Chapter 25
Dallas and I spend the entire weekend in bed.
We literally can’t get close enough. I’ve discovered a new side of myself and she is greedy for everything this beautiful, virile beefcake hunk of a man who feels like he might just be my weekend soulmate has to give me.
I love making him come, go figure. I love the feel of his big cock coming inside me, bursting with his hot, milky beauty.
The triumph of it empowers me beyond words and makes me crave more, and more. I’m as starved for him as he is for me.
We’ve made love non-stop. He ordered us room service and fed me.
We took a long bath in the jacuzzi tub and talked about our favorite things.
And the painful things too. We have a lot in common when it comes to some of the details of our pasts, and nothing in common when it comes to others.
We’ve lived very different lives, but we both understand loss a little too well.
I love the taste of him, and his man-scent, of earthy woodsmoke and salty, exotic spices. I love the hard, ridged textures of his body. I love tracing his tattoos with my fingers as I lick his skin.
I love offering myself to him, tempting him and giving him whatever he wants.
And he wants everything. He’s endlessly, relentlessly hot for me.
He hates to pull out, but when I get too sore, he’ll wash me gently and kiss me, murmuring sweet and dirty words, easing me into another dreamy rise, forcing more of the whole-body pleasure he insists on.
When we sleep, which we haven’t done much of, he wakes me up by licking my pussy until I’m moaning his name and pleading for him to take me again.
I wanted to make him come that way too. It was the wildest thing.
I can’t help that I turn into a sex addict around Dallas Wilder.
I love drinking him, so much I hardly recognize myself.
It feels like he’s nourishing me with his own crazy essence, enlightening me, instilling me with a power usually reserved for mythical creatures.
I’ve only done it once but I want to do it again.
But right now his big body is wrapped around mine, spooning me, still inside me. We’re recovering from yet another intense, soul-entwining orgasm.
“Amelie?”
“Yeah?”
“When we get to New York, I want you to stay with me.” His tone is patient, like he’s expecting me to protest, but also has that sureness to it, the one that reminds me that he runs Fortune 500 companies and does billion dollar deals every day of the week without breaking a sweat. “I want you to move in with me.”
Move in with him? I turn to him, and his barely-softened cock slides from my body with a gush. “Dallas—”
“Sadie can come too, if you want. It’ll be a lot more comfortable than her sister’s couch. I have seven bedrooms.”
“Seven?”
“Don’t protest. We’re too deep into this now to protest. I told you. I’ll take care of you.”
It’s that same assurance he keeps giving me. When we’re having sex, I love the sound of it. But when it comes to the other stuff, like real life, it tends to bounce off my forcefield instead of fully absorbing. “Dallas—”
“I know it’s fast. I know how fucking fast this is happening. I don’t care.” He traces the backs of his fingers along my cheekbone. His expression is fierce, and intense. “Amelie.”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
I’m a little shocked, of course I am. It’s Sunday night. We met exactly two days ago. Which seems impossible. We’ve spent the past whatever-number-of-hours getting increasingly and outrageously down and dirty, in ways I didn’t even know was possible. “Dallas—”
“Don’t say anything. I don’t expect you to say it back. But I do: I fucking love you.” It’s too much, of course, and too fast. I don’t how to reply to him. “Do you want to know something?”
“What?”
“I’ve always had a head for numbers. So much of a head for numbers that I didn’t really have room for anything else in there.
My parents thought I lacked emotion as a child.
They sent me to specialists and therapists to see if I was ‘on the spectrum.’ It turned out I wasn’t.
The therapists told my parents it was just a case of me being guarded because—and this was putting it kindly—there was a lot of emotion going on around me.
I was living in a world where everyone else’s emotions, and one person’s in particular, took up all the bandwidth I could handle.
Numbers weren’t emotional. They were safe and predictable and easy to read.
They weren’t manipulative. They gave me a kind of peace to retreat into, which sounds strange now. ”
I run my fingers along his jaw, which is rough with stubble. “It doesn’t sound strange at all.”
