Chapter 21 - Dylan
DYLAN
Scarlett Shepard, MS MFT tastes like pumpkin spice latte, and she responds to my kisses like the perfect therapist. She’s warm, receptive, validating, and she’s really paying attention to me.
I’m not going to think about her as my therapist anymore, of course.
And she texts like my mom, but I’m not going to think about that either.
Because her hair is just as silky smooth as it looks, and that’s all that matters.
Her lips are exactly as pillowy soft as I imagined they’d be, and I can’t believe I finally get to kiss them.
She is all woman, but she’s making a girly humming sound as she grabs my face and plants frantic kisses all over.
My cheeks, my mouth, my cheekbone, along my jaw, beside my ear.
There’s this note of joy and sadness. It’s like I’m a lover she’s been separated from, her soldier returned from the war.
Like she’s missed me and we’re reunited after she thought she’d lost me.
I do feel like a soldier who’s returned from the war. The war against her resistance of me and all that I stand for. It’s been me versus the rules and her past and our age difference. Victory is mine. Scarlett is mine. For tonight, anyway.
Her hands travel from my face down to my chest. She unzips my jacket and pushes it off my shoulders, caressing my biceps as she pushes the sleeves down my arms. When I pull my hands through the cuffs, she doesn’t let the jacket drop, probably because she saw me put my phone in the pocket.
She slowly lowers it to the floor, rests her hands on either side of my waist, slides her palms up my abs to my pecs, and then combs her fingers through my wet hair.
I squeeze her hips and lower my face to hers, mouth open, aching to kiss her again.
She pulls back, grinning. She traces along my jawline with her fingertips, strokes the stubble with both hands, runs those fingertips along my mouth as if she’s a blind woman studying my features, but she’s staring at me so hard.
And then she leans in, pulls me down to her, and licks from just beneath my chin to my lower lip.
The tips of our tongues touch, both of us open-mouth-smiling, flicking our tongues, teasing, and then going in deep.
I caress her ribs, right below her bra line, with my thumbs. She inhales deeply, like she knows what’s coming next. If she guessed it would be my thumbs caressing her nipples through her blouse, she was right. And she’s excited.
I’m so fucking excited I squeeze her breasts with both hands.
She bites my lower lip, gentle and sexy as fuck, and then sucks on my tongue, moaning.
There’s that girlish humming sound again.
My hands are back up in her hair. I kiss her neck, just below her ear.
She smells like a tropical bakery, and I was already wild with desire, but the little groan she makes when her knees give out—I am all testosterone and muscle and cock. I am king of the fucking world.
In one swift motion I lift her up to carry her in my arms. I’ve only ever done this on stage before. “Where to?”
She’s limp and she can barely keep her eyes open, but she gestures at the hall that leads off the foyer.
“My bedroom.” She pulls herself into a tight ball of Scarlett when I carry her through the hall.
Her arms are around my neck, and when we reach a doorway, she whispers, “Here,” and then lifts her lips to mine, kissing me again because she can’t even wait to get inside her bedroom.
I know better than to call a kiss love, but this feels like love should feel.
The deep tongue kiss becomes light kisses, and then she sighs and says, “Okay.” She’s done for now.
I carry her into the bedroom and let her slide down the front of me.
She gets a really good idea of exactly how ready I am to take her to bed.
“Ohhhh-kayyyy.” She rests her hand gently on the bulge in my sweatpants, smiling up at me when she says, “Wow. That’s… really something.”
“Thank you for affirming my manhood.”
She removes her hand while pulling her cell phone out from her back pocket.
“I plan to affirm it even more.” She quickly checks for notifications, breathes an audible sigh of relief when she sees none, and places her phone on the dresser.
Then she goes over to the bedside table and switches on a lamp.
The room is now lit by one amber bulb, and her skin is so luminous.
I need to see all of that skin, all over.
“You’re always thinking, aren’t you? I need to get you out of your head.” I step closer to her, wrap my arms around her waist, and she relaxes into me. “I need to get you out of your clothes and out of your head, and I need to get—”
“Shit.” She pulls away from me. “I have to let the dogs out.”
“Is that a euphemism for something?”
