Chapter 32 I Tried to Forget #2
My heart beats wildly, and I have to work to steady my breath.
“When I first came back to Stonewall after my fathers retired, all I wanted was to make them proud,” Dylan continues, his voice soft. “To prove I could lead their company as well as they did. I didn’t want to acquire another asset. I wanted to preserve something special.”
As he speaks, something cracks open inside me—a truth I’ve been suffocating for months.
My design on Ivy tonight, watching the fabric move and breathe exactly as I’d dreamed, that electric rush of pure creation flooding my veins…
it wasn’t just satisfaction. It was oxygen after drowning.
My fingers still tingle from sketching those initial lines, the inspiration that wouldn’t let me go until I’d captured it.
I’d convinced myself Dylan had stolen something precious from me, but the opposite is true. He’s been holding it safe, waiting for me to remember who I am. Not just a designer—a creator. Not just ambitious—passionate. The realization cuts through me like a blade, sharp and clarifying.
“I thought if I let Left Turn go, it would be like giving a piece of my father away,” I say softly.
“But running it isn’t my passion, Dylan.
It never was. My father wouldn’t want this for me—missing Hazel’s moments, burying my own dreams to preserve his.
” I take a shaky breath. “What happened tonight with the dress… as angry as I was, it made me realize what I’ve been missing. What I’ve been pretending not to want.”
“Left Turn’s legacy is important, not only to the industry but to you. Your father built something remarkable, and it deserves to survive. But surviving doesn’t have to mean sacrificing your dreams or your time with Hazel.”
I bite my lip, trying to process everything. “What exactly are you proposing?”
“A partnership. Stonewall has the resources and infrastructure you need, but Left Turn has the legacy, the reputation, and the independent credibility that could help us reach artists we might never connect with otherwise. Together, we’d be stronger than either company could be alone.
” He takes a small step closer. “You wouldn’t have to carry the entire burden anymore. ”
The pull of possibility settles over me. Is it that simple? Could I have it all—my father’s legacy preserved, my own dreams revived, and time for my daughter?
“It sounds too good to be true,” I say softly, moving closer to him.
“It won’t be perfect,” he admits. “There will be challenges, compromises. But we’d face them together. As partners, in every sense of the word, if that’s what you want.”
My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure he can hear it and swallow down the emotion that threatens to surge forward. “You’re an asshole,” I say finally.
He blinks, clearly not expecting that response. “What?”
“You’re an absolute asshole.” I step closer to him. “You steal my sketches, you make business decisions for me, you show up at midnight with these grand declarations—”
“Morgan, I—”
“And the worst part is,” I cut him off, my voice softening, “I’m in love with you too.”
His hands find my waist, hesitant at first, then more certain. “Does this mean you forgive me?”
“I’m thinking about it.” But I can’t keep the smile from my face.
He pulls me closer. The kiss is slow, deep, deliberate. His lips move against mine with a tenderness that makes my knees weak. One of his hands slides up my back while the other cups my face, his thumb brushing my cheek.
I pour everything into the kiss—all the frustration, the longing, the complicated feelings I’ve been fighting for months. His lip ring is cool against my mouth, a contrast to the heat building between us.
The door creaks open and Hazel peeks out with her sleepy eyes. “Do you still need a booster seat?” she asks, with a bit of a whistle because of her missing front tooth.
As I dissolve into laughter, Dylan mutters. “Rachel is fired.”
He reaches down and picks Hazel up, inspecting her tooth. “Looks like the tooth fairy is going to pay someone a visit.”
She tries to look excited but she’s losing the battle with the pain meds. “Did you already put your tooth under your pillow?” he asks.
She shakes her head and then Dylan looks to me, a silent question in his eyes.
I push the door open further and we step inside.
Following Dylan to Hazel’s room, I can see so clearly he loves my daughter.
There’s nothing performative about his actions.
The way he holds her protectively and the way she lets her cheek rest against his shoulder tells me she trusts him.
He sets her down gently in her bed, tucking the blankets around her. I hand him the little pillow with her tooth in it and he tucks it under her pillow while she watches, a smile on her face. I give her a kiss on the forehead. “Sweet dreams, Haze.”
