18. Poppy
eighteen
Poppy
A flashing red heart lights up the Empire State Building, the credits roll on Sleepless in Seattle , and I chase my contented sigh with a mouthful of Frosted Flakes. This was supposed to be a hate-watch, and I shouldn’t feel all warm and fuzzy, but at least I’m not the only one. At a lull in the music, a sniffling sound rises from the other end of the couch.
I throw a cushion at Daisy’s head, taking care not to wake Izzy curled up beside me.
“Hey!” I whisper-shout in the near-darkness. “We’re not supposed to be enjoying this, remember?”
“Leave me alone.” Daisy snatches up the candy bowl and shoves a stupid amount in her mouth. “I’m in my luteal phase.”
On the smaller sofa on the other side of the coffee table, Charlie throws off her blanket and gets to her feet. “That’s two hours I’ll never get back.”
“Oh, come on!” Daisy picks up the cushion I threw at her and lobs it at Charlie, who catches it with two hands before it can smack her in the face. “That movie is perfect.”
“The perfect way to put me to sleep,” Charlie grumbles.
Daisy rolls her eyes and flops back against the sofa. “I can’t wait for the day you fall in love. I bet you’ll be unbearable.”
Charlie snorts quietly, then checks the time on her watch. “Have either of you heard from Dylan? The Hill was fully booked for Valentine’s Day dinner, but it’s nearly eleven and even on our busiest nights, he’s usually home by now.”
“Not since he checked in on Izzy a few hours ago,” I say, digging through my tote for my phone in case I’ve missed a text message.
Daisy checks her phone too. “He’s working late,” she says as she reads from the screen. “Dinner service, then a couple hours of paperwork.”
Charlie glances at Izzy’s sleeping form, a caring crease between her eyebrows. “Should I try carrying her to bed?”
Daisy waves a hand and burrows deeper under her blanket. “Don’t risk it. If she wakes up when you’re transferring her, she won’t sleep in her bed without Dylan. I’ll stay with her until he gets home.”
Charlie nods. “You’re probably right.”
I’m already reaching for my phone, so I check it out of habit, and my stomach does a tight little cartwheel at the sight of Dylan’s name on the screen.
Dylan
Meet me at the restaurant as soon as you can.
I nearly strangle myself resisting the urge to squeak. As much as I love Daisy and Charlie, and as fun as it is to celebrate Galentine’s Day with a rom-com and dry cereal, I’ve spent more years than I care to admit daydreaming about spending Valentine’s Day with Dylan, wishing I lived in a world where he might ask me out.
I cringe inside at how fake it feels when I play-act a tired stretch and crawl out from under my snuggly woolen blanket. “I think I’ll call it a night.”
“Wait.” Daisy bolts upright, and then she rolls off the sofa, lands on her knees, and crawls across the room toward the old timber sideboard.
I exchange a puzzled look with Charlie, who presses her fingertips to her temple with a mix of impatience and amusement.
“What are we waiting for?” I ask.
“I bought you presents.” Daisy pulls two small, gift-wrapped boxes from the cupboard, each tied with a pink silk bow, then returns to us still on her knees. She offers up the boxes with a goofy grin. “Happy Galentine’s Day.”
I feel guilty as I accept the present and pluck the ribbon loose. “But I didn’t get you anything.”
Daisy climbs to her feet, hands clasped under her chin and hazel eyes twinkling as she waits for us to peel back the wrapping paper. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I bought one for myself too. I won’t miss out.”
Charlie gets her box unwrapped first, and a quiet groan sounds in the back of her throat. A moment later, I can see what Daisy has bought us. It’s a cute pink toy, not much longer than the palm of my hand, with curves and buttons, variable vibration settings, and a whisper-quiet guarantee.
With a smile, I recall our conversation about the paper-thin walls at Mona’s place and turn the box over to read the product description. “I wonder if whisper-quiet is quiet enough?”
“Just make sure you’ve got a pillow to scream into when you finish,” Daisy suggests.
“Thanks, Daze.” I keep my tone light and my grin steady, but my thoughts jump from getting myself off solo to getting off with Dylan. It takes effort not to twitch with restlessness as I yank her in for a thankful squeeze.
