Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
SIERRA
ORGASMS MAKE ME stupid. Because anyone with half a brain would know that this is not one kiss.
The moment his lips touched mine, my skin became an inferno.
I think I could heat a small village. It’s like my body was trying to burn my dress just so it could feel Dylan’s hands all over my bare skin.
I don’t know why those words came out of my mouth.
All I know is that if he stopped touching me, I would turn to ash.
“So you only use that word when you want something from me, huh?”
How is it possible that I want to wring his throat, but also kiss it? “Don’t make me say it again.”
His eyes darken, almost entirely black. “Tell me how you want to be touched. Any way you want, and I’ll give it to you.”
“Why? You don’t know what you’re doing?”
Dylan chuckles, and it makes my stomach tighten. “Baby, you’re fucking lucky we’re in my car. Now tell me what you want, so I can see those pretty eyes roll back.”
My heart thrums like it’s detached and bouncing around in there. “I—I don’t know.”
His amber eyes grow soft. “That’s okay. How about I stay right here?” He leaves a light kiss between my breasts. “And if you want more. You tell me, yeah?”
I barely nod.
“You have the prettiest tits,” he whispers, playing with them like they’re his favorite toy. I’ve never had anyone touch me like this. Like every part of me is something precious. With the way he’s staring at me, you’d think I was made from pure gold.
Dylan’s teeth graze my nipple, and my legs clench. “You like it when I play with them, don’t you?” he says. “Your pussy is soaked, isn’t it, princess?”
“Oh God.”
“Just me, baby.” Dylan hums a pretty sound. “I think I’ll make you come just like this. Just from my mouth on your tits.”
There’s electricity in my veins. That spark that always disappears when I’m on my own flashes red hot. I’m grinding my clit against him, where he’s already hard. “I’m so close.”
His gaze flicks up, surprised. Clearly, I’m a hair trigger, but if this is embarrassing, I don’t care. I need this from him.
Instead of taking me over the edge, Dylan releases my nipple with a pop, and I whimper.
He pulls back to take my forgotten drink from the cupholder and lifts it to his mouth.
I’m staring at him, confused, because Dylan doesn’t drink as of recently.
I’m sitting here, half naked, on the verge of an orgasm I’m sure will ruin me, and he’s thirsty? For that?
The ice moves noisily in the cup when he sets it back down. I look at him, and he’s got an ice cube between his teeth.
“What are you doing?”
His brown eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, and so far gone I almost come from that alone. Then he leans in, and the cold shock of ice from his mouth circles my nipples. Making them even harder. It’s the exact moment he bucks his hips. Oh fuck.
That does it. I’m screaming his name, and he’s gripping the insides of my thighs, whispering for me to give it to him, while hot white light flashes. I come so hard, I gasp for air.
There was kissing. And then there was that.
I slump forward onto his shoulder, and he holds me there. There are voices in the parking lot. But I don’t focus on anything but the way his heart beats as rapidly as mine. And in sync.
A knock on the window startles me. “I checked inside. I know you’re in there. Let me in! I’m freezing and the bouncer kicked me out for telling people their cars are on fire,” Kian complains.
I’m still coming down when we burst into laughter, our foreheads against each other’s, our breaths mingling.
“We should probably let him in before we have to drag his frozen body inside,” I say.
Dylan doesn’t seem to agree, because when I’m about to climb over the console, he stops me.
He tucks my hair behind my ear and kisses me so hard, it empties the oxygen from my lungs.
I memorize the way he tastes, and the way he makes me feel when I’m in his arms. Like I’m something he wants to keep.
Something precious. I let myself believe someone’s chosen me for once.
Lidia: I’m out today for a meeting with the federation to get you two cleared for competition. No ice. I mean it, Sierra.
An idea pops into my head when I get that text in the morning, but it’s put off by my phone ringing.
“Why didn’t you tell us you have a partner and you’re skating full-time again?” my mom asks before I can speak. “And with the boy who came over to our house. Dylan Donovan?”
Great. This is the last thing I needed today.
Especially since the mention of him does something dangerous to the nerve endings in my body.
“I was going to tell you, Mom. This partnership came out of nowhere, and I’ve barely had a second to breathe.
” Partially because my mouth’s been occupied by other things.
