20. Dylan
twenty
Dylan
I spend the rest of the week racking my brain for a romantic place to take Poppy for our next date. I can’t use the restaurant again—the risk that someone might find us there is too great, and with Charlie’s plans to expand the business, the private dining room will soon be open to actual customers. I can’t serve food off a table that twelve hours earlier was used for a very different purpose. And I can’t keep explaining away the scratches.
The days fly past, my head spinning with plans and my veins firing with adrenaline, and an almost hazy cloud of impatience and exhilaration follows me everywhere I go. I feel like a teenager trying to come up with ways to sneak around with his girlfriend. I want to talk to her. I want to hold her hand. I want to kiss her all the damn time. The wait to be alone together is a perfect kind of pain.
When the answer finally comes to me, I feel like an idiot it didn’t occur to me sooner.
The old barn house on Silver Leaf Ranch was barely worth the name twenty-odd years ago, a bare-bones building with rooms and amenities that housed stable hands when business was healthy and we had at least a dozen horses. When times grew lean, and we had to sell the horses, we boarded up the house and all but forgot about it.
Last summer, things changed. The money from Charlie’s corporate sponsorship deal started coming in, Daisy reappeared in Aster Springs, and Chord bought her—and Izzy—new horses. Then Charlie decided it was time to renovate the barn. For what purpose yet, we haven’t decided, but I’ve got my suspicions.
So, on Friday night, after I dash home to tuck Izzy into her bed and then return to The Hill to finish dinner service, I get in my truck—which I conveniently left in the restaurant parking lot earlier in the day—and drive around to the still-in-progress barn house rebuild. Charlie hired the architect who designed Chord’s home on the far side of our family’s property, and it’s almost a knockdown and rebuild to add new features that match the architecture of the other buildings on Silver Leaf Ranch. It’s already a beautiful property to look at with its pitched roof and glass walls. The inside still needs work, with its bare drywall, unpolished hardwood floors, and toolboxes stacked in corners. But the hot water is running and it’s closer to complete than not. And maybe I’m too far gone to see it clearly, but the kid in me thinks hiding out here sounds fun. Romantic. An adventure.
I only hope Poppy thinks so too.
Moving as quickly as I can in the near-complete darkness, I collect the supplies I’ve hidden in the back seat of my truck and set about preparing a space in the soon-to-be living room. Once I’ve cleared out any construction materials and the floor is swept clean, I go back to the truck and retrieve the stack of blankets and pillows, the box of candles, the twinkle lights, and the basket with bread and olives and wine.
When it’s all arranged the way I want it, I send two quick texts. The first to Daisy to say I need to stay behind at work to finish off paperwork. The second to Poppy, asking her to meet me here as soon as she can.
I’m pacing the floor in front of the newly installed oversized glass windows when my phone pings with two replies, one right after the other.
Daisy
No problem. Poppy’s heading home now, but Charlie and I are here with Izzy, so there’s no need to rush.
Poppy
On my way.
I read each message quickly, staring at the screen as the words swim a little, but I swat away any guilt I feel about lying to my sister. What she doesn’t know won’t harm her, but the truth could hurt us all. Then I scroll through my playlist and hook my phone up to the portable speaker hidden behind the mountain of pillows, and I wait.
Fifteen minutes later, headlights appear on the horizon, and my heart thuds harder with every beat as I watch them draw closer. Poppy stops her car beside mine, and before she has a chance to open her door, I’m there to do it for her.
She steps out with curious eyes and a pleased mouth. “What have you done, Dylan?”
I pick up her hand, moving her aside so I can close the car door, then lead her back to the house. My steps slow as we approach the open door, and I’m suddenly—weirdly—nervous. “Nothing,” I mumble, trying to manage her expectations. “Just…this.”
We step into the house and, in half a dozen steps, round a corner to reveal the space I’ve created. Poppy squeezes my hand and presses herself against me.
“Dylan,” she murmurs as her gaze bounces across the room, and I watch her pick out all the little details I hoped she’d notice. “It’s beautiful.”
