Chapter Eight
Chantel
Dylan settled me over his solid body and I melted into him, still buzzing from the high of two orgasms.
Crisse d’ostie. Two. When was the last time a man had managed to give me even one?
Forever ago, it seemed. Even then it had taken a lot more time and effort—most of it mine.
The men I’d been with had all treated sex like it was a transaction planned solely for them. I was just there to facilitate. A prop in someone else’s experience.
Dylan had made me the focus of every single second.
I wasn’t quite sure what to do with that. The warmth of it sat in a place I wasn’t used to letting anyone reach, and part of me wanted to brush it off the way I would have with anyone else. Chalk it up to chemistry, file it under fun, and move on.
But I couldn’t. My body was still humming with the memory of his hands, his mouth, the way he’d read me like he already knew what I needed. He was already under my skin and wasn’t leaving.
My backside was still stinging, the imprint of his hand like a brand on my skin, but it didn’t detract from the peace washing over me. If anything, it deepened it.
“I’ll return the favor,” I promised against his chest. “Just give me some time to recover.”
“No.” His hand stroked down my back, sending a fresh shock of tingles across my skin. “That was perfect. I got off on your pleasure.”
His warm brown eyes were full of something more than lust. Something almost reverent.
Merde. That was dangerous territory for a man whose deepest connection to me was how easily he made me come.
“The bulge in your pants says otherwise.” I smiled, forcing lightness into my tone.
“Trust me. Having you come on my face was very rewarding.”
“Dylan—”
“Chantel.” The way he said my name left no room for argument. “Who’s in charge here?”
“You.” The word was a whisper. A confession I wasn’t ready to make.
The look he gave me said he already knew. It was satisfaction and restraint in equal measure. He was perfectly content to deny himself if it meant staying in control.
I settled back against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, and letting the moment fall into contentment.
The hardwood floor was cool against my shins, the kitchen bright but quiet around us. I took a slow breath, Dylan’s cologne mixing with the clean chemical scent of Jamie’s floors.
A chill settled over me.
We were in Jamie and Eric’s house, with its photographs and its small domestic details, where they planned to build a life together. Every inch of it a reminder of the life Dylan had wanted for himself.
Fuck, maybe he still did.
“Are you thinking about her?” I kept my voice easy, no edge to it.
He shifted under me, swiping a hand over his face. “Not when my mouth was on you. But now…yeah. Fuck, I’m a bastard.”
“Yes, you are.” I settled my chin back on his chest, my voice softening around a smile. “But you’re a dirty bastard. So that makes you the good kind.”
“That’s a generous interpretation.”
“It’s an accurate one.” I pushed upright, my soaked core pressing over his erection. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Dylan. Neither did I.”
“We’re in her space. If she knew…”
“She won’t.” I met his gaze and fought the urge to rub myself over him. To ignore the regret in his tone and just lower his zipper and have my way with him.
As if reading my mind, his hands came up to my hips, locking me in place.
“I’m not going to pretend this isn’t complicated,” I said through a sigh. “But nothing about this is wrong. Please don’t call it that. Not again.”
He looked at me for a long moment, something working behind his eyes. “It doesn’t sit right with me.”
“I know.” And I did. The guilt wasn’t about what we’d done, it was about where, and what that said about the part of him still tied to Jamie.
I wasn’t going to argue with that. “But for what it’s worth, I have no complaints about anything that just happened.
That was…” I shook my head, searching for the right word.
“I’ve never had anyone pay that kind of attention to me. Like the whole point was my pleasure.”
His expression softened, just slightly. “It was.”
“I know.” I smiled. “I could tell.”
He held my gaze another minute, then sat up, bringing me with him. “Come on.” The authority was back in his voice, quieter now but still there. “Off the floor.”
He got to his feet and pulled me up after him, steadying me when my legs made their protest known. His hands stayed at my waist a moment longer than necessary, and I appreciated that more than I would have admitted.
“Sit.” He nodded toward a chair at the kitchen table.
“You’re very bossy for someone who just—”
“Sit down, enchanté.”
I sat, the hard edge of the wood reigniting the sting of my wounded flesh.
He moved around the kitchen with the ease of someone who’d been here before, opening the right cabinet on the first try, reaching for a glass without searching.
He ran a dishtowel under the tap, wrung it out with one hand, and grabbed the glass with the other.
Every movement was quiet and sure, like taking care of someone was second nature to him.
Had Jamie ever noticed this about him? Mon dieu, I needed to stop torturing myself with unanswerable questions. Especially ones that made no difference anyway.
He came back and handed me the water first. “Drink this.”
I drank, grateful for the cool slide of it against my strained throat.
He crouched in front of me, urging me to the edge of the seat before moving the strip of my thong aside and pressing the cold cloth between my legs. His hands were careful now, methodical. Nothing like the hands that had been on me ten minutes ago. Both versions of him were equally intriguing.
“Sore?” he murmured, his gaze fixed on mine.
Unable to form the right words, I shook my head.
“Want some more ice for your ass?”
I shook my head again, new heat sliding through me. God, I wanted him—all of him, not just his mouth or his hands.
I took another sip of water and watched him watch me do it.
His eyes tracked the glass to my lips and stayed there, intent in a way that had nothing urgent in it anymore. Just attention. Pure, focused attention, the kind that made you feel like the only thing in the room worth looking at.
It was one of the most intimate things anyone had ever done for me. And he was just watching me drink water.
“Better?” His eyes finally moved up to mine.
“Yes, thank you.”
He smoothed my panties back into place and stood, taking the glass from my hand, and looked down at me with an expression I couldn’t read.
“What?”
“Nothing.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re going to bruise.”
“Probably.” I smiled up at him. “But you’re not sorry about that, are you?”
“Not one bit.”
God, neither was I.