Chapter 36
36
HUNTER
The morning light creeps through the blinds, rousing me from a restless sleep. I stretch, my body tangled in the sheets, and it takes a moment for my sleep-addled brain to register that I’m still wearing Dylan’s shirt. The worn fabric rustles against my skin like a secret.
I listen to the house, all quiet. I have to pee so, making as little noise as possible, I use the bathroom and then pad into the kitchen. The apartment is empty. Dylan must be asleep. I savor the stillness.
As I fill the coffee pot, my thoughts drift to last night, to the memory of Dylan’s hands on my shoulders, the warmth of his touch lingering long after he’d gone to bed. What did it mean? Was there more to the massage than friendly comfort?
My anxiety spikes at the thought of him waking up, of having to face him in the cold light of day after last night. I pull my hair into a high ponytail, needing something to occupy my hands as my mind spins.
I should make breakfast, even though my baking skills are nowhere near Dylan’s level. Or I could ask him for a cooking lesson, just to have a reason to stay close.
His door opens, then the bathroom’s. The sound of the shower running is next. I listen, trying to guess how long he’ll be, each drop of water ticking in a distant countdown.
As I wait, I consider various poses I could strike for when he walks in. I try leaning casually against the counter, one leg crossed over the other, angled toward the hallway. No, too forced, not sexy at all.
Next, I hop onto the counter, legs slightly spread, hands resting at my sides. Nah, too staged, too obvious. What would I even say if he asked what I was doing perched on the fixtures like a pin-up calendar girl?
I slide off the counter. In a moment of inspiration, I stretch up to reach something on a top shelf, gauging how much the shirt rides up with the motion. Enough to reveal the bottom curve of my ass. I freeze. No, that’s too much. Good morning, this is my ass , is not the message I want to send.
As a last-ditch effort, I lean forward over the kitchen bar as if inspecting something, my body stretched out, elbows resting on the counter. The shirt pulls tight against my figure. I rise on tiptoes, offering a teasing glimpse of bare back thighs. Sexy in theory but awkward in practice, and incredibly uncomfortable to hold for any length of time.
My muscles tremble from the strain, and I give up as the bathroom door creaks open. I straighten up and look around wildly, my heart lodging in my throat.
I pace in a frenzied circle to decide on a position, any position. But after all the rehearsing, I end up standing and pathetically gaping like a landed trout as Dylan emerges from the hall, still wet from his shower, a white towel slung so low on his hips, I’m not sure how he can walk without it slipping right off. Static blocks my hearing. I’ve seen him shirtless before, but this towel of scandal is a million times worse than swim trunks.
I can’t stop staring at the V of muscles disappearing under the towel’s hem, at the fine golden hair trailing downward…
My mind goes blank, any semblance of a coherent thought dissolving into nothing more than a silent scream at the sight of him—damp, nearly naked, and incoming. I forget how to breathe.
“Morning,” Dylan greets, his voice raspy, not fully awake yet.
Instead of returning the greeting like a normal person, I blurt out, “Did you forget your clothes?”
Dylan shrugs, giving a pointed look at the shirt I’m wearing: his jersey. “You stole my favorite shirt. Did you sleep in it?”
Heat rushes to my cheeks, but I manage a nod, my throat so tight I can barely swallow.
I’m scrambling to find a half-decent response when Dylan adds, “Cool.” One word, but the way he says it, all casual and yet heavy with subtext, makes my stomach perform an Olympic-level gymnastics routine.
Then, as if he hasn’t already short-circuited my brain, Dylan opens the fridge, grabs the milk carton, and starts chugging straight from it. I’m pretty sure that’s not allowed. My eyes widen, indignation bubbling up, but it fizzles out in record time as I watch his throat work, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each gulp.
I should protest his lack of basic etiquette, but I’m too busy staring at the hypnotically sensual sight of Dylan drinking as if he were starring in a milk commercial not made for family TV. If the industry wanted to put a sexy spin on “Got Milk?”, Dylan would be their man. I would’ve never guessed dairy consumption could be such a turn-on for me, yet here I am: hot, bothered, enthralled.
My mind takes it even further as it conjures an image of the milk spilling down Dylan’s bare chest, and hello—apparently, I have a new kink. What is happening to me? I blink rapidly, wondering if I’m developing a fetish for the mundane—the mop last night, and now this.
When Dylan finishes drinking, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and puts the milk back in the fridge as if chugging half-and-half straight from the carton was a totally normal morning ritual. Not content, he taps my nose playfully.
“Got thirsty after that shower. I’m gonna go get dressed now.”
“O-okay,” I stammer, my voice reedy.
Dylan saunters off to his room, leaving me standing in the kitchen, my brain still overloaded from all that muscle. I grip the counter’s edge to anchor myself back to reality. This is fine. Totally fine. Two platonic roommates sharing good mornings. Nothing to see here.
After a few, unending minutes, Dylan returns wearing gray sweatpants and that damn sleeveless hoodie again.
I regain my composure enough to make a joke.
“Ah, you had some clothes left after all,” I quip, aiming for nonchalant but landing somewhere between breathless and over-eager.
Dylan smirks, tossing me a quick, lazy look as he moves to grab a pan. His eyes linger on me for a moment longer than necessary before he asks, “What’s your mood for breakfast?”
“Pancakes? I-I mmm… was wondering if you could show me how to make pancakes without using a pre-made mix?” I surfed through so many highs and lows I sounded like a boy hitting puberty.
Dylan raises an eyebrow. “Can you handle the pressure, Brolin?” he teases, his voice low and playful.