Blankets line the floor in the middle of the room, layers of them to create a soft space to lie. Pillows are scattered in a circle, and outside of those, a dozen short candles flicker and cast shadows on the drywall. A bottle of red wine stands half empty beside two filled glasses and a basket of crusty sourdough with a mason jar of Silver Leaf olive oil. Through the wall of glass windows at the front of the building, the black night twinkles with a million tiny stars. There really is no sky like the one over Sonoma.
She’s taking in the room, but all I can see is her when I reply, “Yeah. Beautiful.”
Poppy looks up at me with self-conscious suspicion, then she shakes her head and gestures at the house. “When do you think this place will be finished?”
I drag a hand through my hair as I guide her to the blankets. “Uh…another couple of months. Ten weeks, maybe.”
She folds her legs beneath her, and we sit facing each other as she accepts the glass of wine I offer. “Do you think you might live here when it’s done?”
I glance around at the half-done interiors, the potential already clear in the lines of the high ceiling and the majesty of the glass walls. It’s going to be an incredible property, but even though I sometimes wish I lived somewhere other than the house I grew up in, I can’t picture myself in a home like this.
“I don’t think so,” I tell her. “I prefer the simplicity of the main house and the memories that go with it. I like to believe that even though Mom and Dad never met Izzy and they aren’t around to see their granddaughter grow, something of them still exists within those four walls, and I don’t want to give that up. Not yet.”
Poppy rests her chin on her arms, arms tights around her knees, and drops her head to one side as she looks up at me. Tiny flames dance in her contemplative eyes and make her reddish-blonde hair glimmer, and she looks so pretty, so perfect, that I’m dangerously close to saying something I’ll regret.
What if I asked her to stay the way Daisy intends to do? Would she build a life here in her hometown? Enroll in college the way we talked about? We could keep things the way they are for as long as she wanted them to stay this way, or we could stand on the ledge of what if and jump together. We could tell Daisy the truth. See if there’s a future where we do this for real.
I could be Poppy’s next adventure. Me and Izzy. The three of us.
But the words stick in my throat. The last time I thought a woman would choose me and my daughter over whatever else the world had to offer her, she left us behind without a second glance. A second thought.
I’m not ready to be broken like that again, and I’m not willing to risk Izzy’s heart either.
“I like you, Sunshine,” I confess, a fragment of truth.
Her mouth tips up on one side. “I like you too.”
A beat passes as we sit there, staring, smiling, before Poppy swings her legs underneath her and rises to her knees. I mirror her, the two of us chest to chest in the darkness, and she slides her hands under the hem of my shirt. The brush of her fingertips makes me swallow hard, and she looks up at me with the tiniest tilt to her mouth.
“I don’t expect anything tonight,” I tell her. “I didn’t bring you here for any reason other than I just… I like spending time with you.”
“Dylan,” she says. “Be quiet. You’re not talking me out of it this time.”
My fingertips tingle and anticipation pulses in my throat as she lifts the hem of my long-sleeve Henley, and I help her peel it off my body. She drops it on the floor and then returns her hands to my body, watching them with awe as her palms settle on my chest.
I grit my teeth, nostrils flaring, as every muscle in my body tenses with desire. Her bottom lip catches between her teeth as she sweeps her thumbs over my nipples, and they pinch into hard points. She travels up to my throat, then traces the lines of my collarbones to the sharp tips of my shoulders, and I briefly close my eyes, my dick growing hard as I adjust my tolerance so that I don’t lose control too soon.
She’s exploring, and it’s a different kind of torture. Divine torture. And as much as I’m desperate to do the same, to tear the fabric from her body and have her bare in front of me, I keep inhumanly still and let her touch me. Let her know me.
Poppy trails her fingers over my arms, a featherlight touch that leaves goosebumps behind, her attention riveted on the path of her careful strokes as she traces the curve of my shoulders, the shape of my biceps, the thick veins running down my forearms and wrists and branching into the backs of my hands. Her fingers tickle across my hip bones, following the muscles to the waist of my jeans, then up again along the hard planes of my abdominals, the sensitive skin over my rib cage.