“Love you, Daisy,” I murmur, even as my traitorous blood buzzes with thoughts of her brother.
“Love you too,” she says before turning to Charlie. “You like it?”
“Can neither confirm nor deny,” Charlie replies, but her lips curve up at the corners. “I’m going to bed now.”
“Yeah, you are.” Daisy smacks her sister’s ass as she walks past, and Charlie swats her away, but she chuckles as she disappears up the stairs.
“I really do need to go,” I say. A white lie cloaked in truth. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“I’ve got early trail rides, so I’ll be gone when you get here in the morning, but I’ll be around later. Oh! Let’s have lunch?”
“Deal.”
When I’m in my car, I send a quick text to Dylan to let him know I’m on my way, then drive away from the main house. Instead of heading into Aster Springs, I follow the perimeter of the enormous Silver Leaf property and pull into the driveway to the restaurant. By the time I swing into the parking lot and cut the engine, Dylan has returned my text.
Dylan
I’m ready.
The stacked stone, white-cladded, and glass-walled building is dark inside, but the path to the entrance is lit by tiny lamps lining the garden beds. My heart skips every other beat as I lock my car and head to the front entrance. Nobody is there to greet me, but the doors are unlocked, so I let myself in.
“Hello?” I call out in a hushed tone, excitement—and maybe a little trepidation—making my pulse jump. “Anybody there?”
At the far end of the dining room, the door to the private function space falls open, spilling out a column of golden light. I weave my way around the empty tables, past the dark kitchen, and hesitate for as long as it takes to figuratively pinch myself. My fingers tremble a little as I push on the door, not knowing what to expect.
I inhale sharply when I see what waits on the other side.
The space was designed for intimate functions, but vaulted beamed ceilings and floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the vineyards give it a sense of understated elegance. In the middle of the room is one long, oversized timber table without any chairs, each end topped with clusters of flickering pillar candles surrounded by loosely scattered red roses. The center of the table is littered with loose rose petals, and there’s also a basket of fat red strawberries alongside a silver bucket of champagne on ice. Gentle music plays from a hidden sound system, adding the finishing touch to what feels like some kind of Valentine’s Day altar.
I take a tentative step forward, searching for the shape of Dylan in the shadowy corners of the room, before a floorboard creaks behind me and I spin around.
A giggle bursts from me before I clap a hand to my mouth, but it still bubbles out between my fingers. The same way arousal coils behind my navel and lust gathers between my thighs.
Dylan stands at the door to the room wearing nothing but a crisp white apron tied around his waist, a sexy black bow tie around his neck, and that ridiculous white chef’s hat on his head.
Oh, and the most breathtaking smile I’ve ever seen.
“You like?” Dylan opens his muscled arms, inviting me to ogle his carved stomach with the sharp V-lines at the hips, his smooth, hard pecs, and his broad, ropey shoulders. My mouth falls open as he twirls in slow motion, showing off thick thighs, a muscled back that ripples and dances, and finally…
A whimper escapes my throat. Sweet Baby Jesus. Dylan is naked under that apron. Naked . And his curved, hard ass is twin globes of pure sink-your-teeth-into-these perfection.
“I like,” I reply with a breathy laugh of disbelief. “I like very much.”
He sets his hands on his hips, blue eyes dancing in the candlelight as he flicks his gaze upward. “Even the hat?”
I roll my lips because he’s got me, and it makes me want to smile. “Especially the hat.”
Dylan’s grin is young and cocky, his quirked eyebrow flippant and fun. “Knew it.”
He steps forward and I freeze, stunned into stillness by the animated statue that is Dylan Davenport. With a mouth that curves with sexy arrogance, he removes my bag from my shoulder and sets it on the floor, then takes my hands and leads me to the table. Once he pours a flute of sparkling wine for each of us, he plucks a strawberry from the basket and holds it up to my lips.
I open my mouth to accept it, but he pauses with the fruit hovering just out of reach.
