Chapter Seven
Dylan
Eric’s truck wasn’t in its usual spot when I pulled into Jamie’s driveway a full forty-five minutes early. I cut the engine and sat in silence for a moment.
Either nobody was home, or it was just Jamie and Hunter here.
The thought of them moved through me the way it always did, followed by a pull of longing. A pull toward the idea of them as mine. Toward the version of my life where I was coming home through that door, instead of knocking on it like a stranger.
I got out of the car before I could sit with those thoughts any longer. Before they ate me a-fucking-live.
This was about my son. About spending time with him doing something I loved, not about the delusional fantasies I needed to stop entertaining.
Hunter and I had been planning this camping trip for almost a month. Just the two of us, a provincial park, no screens or schedules.
I couldn’t wait, which was probably why I was so damn early.
Inside, I could hear music playing and the sound of someone moving around upstairs. I knocked, tucked my hands in my pockets, and waited.
And fucking waited.
When no one answered, I knocked again, louder this time.
The music cut off and there was a second of silence before footsteps hit the stairs, fast and heavy, like they were falling instead of running.
But when the door swung open it wasn’t Jamie or Hunter or even Eric on the other side.
Chantel stood in the doorway, disheveled and flushed, wearing something that looked a hell of a lot more like lingerie than a dress.
And fuck…no bra.
Her nipples were pointed and visible through the thin fabric, as if personally welcoming me.
“Dylan.” Even a little breathless, her accent wrapped around my name. “What are you doing here?”
“Enchanté. I could ask you the same.” I leaned into the doorframe, fighting to focus on her face, instead of dropping to my knees in worship of her magnificent fucking body. “I’m here for Hunter. We’re going camping.”
“Oh.” Her eyes went wide, then cut to the empty hallway behind her. “You are?”
My stomach dropped and I straightened. “They’re not here.”
“No.” Her hands wound around her middle, the fabric of her minuscule dress cinching in a way that was far too distracting. “I don’t think they knew you were coming.”
“Where are they?”
“Montreal.”
My heart kicked hard, and everything went red. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
She jerked back, caught her foot on the floor mat, and went down hard on her ass with a sound that was part shock, part wounded pride.
I wasn’t fast enough to catch her, but I was through the door and pushing it shut behind me before the neighbors could catch the next great scandal to gossip about.
Ignoring the spectacular view of her bare thighs, I pulled her to her feet. “Are you okay?”
“Ostie d’épais de marde,” she snapped, flipping her hair with a fury that was somehow hot as fuck.
She wrenched her arm free of my grasp and stomped past me toward the kitchen, one hand pressed to the side of her ass, the other slicing through the air while a stream of French profanity poured out of her.
“In English.” I followed her, my heavy steps echoing against the hardwood.
Now she was silent, yanking a tray of ice from the freezer and cracking it against the counter in a move that was downright vicious.
“Chantel. Answer me.”
“I’m fine.” She scowled and dumped the ice onto a clean dishtowel.
“Good. Now explain why they’re in Montreal and you’re here.”
“Merde. We switched houses for the weekend.” She wrapped the corners of the towel into a knot before peeking up at me, guilt flooding her beautiful gaze. “It was last minute, and it was my idea.”
“Your idea?” My shallow breath stuttered.
This wasn’t her fault. It was mine.
I was the one who’d handed Jamie all the power. She’d taken Hunter to Montreal because she could. I’d done this to myself.
And yet, I wanted to punish Chantel for it anyway. Bend her over the counter, flip up that little excuse for a dress, and pound into her until she couldn’t walk straight.
“My boss forced me to take vacation.” She pressed the makeshift ice pack to her ass, oblivious to the filth running through my mind.
“Until I came along to ruin it.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say ruined, exactly.” Even if the situation wasn’t her fault, there was nothing innocent about the look she gave me.
She knew exactly what she was doing to me right now.
“How sore is your ass?” My gaze travelled from the dip of her waist to the curve of her backside.
“My ass?”
“Yes, Chantel. Your ass. How sore is it?”
A light, intoxicating blush crept up her neck. “Not that sore.”
“Good.” Not that it would’ve stopped me. My conscience had already packed up and left. “Get it over here.”
“Why?”
“No questions. Come here.”
She set the ice on the counter and glided toward me, the short hem of her dress exaggerating the long, lean line of her legs, each step a goddamn seduction. When she stopped in front of me, her gaze was a quiet dare.