My breath grows shallow, and my self-discipline frays to the point of pain, but I don’t move. I don’t speak. I don’t dare. Because the whole time I’m watching her, she’s got her eyes on her hands, swallowing deeply whenever they hit a new rise or valley, her tongue darting out when I inhale sharply, her brow furrowed ever so slightly like she’s committing each line to memory.
There’s a defenselessness on her face, a kind of naive wonder that doesn’t fit the bright confidence she presents to the world. She’s letting down her guard, and it’s only now I realized she had one in the first place. It’s not the kind someone might expect from her; Poppy has every reason to be cynical, standoffish, or harsh after the hurts of her childhood. But no. Poppy hides behind hope. Believing in something better than what she has today is what gets her through until tomorrow.
Empathy and warmth explode inside me. The unknown keeps her moving. The unknown makes her feel safe.
I want to wrap this woman in my arms and never let her go.
Poppy gets to her feet, taking my hands to indicate I should do the same. I keep my face forward but let my eyes drift closed, arousal clawing at me as Poppy slowly rounds my body, dusting my arm, my shoulder, and my back with reverent kisses that make the hairs on my arms stand on end. Her fingertips ghost against my skin, and then one hand cups the curve of my ass, and she completes her circuit. She reaches up on her toes, kissing me almost shyly, her tongue barely sweeping against mine. She leaves behind the taste of cherry on my mouth, and then—someone fucking restrain me before I lose it—she falls to her knees.
Poppy looks up at me with big, gray-green eyes while she unbuttons my jeans and drags them down my legs and over my ankles. My cock throbs thick and hard against the cotton of my boxer briefs, pulsing and twitching as Poppy smooths her palms up my thighs before hooking her fingertips into the elastic of them.
She pulls them down, my dick springs free, and her satisfied hum nearly unravels me. I thread my fingers into her hair, trying not to hold too tight as my fingers curl into fists, and Poppy wraps her fingers around the base of my dick, leans in, and licks the drop of pre-cum beading on the crown. Her tongue darts out with a gratified moan, and I drop my head back, eyes pressed shut, and beg my body not to betray me again by blowing all over her pretty face.
Poppy drags her nails up the back of one thigh, latches on to my ass, and with the other hand gripping my dick, she slides my length into her hot, wet mouth.
I grunt, thighs flexing, hips starting to thrust, but I’m big. I need to be gentle. Sweat beads on my forehead with the strength it takes not to fuck her throat the way I want to, but when my fingers curl harder in her hair, hard enough to sting, Poppy only moans wantonly, tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing, taking me deeper than I thought possible. She grips my ass with bruising force, encouraging me to thrust harder, and I do, cupping her face with my other hand as she bobs breathlessly on my cock.
I hit the hard back of Poppy’s throat and she gags, and I’m a monster because it sounds so fucking hot. My legs tremble with the need to come, but I can’t let that be the reason we’re here tonight. Though it pains me to do it, I still my hips and gently guide Poppy’s mouth off my dick.
She releases me with a wet pop and sad eyes that almost convince me to say fuck it all and release down her throat, but the temptation of her pussy on my tongue and my fingers and my cock is all the incentive I need to drag her to her feet, my fingers already fumbling at the buttons on her baggy cardigan and pushing it off her shoulders.
“But Dylan—”
“Fuck, no, Sunshine. You can suck my dick all you want another time. Tonight, I’m not coming anywhere else but deep inside your tight, wet pussy.”
I strip away the skin-tight tank she’s wearing underneath, lifting it up over her raised arms, then slip off her bra, revealing perfect pink peaks studded with those delicate silver bars. I drag her jeans over her hips, taking her panties with them. They’re damp, and the confirmation that Poppy gets off on getting me off is fuel on an already raging fire.
When we’re both fully naked, the tips of her nipples brushing my chest, the head of my cock nudging the soft, inked skin of her stomach, I slide my hand behind her neck and draw her close for a kiss. Then I whisper in her ear.
“My turn.”