“I know we didn’t talk about this,” he murmurs, eyes on my mouth. “And we’re not… This isn’t… I don’t expect anything.”
He grimaces like he just heard his own words and how odd they sound coming from a man wearing so little he might as well be naked.
I gaze up at him, the strawberry inches from my tongue, every fiber of me humming at his offer of forbidden fruit. “I know.”
“Tonight is about you,” he says. “And it doesn’t have to mean anything. It can be one night if that’s what you want.”
There’s a question in his voice like he wants one of us to draw a line. But I think of the texts we’ve been sending over the last week, the image of his orgasm sprayed across his stomach, and I can’t find the willpower to walk away.
“I want you ,” I tell him.
The corner of his mouth lifts a little. “Open wide.”
I open my mouth and wrap my lips around the strawberry, biting into the ice-cold fruit and closing my eyes as the tangy sweetness explodes on my tongue. When I open them again, Dylan’s gaze is hot on my mouth, and it grows hotter as he watches my throat work with my swallow.
“Good?” he asks.
“Delicious.”
Dylan lifts my chin with a single finger and runs the tip of his tongue over my top lip. “Now it’s my turn to taste you.”
I part my lips as he dips in for a kiss. His mouth is soft and tender, and his tongue strokes deeply once, twice, and again before he stops and smiles against my mouth. “Thank you, Sunshine, but that’s not what I meant.”
Sunshine . He called me Sunshine. And it feels like the sun itself just rose inside my chest.
Dylan unbuttons my cardigan and pushes it off my shoulders. When he slips his cool fingertips under the hem of my t-shirt, I shiver and lift my arms so he can peel it off. Next to go is my bra, and I moan quietly as my nipples furl in the cool air.
“These keep me up at night,” Dylan says as he circles his palms over the pierced, tingling peaks.
Hot, heavenly zips of electricity spark in my clit, and I close my eyes. Dylan tweaks one, then the other nipple before he closes his mouth over one silver bar and plays with the side still bare. My knees tremble as my pussy throbs, and he grips my hip with one firm hand to steady me, looking up from my chest with a satisfied glint in his eyes.
“You like my tongue on you?”
I watch his lips move with words instead of kisses and let a little of my petulance sound in my reply. “Yes.”
Dylan slips a hand between my legs to cup my pussy outside my jeans, rolling his palm against me and coaxing out a needy whimper. “Yes, Chef ,” he murmurs.
He squeezes me hard, and I groan, eyes floating closed again as I lift on my toes and scramble to put my thoughts in some kind of order. “What?”
“This is my restaurant.” His voice is low and firm as he massages the seam between my legs, and when I open my eyes to better understand what he wants from me, he moves his fingers to the waist of my jeans so he can undo the fly. “And in my restaurant, you say Yes, Chef .”
My breath hitches, and I latch onto his shoulders as Dylan pushes my jeans past my hip bones. “Yes— Ah! ” He slips a finger into the side of my panties and runs it along the fabric, sweeping his touch between the wetness clinging to me and the damp spot in my underwear. “Yes, Chef.”
“Good girl.”
He kisses me again, longer this time, then drops his forehead to mine and closes his eyes. “What do you taste like, Penelope?” he whispers, and his use of my full name sends a shiver up my spine. He kisses me with a slow, languishing, open mouth that saps all strength from my muscles. “Sweet like sugar?” Another kiss, and I moan. “Rich like honey?” A kiss so good I never want it to be over. “Sharp like citrus? Salty like summer sunshine? Like vanilla and cherries and sex?”
He kisses me one last time and then cups my face. “Here’s what I want: you naked on this table so I can spread those thighs. I want to eat you so hard and for so long, you’ll never forget the first time you came on my face, and I’ll never forget the first time I had the flavor of you on my tongue.”
Dylan meets my eyes and holds me there with his stare alone. The stark hunger in it buckles my knees for real, and I brace myself with one hand on the edge of the table.
He wants to go down on me.
“So, I’ll ask again.” Dylan tugs at my jeans where they’re barely hitched on my hips. “Can I taste you?”
My voice cracks as anticipation melts in my core. “Yes, Chef.”
