Chapter 22 - Scarlett
SCARLETT
I think Dylan is still asleep behind me, but the punk mom garage band in my head is making a lot of noise. “I just had sex!/Oh wait that’s a Lonely Island song./Fuck it who cares?!/Nobody else will hear this./I just had sex!/With Dylan Brodie!/And I even remembered to feed the hamster first!”
That was so good I don’t care that I wasn’t wearing matching undergarments.
I don’t care about any of the things I put away in the Fuck It box, although I am glad I remembered to let the dogs out to pee and fed the fish and the hamster.
I don’t even care that there’s a Basset Hound and Lab sitting in the doorway staring at us. They’re so used to being in bed with me at night, and they definitely aren’t used to seeing me in bed with a man. I wave at them to go away, but they just look confused and hurt, and now I feel bad.
So, to sum up, I had nothing but good thoughts for a solid minute after the sweetest, most beautiful man I have ever known took me to pound town and even went the scenic route.
“You’re up in your head again, aren’t you?”
He drags his fingertips down my back, resting his hand on my hip, and it’s only now that I’m realizing I am totally naked. That’s how comfortable my body is with his. Already. My body is relaxed, but my brain is still…my brain.
“I just had to check in to make sure everything’s still a mess up there.”
He squeezes my hip, and it does things to me. Every single part of me, especially the good ones. The hard-to-reach places that I had almost forgotten about. Dylan Brodie has found them and shown them to me. He would probably claim them if I’d let him.
He chuckles. “It’s not a mess in there.” He presses his lips against my shoulder. “That can’t be true.” And now I feel his teeth there. And I like it.
“Well. The Caddyshack gopher is a pretty ruthless houseguest, and the punk mom garage band can get so loud they wake the neighbors.” Shit. Nobody was ever supposed to know about the gopher or the band. Nobody can ever know about the tweets.
He rolls me over to face him. “You just said the most awesome sentence I’ve ever heard you say.”
“I also compose tweets in my head, but I don’t have a Twitter account.”
“Okay, that was tied for most awesome.”
“Why do you look so happy?”
“Because you just told me a secret. Three of them. Really embarrassing secrets about how nuts you are, and that can only mean one thing.”
“That I’m nuts?”
“That you like me. Okay, it means two things. That you’re nuts and that you like me.
” He kisses me hard on the mouth. So hard that I don’t even have time to worry about how true it is, what he just said.
“God, I am so glad you’re not my therapist anymore.
” He laughs so hard. He used to laugh like that on That’s So Wizard!
I am definitely not going to tell him about my That’s So Wizard! thing.
He touches my forehead with the tip of his index finger. “What are you thinking about now? Tell me.”
I shake my head. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking about how I wanted to fuck your brains out, but now that I know how awesome your brain is, I don’t know if I want to.”
“I think you should go with your initial instincts. I mean, I don’t even know if it’s possible for my brains to be fucked out. By anyone.”
“Is that a challenge?”
I give his bicep a maternal squeeze. “No, sweetie. It’s a reprieve. Really. I don’t want you to feel bad if you don’t succeed.”
“Seriously? You have a master’s degree in psychology, and that’s your go-to move? Reverse psychology?”
“It’s a classic for a reason.” I reach for the bedside drawer, find a condom, and I’m rolling it onto his erection before I even realize what I’m doing.
I’m not usually the condom-putter-onner.
I’m also not usually the hot-sex-with-younger-man-haver.
And I’ve definitely never been the I-dare-you-to-fuck-my-brains-out-maker.
But I guess I am with Dylan. I guess I’m a lot of things with him. And it seems like I might actually be okay with that. For tonight, anyway.
“You’re up in your head again,” he laughs.
“Yeah, you’ve got your work cut out for you.” I hold an index finger up. “Garcon! Can I get another orgasm please?”
“Oh, madame. You are in such merde now.” He gives me a little slap on the side of my ass, and it is shocking just how good it feels.
“I’m the man for the job though.” He glides his hands up my shins, and when he reaches my knees, he pushes them up, bending my legs and spreading them apart.
I like where he’s going with this. “So what do I win if I do manage to fuck your brains out?”
I shrug. “Bragging rights?”
He looks so happy again. “Really? You’re going to let me tell people I had sex with you?”
“Good point. You’ll win a free pass to come visit me in shrink jail.”
He dips down to kiss my breasts, very lightly, just getting started. “Only if it’s a conjugal visit.”
I can’t even believe we’re joking about this.
“I have a better idea though,” he says. “If your brains get fucked out—by me—I want you to tell me another secret.”
“What do I win if you fail miserably?”
“I keep trying until I succeed.”
“Fair enough.”
His fingers slip between my legs, and his smile is wide and confident when he discovers that my inner thighs are already wet from my arousal. Just from talking to him. His cocky grin is so cute, I want to slap him and then give him another cookie.
I roll my eyes at him, but I can’t stop smiling either. “Just get on with it, will you?”
“Just one question before I proceed.”
“What?”
“Are your dogs going to watch us? Because I’m used to performing in front of an audience, but that Basset Hound seems very critical.”
I clear my throat and affect my most condescending therapist-y tone.
“Well, Dylan. The key ways to get over performance anxiety are to A) shift the focus off of yourself and your fears to the enjoyment you’re providing your spectators; B) connect with your audience; and C) practice, practice, practice. ”
Dylan’s still grinning, but his jaw is tense, his muscles are tense, and his electric-blue eyes are ablaze with desire and mild ferocity.
Wow. I must really want to get my brains fucked out.