“Well, we know now. Your papa and I will be at your competition. See you soon.” She hangs up before I can say anything. She knew I’d talk her out of it. The last thing I need is them worrying about me in the stands. Not even one second later my dad texts me: Take it slow. Wear a helmet.
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help my smile.
By the time I’m dressed and out the door, I realize I have a problem following orders.
I know it, because after seeing my dad’s message and Lidia’s, I’m driving to the hockey house.
They’ve got a black wreath on their door and very early Halloween decorations on the lawn.
Skeletons are on top of one another, each in a different position.
Even the scarecrows on the corner are getting it on.
I hesitated to come here. After last night, I realized I don’t actually know the definition of casual. Dylan’s mouth on mine, his whispers against my skin, his rough hands on my thighs—the memory heats my skin, but I push it away. We’re partners, and skating always come first.
“Hey, Sierra.” A bleary-eyed blond opens the door. Cole, I think.
“Is Dylan home?” I ask.
“Probably. Other than skating with you, he’s been home a lot lately. It’s weird,” he says. “First door down the hall and knock just in case. For your own good.” With that, he vanishes into the dark basement.
Inside, the house is unnervingly silent, a stark contrast to my previous visit with hallway mini golf and a cranked-up TV.
When I knock on his door, it creaks open on its own.
A normal person would just wait in the hall, but I don’t have time.
The room greets me with a jumble of disarray: an unmade bed, a desk with an open textbook, and a overflowing laundry hamper.
On the dresser, there’s a single photograph—a snapshot of Dylan in mid-spin with a blue-eyed blonde.
I assume she’s his sister, though they don’t resemble each other.
“Find anything interesting?”
I fumble with the picture frame when Dylan emerges from the steaming bathroom.
It’s hard to stop the onslaught of memories that runs through my mind like a very explicit digital diary.
Dylan’s in only a towel. I try to look anywhere but there, but end up looking at his mouth, feeling the ghost of his lips on my heated skin.
And the faint hickeys he left somewhere lower.
“No. But I bet I would if I ran a black light around your room,” I reply. There. We’re back to normal again.
His gaze drags down my body, and a smirk tugs at his lips. “Try my car.”
“I think you mean your jeans.” Oh my God. Shut up, Sierra. I clear my throat. “Uh, do you have any plans today?”
Dylan sighs as though he’s bearing the weight of the sun. “Should’ve known you’re the clingy type, Romanova. I mean, showing up at my house on our day off?”
“Clingy?” I scoff. “You’re the one who barely let go of me last night.”
“I happen to recall you begging me to touch you while you rubbed your needy cunt all over me. Was that right, or am I the one that needs my hearing checked?”
A lash of heat hits my body, and I fist my hands by my sides. “Don’t know. It was just one kiss.”
“Careful, Sierra, or I’m going to think you want another.”
“I think one was enough.”
He steps closer. I try not to focus on the singular drop of water that drips from his damp hair, onto his shoulder, and down to his pecs. “Was it that unmemorable for you? I didn’t even make the top five?”
Casual. Partners. I need to remember that.
Dylan’s been with girls before, enough that a night that was new and charged and weirdly revolutionary for me could be another Tuesday for him.
I’m not stupid, I know people hook up in college on a whim; it’s essentially a rite of passage for some. For Dylan, I know that’s true.
I shrug. “Guess not.”
He looks at me like he knows I’m lying. So damn cocky. “Who’s number one?”
You. “Want me to make you a list?”
“Yes.” He’s serious. But then his gaze falls to my hands, and something in those brown eyes softens. “You do that a lot.”
“Do what?”
Dylan gestures toward my hands. “Clench your fists.”
I look down at the crescent-shaped impressions from my nails embedded in my palms. The sight brings back memories—times when my palms would be stained with blood after struggling through a difficult move or the agonizing wait for scores after performances.
When I was paired with Justin, he preferred to remain focused and detached, unwilling to give me a warm touch.
So I’d resort to clenching my fists, trying to keep it together on my own.
“Didn’t realize you were tracking my every move,” I say, but Dylan’s expression remains serious, thoughtful even. He reaches for the desk drawer between us and pulls out a pen.
“Palm,” he orders.
“Huh?”
“Give me your palm, Sierra.”
I hide my hands behind my back. “What for?” I eye the pen with suspicion. “If you’re planning to stab me, you’ll need something sharper.”