Chapter Eleven
Sean
Dylan’s place was small. A bungalow on a quiet street, its porch light on despite the afternoon sun. I let myself in like he’d told me to.
The house smelled like him. Linen and cedar and something musky underneath. I dropped my bag by the door and ambled my way to the kitchen, where I found exactly what I needed in the fridge.
I knocked the cap off the beer with the edge of the counter and stood there for a minute, drinking it, listening to the silence of someone else’s house.
What the hell was I doing here?
I’d had Dylan’s number since New Year’s Eve. Almost eight goddamn months. Glenn had slipped it to me at the party, after watching me watch Dylan all night.
And I’d done nothing with it.
I’d typed messages I never sent. Talked myself out of it more times than I could count, telling myself he wasn’t interested. That I wasn’t going to make some closeted small-town cop’s life harder by chasing him. Telling myself a hundred different things that all amounted to the same damn thing.
I was a coward.
Sean Brennan, the loud one, the wild one, the guy who walked into rooms full of strangers and walked out with whoever caught his eye—too fucking afraid to dial a phone.
The wedding invitation had been a handy excuse to come back to Copper Ridge. Even though I knew damn well Dylan wouldn’t be there. I thought I’d party for a bit, build up the courage to finally call him.
Instead, I found the closest bar. Like fucking usual.
Then he’d walked in, in uniform, looking exhausted, angry, and so fucking gorgeous it had hurt to breathe.
It still did, even standing alone in his kitchen.
I drained the beer and wandered toward the back of the house, sliding the patio door open to warm afternoon air, a small yard, and an even smaller tent in the corner, flap open like it was waiting for someone.
I drifted toward it because I had nowhere else to be and the silence inside the house was getting too loud.
I crawled inside, folded myself in as best I could, and closed my eyes.
Just for a minute…
I startled awake, sun in my eyes, the room like a fucking sauna. Wait…not a room…the tent. And Dylan, crouched down, looking at me like I was the biggest idiot he’d seen all week.
“Hello, sir.” I smiled.
“Aren’t you too hot in there?”
“Yeah, a bit.” I leaned up on one elbow and dragged a hand through my beard, trying to get my bearings. “Didn’t notice when I crawled in. I was three sheets to the wind.”
“Sober now?”
“Not entirely.” I squinted up at him, his face a portrait of irritation. “Sober enough to notice how good you look, even without the uniform.”
He stood, shooting me a scowl. “I was going to feed you barbecue—if you can manage to get yourself out of there.”
“Sounds good.” I was hungry, but not for barbecue. “Mind if I grab a shower while you’re cooking?”
His throat worked as he swallowed, but that was all the reaction I got. “Fine,” he said, and stepped out of my way.
Getting out of that tent was a goddamn comedy. I was all elbows and knees and cursing, the whole thing rocking around me like it had taken offense to my presence. And somewhere above me, Dylan was laughing. Actually laughing.
I’d have gotten myself into a hundred stupid, drunken situations just to hear that sound again.
“What’re you laughing at?” I finally got upright and slung my arm over his shoulders like we’d been doing this for years. “You think it’s funny to watch me suffer?”
“You call that suffering?” He pushed my arm off and headed back to the house.
I followed him inside, my limbs heavy, my mind circling every mistake I’d made, and a pain lodged under my ribs.
Dylan caught my expression as he slid the door shut behind us. “You good?”
“Yeah.” I held his gaze. “It just hurts a little more each time you reject me.”
His brows drew tight and my stomach dropped.
Shit. That was too much. I was always too fucking much.
“It hurts right here,” I said, pointing to my heart, then dragged my hand down my chest, over my stomach, and cupped the growing bulge in my jeans. “And right here.” I thrust my hips for emphasis and laughed like an asshole.
He didn’t laugh back. “Bathroom is down the hall. First door on the right.”
I dropped my hand from my dick. “Are you always in a bad mood?”
“I’m not in a bad mood. You’re just a pain in my ass. I don’t even know why I invited you here.”
Liar. Beautiful, gorgeous, terrible liar.
I took a step closer, just to see what he’d do. “Really?”
He didn’t move. Didn’t shift even an inch. And then, without warning, his hand was on the back of my neck, and he was pulling me in so fast I forgot how to breathe.
“Shower, now,” he growled.
“Are you joining me?” I tried to smile but failed—too fucking turned on to pretend otherwise.
“Stop asking questions and do what I fucking tell you.”
I groaned, the sound loud and nowhere near controlled.
His grip tightened, his breath hitched, and the press of his hard cock against mine was a promise I was not equipped to handle on my feet.
Dylan McCoy was going to wreck me. Or fix me. Or both, depending on what came next. And standing there with his hand on my neck and his eyes locked on mine, I didn’t care which one it was. I’d take the wrecking. I’d take anything he wanted to give me.
He let go and led me down the hall in silence.
The bathroom was small. With both of us in it, there was nowhere to hide.
He turned on the water and stood with his back to me while it warmed up, and I knew he was doing it on purpose. Letting me look. Letting the anticipation build.
Fuck waiting.
I stripped fast. First my shirt, then my jeans and boxers down in one go. By the time he turned around, I was already naked and hard and not even trying to hide it.
His eyes went straight to my dick and stayed there. I grinned at him, cocky as hell.
Until he started undressing.
And every shred of bravado I’d been holding onto evaporated.
He took his time, and it was the best fucking show of my life. His shirt went up over his abs, over his ribs, over his head. His belt went next, the leather snapping free with a sound that cut clean through the noise of the shower.
I bit my bottom lip and watched. Couldn’t look away. By the time his boxers hit the floor, I was stroking myself, precum already beading at my tip.
“Get in,” he said.
“You first.”
“The only way this happens is if you take my lead.” He held my gaze. “You know that.”
I knew. Of course I knew. I’d known from the moment I’d first met him. Dylan McCoy didn’t give up control for anyone.
But this wasn’t about surrender. Not really.
“You’ve still got all the power here, trust me. I’m not asking you to give it up.” I took a careful step closer. “I’m just asking you to let me help you forget about the day. Forget about the mess. Forget about being Sergeant Dylan McCoy and just feel good for a little while.”
Still, he hesitated.
Maybe because we both knew what I was really asking for was trust. And trust was a hell of a lot harder than surrender.
“Please, Dylan.” I let him hear the want, the need, the months of staring at his number. All of it.
He turned with a heavy sigh and stepped in.