“I’m telling you this because I want you to know how different this is for me than anything that’s ever happened to me before.
There’s beauty in the certainty of numbers, and there’s beauty in the certainty of an equation’s solution, because they’re no questioning it.
It’s either right or it’s wrong.” He’s staring deep into my eyes.
“You, Amelie, are like a complicated algorithm’s perfect solution. ”
This makes me smile. “I am? How?”
“I’m sure of you. Until now, everyone—every person I met—was wrong.
As clear as day, in black and white: wrong.
The equation didn’t add up. But with you, it does.
I know it’s hard to believe and I know love isn’t math, but for me it’s just as easy to see.
When I saw you, I could see it. And there was no need to question it.
Because I knew for a fact that the equation added up. ”
A light laugh escapes me. I get what he’s explaining to me. But it’s a lot to take in. “I can barely add two and two together,” I confess.
He’s so quietly spellbound. And willing to be as patient as he needs to be. “How about I do the math and you paint the pictures.”
“Deal.”
But he’s still deeply, staunchly persistent. “And when we get to New York, I want you to stay with me.”
I watch his face, so familiar to me now, and so … anguished. Because he doesn’t know if I’ll say yes to him. And neither do I. “I’m not sure—”
“You’re doing it again.” He’s gentle about it though. “I knew you would.”
“Doing what?”
“Saying no when you should be saying yes.”
Damn it. Why does everyone accuse me of this all the time?
It annoys me enough to lash out at him just to prove him wrong.
I can be spontaneous and free-wheeling, whenever I want to be, thank you very much.
“Fine. I’ll stay with you. For a while.” But then it occurs to me that he might be using reverse psychology.
And he’s gazing at me with those damn blue-green eyes like maybe he actually does love me—as much as you can love a person you’ve known for two days. “Good.”
“Happy now?”
He grins at me, that killer smile that melts something in me I’m not sure I can handle in liquid form. “As a matter of fact, I am happy now. Happier than you could ever know.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, I’m glad someone is.”
This makes him laugh and—damn him—I love his laugh. It’s deep and sexy and it makes me want to do that thing again where I suck on him and drive him crazy with lust until he’s—“You’re happy too, admit it. And you’re going to be a whole lot happier when I show you New York.”
It reminds me of our plans to see more of the city. “I didn’t really get to show you much of New Orleans.”
“Yeah, we never quite got to the river cruise. You’ve been too busy jumping my bones 24/7.”
I push at him playfully. “You’ve been jumping my bones.”
“And I’m about to jump your bones again, baby girl.
” His fingers rove very intimately as he kisses me again.
Maybe more than anything else—although it’s hard to rate these things—I love this hotly mischievous side to him, the one that makes me wonder if he’s ever given it to anyone else in the world.
If his math equation confession is anything to go by, I get this deeply elated feeling that he hasn’t. That it’s purely for me. “Boo?”
“Yeah?”
“There are no conditions. You can leave whenever you want. But you’re not going to want to. I’m going to show you the best time you’ve ever had.”
I don’t know what’s happening or how I could be falling this fast for a man I hardly know—even though it’s true that he knows me better than maybe anyone ever has.
It scares me, like so many things do. Of course I’m second guessing all of it.
The moving to New York when I have thirty-five dollars in my bank account and no job.
The lofty assurances he tosses out like raindrops to a piece of dirt that’s too parched to drink it in.
The promises to rely on him … when attempting to rely on people has never worked out for me and in fact has caused me more heartbreak than anything else ever has.
The feeling that I’m getting in way, way over my head.
But all those concerns are going to have to wait. Because Dallas Wilder is not only making me come again—hard—he’s kissing me like I’m the most beautiful thing that’s ever happened to him.
A little bit like he’s the most beautiful thing that’s ever happened to me.
But what happens when he breaks my heart, like everyone always does?