“Well, yes, but I also have to let my dogs out so they can pee in the backyard, and I also have to feed the fish. And the hamster.”
“Right.”
“Wait here.” She addresses my erection. “I’ll be back in a minute.” She starts to run out but pauses by the door. “Wait—did you eat dinner? You said you were at the gym for three hours.”
“I’ll be fine.”
She pads back into the room, straight to one of her bedside tables, and opens the bottom drawer. She pulls out a plastic container and hands it to me. “Oatmeal raisin cookies. Homemade. From my secret snack drawer.”
She winks at me. At least, I think she’s winking at me. She might have something in her eye or maybe the tip of her nose is itchy. She’s so fucking beautiful and sexy, she could make a cross-eyed duck face right now and it would still turn me on.
She’s out the door before I can wink back at her.
No one has ever given me a snack before having sex with me before.
I really am hungry though. I sit down on the edge of the queen size bed, and when I remove the lid of the container, I know without a doubt that the scent of cinnamon and vanilla is going to give me a boner for the rest of my life.
I take a bite of cookie that is so soft and chewy and delicious I want to cry.
I know better than to call a cookie love, but this makes me feel loved.
If this woman takes as good care of my dick as she does the rest of me, I am such a goner.
I eat four cookies while looking around the room.
Scarlett’s bedroom. This bed is nice. Beautiful, simple white down comforter.
Pretty high up off the floor, so I run through a few possible sex positions in my head.
Two floor-to-ceiling bookcases and a gold clothing rack thing that she hangs the next day’s outfits on, I bet.
She hasn’t set out any clothes for Saturday yet.
Maybe she’ll be naked in bed with me all day.
She will, one day.
Scarlett returns with a glass of water, which she hands to me, ordering me to drink up.
She covers up the cookie container, puts it back inside the secret snack drawer while I take three big gulps of water.
She takes the glass from me, puts it on a coaster on the bedside table.
She takes a deep breath, resting her fingers on the top of the table to steady herself.
I’ve really got to get that woman out of her head.
I go to stand behind her. She’s shivering.
Maybe because I tug on her hair when I pull it to one side, over one shoulder, the way she was wearing it the first time I saw her.
It could be because I’m slowly gliding my hands up the side of her, from her hips to her waist to her breasts.
It could be my breath on the back of her neck.
She suddenly turns around, unbuttons her blouse.
She watches me watch her. It’s white silk or maybe satin.
Something shiny and smooth like her hair.
I slip the blouse off her body, kiss her left shoulder.
Her bra is also white silk or maybe satin.
Simple and gorgeous and her breasts are so full and heaving, I want to cry again.
I dip down to kiss that little gold necklace against her skin, lick it so I can feel it on my tongue, drag my tongue all the way up her neck.
She takes hold of the bottom of my T-shirt, pulls it up over my head. She marvels at my chest with wide eyes and exploring hands. I could let her do this all night, just not tonight.
I take hold of her wrists and lead her over to the wall, up against it. She holds her hair up while I unbutton and unzip her gray pants and then yank them down as I drop to my knees. She looks down at her panties and covers her face, shaking her head.
“What?”
She’s laughing. “Nothing.”
Her panties are cotton. Gray Calvin Klein cotton thong. She’s probably embarrassed because they don’t match her bra. As if I care.
“I’m behind on laundry,” she explains, her voice strained.
“You’re fucking soaked through the fabric, Scarlett.”
She whimpers into the palms of her hands—so embarrassed by how turned on she is.
I kiss up the fleshy part of her inner thigh because I can tell she likes my stubble and I know she’ll like the way it feels against her skin there.
She goes limp again for a second, moans and trembles, whispers my name.
She’s right there on the cusp already—and maybe it’s sadistic of me to make her wait because she’s made me wait this long, but I guess that’s just something I’ll have to discuss with my next therapist.
I can’t tear apart that fucking logo waistband, so I pull her panties down to her knees, let them fall to the floor.
Her instinct is to cover herself down there, but I move her hands behind her back.
She resists me, hands becoming fists, but I’m stronger and more stubborn than she is.
I like it when she gets feisty though. She flattens her hands against the wall.
Thighs squeeze together, hips press forward, but she’s quivering all over and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
She’s impatient and nervous and she wants me.