. The heat is even worse the second time. Or better.
I didn’t know his kisses would wreck me.
I press closer, arms circling his waist, desperate for something to ground me.
Dexter Thorne is a damn good kisser. Dangerously good.
This wasn’t supposed to feel like this. So much for my theory that men with dimples can’t kiss.
Dexter knows exactly what he’s doing, especially when he traces my bottom lip with his, then catches it between his teeth.
I can’t even pretend to keep still.
If I don’t stop this now, we’re going to do it right here in the kitchen. And I... I don’t care.
With zero warning, Dexter pulls back and hauls me clean off the floor, with one arm hooked under my knees (yes, one arm), and then I’m slung over his shoulder, my butt in the air. Full caveman style.
“Last chance is gone,” he grumbles, and starts walking, his hand planted on my butt. “To the sex dungeon.”
“Wait… what?” I half laugh (okay: half moan), absolutely breathless.
“Should have read the fine print.”
“Dexter!”
“What? You signed it, sweetheart. Quack all you want.” He smacks my ass. “Too late now.”
“Put me down!” I half-squeak (okay: half melt).
He just laughs and strides toward the hallway. “Not a chance.”
“Wait… are we actually going to a dungeon?”
“The kitchen’s off-limits.”
“Why? Afraid we’ll break some dishes?”
“No. We’re not making a baby in the kitchen. If I get my hands on you in here, we’ll never make it out.”
Holy—okay. I hate how much I love all that.
“So where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere with better lighting.” He steers us toward my bedroom. “I like to see what I’m doing.”
“Fair enough. Sex dungeon… I mean, my bedroom… it is.”
He carries me, not the slightest bit out of breath. It’s so easy for him. My brain’s scrambled, I can still barely breathe. His arm doesn’t waver, not once. His grip is firm, solid. And holy hell, he smells divine. Unfair, really, when I’m doing everything to keep my head straight.
How’s a girl supposed to handle this? Him?