Dylan lifts me up onto the table so quickly I squeak. He slips my boots off my feet, removes my socks, and I lift my ass as he drags my jeans and underwear down over my legs and drops them on the floor. It takes a second to realize I’m completely naked, but any self-consciousness is forgotten when Dylan places one gentle hand between my breasts, the other behind my head, and eases my back onto the timber. Then he sets my heels on the edge of the table and opens me wide.
I lay there like an offering. A sacrifice. A feast.
Dylan drags the chef’s hat from his head as he stands there looking at me, his tongue sliding over his bottom lip. My skin pebbles under his gaze, and I wonder what he’s thinking as I take in his form again, the adorably sexy bow tie over the sharp lines of his collarbones, the round strength of his shoulders, the carved planes of his chest. The narrow waist and sharp hips above the waist of his pristine white apron…which is now tented with his erection.
With my heart flying and my pulse throbbing between my legs, Dylan takes a glass of champagne, holds it a few inches above my throat, and trickles it over my body. I shiver as the ice-cold liquid spills between my breasts and runs down my rib cage, and again, when he splashes more over my stomach. It pools in my navel before he pours the final mouthful on my wet center. When he’s done, he gazes down at me like I’m a work of art, a masterpiece, a dish he’s creating, like he’s not sure where to start, when to finish, or how to take the first bite.
No man has ever looked at me with this kind of intensity before, and I know with sudden, soul-level certainty that no other man ever will.
Dylan picks a strawberry from the basket and traces my lips with its tip, but as I open my mouth to accept the fruit, it moves out of reach. Dylan ghosts the strawberry over my skin, following the lines of my body as he dips over the hollow at my throat, the swell of each breast, the tip of each hard, aching nipple. Through the champagne clinging to the dips of my hip bones. I arch off the table with a moan as the cold fruit moves lower, and Dylan grazes my clit with pressure so light it’s almost painful. And then I gasp as Dylan drags the berry lower, drowning it in my wetness.
With his hungry blue eyes on mine, the strawberry and his fingers coated in wine and my arousal, Dylan brings the fruit to his mouth and takes a slow bite. His eyes float closed as he swallows, and when they open again, there’s a madness in them that I only see for a moment before he drops to his knees, slips his hands around my ankles, and spreads me wider than I thought was possible.
“Do you know how beautiful you are?” Dylan asks as he coasts his palms up the inside of my legs before he kneads my upper thighs, so close to my lower lips without ever touching them. “How pretty your goddamn pussy is?”
He leans in, and I brace for contact, throbbing as his hot breath caresses my skin and tensing at the exact wrong moment.
Dylan chuckles lightly. “Breathe, Sunshine, and relax,” he rasps, his scruffy jawline against my skin, and I sag against the table with a whimpering sigh. “That’s right. Let me enjoy this.”
His first lick is long and leisurely, the flat of his tongue sweeping up to my clit and pausing there for a series of smooth, slow swirls before he kisses me tenderly. Dylan licks me again, this time with a lusty moan that I feel all the way to my sternum. My nails scratch the tabletop, unable to find purchase.
Dylan smiles against my center, my only warning before he grips my hips, yanks me forward, and devours me.
He knows exactly what he’s doing when he buries his face between my legs and eats me like my pussy is his first and last meal. His fingers spread me open, his tongue slides inside, thrusting while the pad of his thumb circles my clit. That same thumb slides inside while he’s sucking and pulling me to the edge of my orgasm.
It crashes over me hard and fast, and I arch off the table as my climax soaks Dylan’s face. He’s got to be drowning—I can feel my release leaking down my cheeks as my core clenches and my entire body bursts into a million pinpoints of hot white light—but he doesn’t let me go. He holds me fast as I brazenly grind on his face, his mouth working to prolong the final waves of my climax.
When they finally subside, I collapse on the table with a hot, heavy groan, eyes drifting shut before they ping open again, staring at the ceiling. Oh my God. I just came on Dylan Davenport’s face.
“Dylan,” I begin. “That was—”
“Fucking fantastic?”