Her hazel eyes glittered. A light dusting of freckles crossed the bridge of her nose. The sharp lines of her collarbones were begging to be bitten. And her nipples were still tight and fucking inviting under her slip of a dress.
She wasn’t pretty. Wasn’t beautiful. She was fucking devastating. And she was smarter than me, which only made my craving for her worse.
Chantel was a challenge. The best kind of game. And I had no interest in resisting.
“Show me,” I said through gritted teeth, need clawing at my insides as I motioned for her to turn.
She raised an eyebrow. Then, head high and gaze defiant, she mumbled in French and rotated. Grudging or not, it was compliance, and it set my blood on fire.
This view of her was no less impressive. From the gleam of her dark hair, the elegant line of her spine, the flare of her hips, all the way down to the slender arches of her feet. I could have stared at her for days.
A tremor rolled through her, but I made her wait. Watched the rise and fall of her shoulders, the twitch of her fingers as she tried to anticipate what came next.
When I finally grabbed her by the waist she gasped, soft and breathy.
That sound. God-fucking-damn, that sound. It shot through me, turning my cock to steel and obliterating what was left of my resolve.
I dropped to my knees behind her, eye level with the curve of her ass. She swayed as my hands ran down over her hips, her thighs, feeling the pull of tight muscle under thin fabric.
When I reached the hem I stopped and let the anticipation stretch, holding her in place while her breath sped and her hands clenched at her sides.
She was trembling now. Fuck, so was I. The need to touch her, fuck her, was a demanding pressure under my skin.
The soft material of her dress crushed in my fist as I drove it up over her hips, exposing the bare cheeks of her ass, beautifully framed by the strip of her thong.
She was perfect. Every smooth, flawless fucking inch of her.
I leaned forward and brushed my mouth over the bruise already forming under her skin.
“I’m sorry you got hurt,” I murmured against her flesh. Then brought my hand down hard on the opposite cheek.
“Oh, fuck,” she moaned.
She didn’t flinch or pull away or tell me to stop. She fucking moaned. The sound was low and wanting and went straight to my cock.
I spanked her again, her flesh giving beautifully under my palm. The mark bloomed pink, and the sight of it nearly undid me. “You should apologize too.”
“I would,” she said, panting. “But right now, I’m not sorry at all.”
“You will be.”
My hand found the crease where her ass met her thigh, and she cried out, ragged and desperate. I brought my mouth to the pink skin my palm left behind, and I dragged my tongue over it slowly, savoring her. The faint scent of honey clung to her skin and mixed with the smell of her arousal.
That was it. The last of my control shattered. I spun her to face me, her hands landing on my shoulders to steady herself.
“You better hold on, enchanté.”
I hoisted her leg over my shoulder and licked a slow path up the inside of her thigh. When I reached her panties, I pressed my nose into her and breathed her in.
The scent of her filled me—sex and sugar and everything I was starved for.
“Please.” Her hand closed in my hair, holding on, exactly the way I’d told her to.
She was so good. I couldn’t tease her anymore, and I couldn’t wait any fucking longer, either. I slid her thong aside, took a handful of her ass, and buried my face in her pussy.
My mouth flooded with the taste of her as I stroked a long and slow path up her center. When my tongue reached her clit, I circled it once, twice, and then started back at the beginning to do it all over again. And again.
I feasted on her cunt like I’d been starved of her for years, ravenous and desperate. The quiver of her legs, her breathy gasps of pleasure, and her hands clenching my hair—it was all so goddamn intoxicating.
When I sucked her clit into my mouth, flicking hard with my tongue, her gasps turned to desperate cries. Until, finally, she broke apart.
I held her through it, stroking her softly, then slid two fingers inside her before she’d fully come down.
“Saint Esprit. C’est trop, je peux plus en prendre. Please, Dylan, my God,” she begged, her voice hoarse and shaking, languages tangled together.
I loved that she’d lost track of which one to use.
I didn’t let up. My fingers worked her, fast and hard, finding the spot she responded to most. Staying there, I stroked her through to another orgasm until her entire body spasmed and her leg slipped from my shoulder.
I caught her around the waist and pulled her down to the floor with me, her body draped over mine.
She relaxed into my chest, her breathing slowing. “I should take a vacation more often.”
I laughed. “Count me in.”