I nod in response while thinking, Can I handle the pressure? I can barely handle standing next to you without combusting. But sure, pancakes. Let’s pretend that’s my biggest challenge right now.
Dylan switches the pan for a flat griddle and selects the ingredients from the fridge, setting them on the counter as he gives me the basics of the recipe.
I listen, but his voice is white noise, drowned out by the heat creeping up my neck. I grip the whisk, pretending to focus as Dylan steps behind me, his front pressing against my back as he guides me through the movements. His warmth seeps through my shirt—well, his shirt actually—and I’m hyper-aware of every inch of space, or lack thereof, between us.
His hands slide over mine, guiding the whisk in slow, hypnotic circles. The touch is maddeningly light, and my pulse thrums louder with each pass. I can’t tell if he’s aware of the tension building up. His touches appear deliberate, yet they’re casual enough to keep me guessing.
I’m balancing on a knife’s edge, almost anticipating the fall. He mumbles something about how whisking is all in the wrist. His voice is a spark, my spine a line of tinder waiting to ignite.
“Like this?” I ask.
“Mmhmm.”
He’s so close goosebumps race down my neck. I can’t focus. By the time we’re done, I might know less about making pancakes than when we started. The batter isn’t the only thing that’s getting mixed; my brain feels like it’s been tossed into the blender. I wish I could whisk my way out of this mess as easily as I’m whisking the batter.
Part of me wonders if Dylan is naturally this seductive, or if he knows what he’s doing to me.
As the batter smooths out, Dylan’s hands slow to a stop, but he doesn’t pull away. His chest keeps rising and falling against my back, the silence stretching between us like a rubber band ready to snap.
I struggle to find my voice. “Uh, what’s next?” I wince at how breathless I sound.
Dylan’s reply vibrates through me. “Now, we let the batter rest for a minute. Gives the gluten time to relax.”
“Right, relax.”
Dylan steps to the side, giving me back some much-needed space. I turn around to face him, to regain my composure, but one look from him nearly undoes me all over again. The heat in his eyes, the hunger, are new. But I’m not sure if it’s my mind playing tricks on me, making me see what I want to see, or if it’s real.
“Ready to pour?” he rasps.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. We move to the stove, and Dylan hands me a measuring cup. I pour the batter onto the griddle pan in small, even quantities. As the pancakes start to bubble, it’s a good visualization of what my skin’s been doing all morning. Every nerve ending in my body is alive and screaming for his touch.
“Hunter.” Dylan’s voice makes me jolt. “You’re going to burn them if you don’t flip them soon.”
“Right, sorry.” I dutifully flip the pancakes. They’re a little darker than ideal, but still okay.
We work in silence for a few minutes, the sizzle of batter on the griddle the only audible sound. I’m going to explode if something doesn’t happen soon. Whatever game Dylan is playing, I wish he’d either stop or go further, because this in-between is torture.
When the pancakes are cooked, Dylan transfers them from the pan to a serving plate, forming a neat stack. He turns off the stove and sets the dirty pan into the sink. I expect we’ll sit at the table now, but before I move, Dylan surprises me again by lifting me bodily onto the counter.
The sudden movement knocks the air from my lungs. My ability to breathe further deteriorates when his fingers grip my hips and he steps between my thighs. I gasp, my hands instinctively going to his shoulders to steady myself. Then I pull away, wondering what’s happening.
With nonchalance, Dylan plucks a pancake from the tower and puts it on a plate, as if it were perfectly normal for us to stand this close, with him between my legs.
He grabs the syrup and begins to slowly pour it on top. Again, the gesture is inexplicably sensual, the sticky liquid drizzling over the pancake, strangely suggestive, obscene almost.
Dylan then grabs a fork, cuts off a bite of syrup-soaked pancake, and offers it to me.
I part my lips, letting Dylan slide the fork into my mouth. Once more feeling this is all very sexual. My lips close around the metal, the intimacy almost too much as the sweet richness of the syrup coats my tongue. But I barely register the taste. All I can focus on is the way Dylan’s eyes darken as he watches me.
“Verdict?” Dylan asks, calm under fire. But maybe I’m the only one who’s burning.
“G-good.” My voice comes out breathy, and I wonder if he notices how completely undone I’m about to become.
Dylan takes a bite for himself and proclaims, “More than good, I’d say.”
He sets the plate aside, and I think now he’s going to pull away. But he leans in closer, his hand coming up to cup my jaw. His thumb swipes at the corner of my mouth, and my entire body goes still.
“You had a little syrup.” He brings his thumb to his lips and sucks it clean.
A rush of heat pools low in my belly. The sight of his mouth around his thumb makes my head spin. But then the last sliver of rationality I’ve left takes over. I frown, confusion tempering the desire swarming through my veins. This is so unlike the easygoing, goofy Dylan I know. The one who cracks jokes and teases me relentlessly but has never crossed the line into blatant flirtation. This version acts like he’s got secret training from the “How to Make a Gal Swoon” Academy.
“What are you doing?” My voice wavers. “Why are you spoon-feeding me breakfast like we’re in a daytime soap? And why did you buy me a book last night?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he places his hands on the counter on either side of me, caging me in with his body. I have to tip my head back to meet his gaze, my pulse pounding wildly in my throat.
“I think the real question is…” His face is so close I can count his lashes. “Why are you wearing my shirt and rolled-up crew socks?”
He raises an eyebrow, his expression amused and smug at the same time. It’s the look in his eyes that makes realization wash over me: I’ve been caught.