His tone is proud, and when I glance down my body at his head still between my knees, his grin is worse. And it makes me laugh lightly, dropping my head back against the table.
“Better than fantastic,” I agree.
Dylan peppers kisses across my damp thighs before he carefully lifts my heels from the table, letting my legs dangle off the sides, and gets to his feet. I prop myself up on my elbows, but he holds up one finger to stop me from moving any further.
“Stay right there. Don’t move.”
I watch his ass flex as he walks out of the room, feeling all kinds of giddy for all of sixty lonely seconds before I wonder what it is I’m waiting for. Just as I’m thinking about going to look for him, he reappears with a couple of towels. One of them is wet and warm, and he runs it up my leg before I realize what he’s doing.
Reflexively, I sit up and make a grab for the towel. “You don’t have to do that.”
His brow is puzzled, but the curve of his mouth is amused. “I know I don’t have to.” He folds the towel and applies it to my collarbone, gently wiping away all traces of wine. “I want to. So quit being a brat and let me take care of you.”
I glance once at the towel in his hand, then out to the darkness through the glass doors. Anywhere but him. “Nobody’s ever done this before. I’m not used to this kind of thing.”
Dylan pauses until I look him in the eyes again, and what I see there makes my throat catch.
“Do you know how fucking pissed that makes me? Knowing every man in your life so far has been an asshole who never treated you right?”
I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak, not really understanding the question or what answer Dylan wants to hear. I know he’s not angry with me, so why does it feel like my fault that no man has ever been this good to me?
I drop my eyes, and my focus goes straight to the hard-on still hiding beneath his apron. Curiosity stirs in my chest as desire starts to regroup in all the usual places. Nipples hardening. Stomach tightening. Heat building and core pulsing all over again. Here he is, barely clothed and beautiful, and I’ve barely laid a finger on him when all I’ve ever wanted to do is touch him.
I reach for him, but he swings his hips out of reach. When I raise my brows, his clenched jaw softens, and he shakes his head as he continues stroking my skin with the warm towel.
“You put your hand on my dick, and I’ll lose it.” He sweeps his cloth-covered hand around the swell of each breast. “And I can’t take care of you if I’m too busy ruining you.”
I nibble my lip to hide a smile, pretty sure I can persuade him to do things my way. “But what if I want to—”
“Don’t get me wrong, Sunshine. I want your hand on my dick. Trust me. Just not now.”
Dylan raises one thick eyebrow, and his mouth lifts with a knowing smile as he moves the towel between my legs, and I open them like this is foreplay.
“So needy,” he murmurs, coasting the towel over my thighs. “I think I like you like this.”
“Frustrated?” I reply with a hint of snark.
Dylan laughs under his breath as he finishes with the wet towel, takes my hands, and helps me to stand. He kneels in silence and guides me as I step into my underwear, then my jeans. When he stands, he’s holding my bra and t-shirt and sweater—and insists on dressing me.
He hands me a cold bottle of water from the bucket with the champagne, then wraps his arms around my waist. I slide my palms up over his chest and around his neck, my fingers sifting into his hair.
Dylan groans a little as he pulls me close so that his lips hover just above mine—and his hard cock pokes temptingly into my stomach. And then he kisses me, long and deep, his tongue delving me with languorous strokes. I melt against him, and he starts to sway, moving in time with the music still playing. The kiss goes on. Soft, tender, and patient. I can almost believe Dylan went to all this effort to just kiss me, like this was the point of the entire night. Dylan’s kiss is the kind that dismantles me from the inside out.
I protest with a whimper when his mouth leaves mine. I’ve lost my ability to stand, and I’m practically hanging off him now.
He tucks my head underneath his chin. “I like you like this,” he murmurs against my hair. “Soft. Needy. A little on edge. I like knowing that when you walk out of here tonight, you’ll be thinking about me at least as much as I’ll be thinking about you.”
That wakes me up, and I freeze mid-sway, drawing back to look up at him.
“You think about me?” The words are out before I can stop them.
A crease pops up between his brows, his blue eyes grow intense, and his arms tighten around me.
“All the fucking time.”