Before we turn the corner Hazel asks, “Are you really going to fire Rachel?”
I can see the wheels turning in his head “No. Something worse.”
Hazel’s already asleep but I ask for her. “What does that mean?”
Dylan smiles. “We’ll talk about it in the morning. Right now,” he lifts his hand to rest against the wall beside my head, “I want to see the tattoo you’ve been hiding from me.”
He flashes a wicked smile.
Dylan’s mouth is hot and relentless on mine as he backs me into the hallway wall, hands locked under my thighs.
I wrap my legs around his waist on instinct, my heels digging into his back, my dress already bunched high on my hips.
His cock grinds against me through his jeans—thick, hard, deliberate.
I moan into his mouth.
He swallows it greedily.
“Jesus, Morgan,” he growls, his voice hoarse. “You feel so fucking good.”
He rolls his hips, dragging his thick length over the exact place I’m desperate for him. My head falls against the wall with a thud while his lips graze my neck.
He pulls back just enough to breathe, lips wet, like kissing me is the only way he remembers how to survive.
“Remember when I said I was very good at taking direction?”
I nod, dazed, heart thundering.
“Then tell me what you want.”
I catch his gaze—dark, dilated, reverent—and I don’t hold back.
“Take me to bed.”
His groan vibrates against my chest.
He lifts me with a growl and carries me through the hallway like a man on a mission, kissing me in frantic bursts between steps, like he can’t decide whether to worship me or fuck me senseless.
When my back hits the mattress, I’m panting. My thighs are damp and trembling.
He stands over me, shirt hanging loose from his shoulders, looking at me like he’s about to drop to his knees and pray.
“Tell me what to do,” he says, voice gravel and honey.
“Take off my dress.”
He kneels on the bed and peels the straps down one by one, his hands slow and reverent revealing the small tattoo between my shoulder blades.
A crooked black hanger, one strap twisted, the metal wire bent just enough to look imperfect.
The rest of the fabric slips off my shoulders and pools at my hips, leaving me in nothing but a lace bra and panties and flushed skin.
“Fashion school,” I mutter. “Too much tequila. I thought it was ironic at the time.”
A single fingertip traces the outline like it means something. Like I mean something.
“I love it,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my skin. “It’s exactly you. Smart, messy, brave. A little reckless.”
He kisses it again, soft, and lingering. Then moves down my back. Lower. Lower.
And lower.
“Now what?” he breathes against my skin.
I close my eyes, heartbeat quickening.
“Take off my panties,” I whisper.
He slides them down my legs with both hands, kneeling between my thighs like he’s been invited to worship, not fuck. When he looks up at me, I can see it—how much he wants to know me like this. Not just my body.
Me.
“Tell me what you want.” He waits, pulse thrumming in his neck, a desperate, needy look in his eyes.
“Kiss my thighs.”
He does, parting them with his hands and pressing open-mouthed kisses to the soft skin, the muscle. His breath hot and shaky. His tongue flicking out, teasing just to see me twitch.
“And now?”
“I want your mouth on my pussy.”
He groans—deep, broken—and lowers his mouth to me.
“Make me come.” I grip his hair.
The second his tongue slides through me, my entire body jolts.
He moans into me like he’s tasting heaven. And does it again.
“God, you’re so wet for me,” he rasps between strokes, his tongue dragging slow and firm. “You like this, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I breathe. “Yes, God—don’t stop.”
His hands tighten around my thighs, holding me open as his mouth moves lower, then up to flick over my clit, teasing me to the brink. Again and again. Until I’m grinding against his face, desperate and shaking.
“So fucking greedy,” he whispers, gripping me tighter.
His dirty words threaten to undo me like pulling the end of a ribbon to open me up.
“You’re so close,” he says, licking a slow circle. “Say it. Say how bad you want it.”
“So bad,” I gasp, fisting his hair. “Don’t stop, Dylan. Please—”
He groans and dives in, flattening his tongue and sucking me hard until I cry out, my back arching, orgasm crashing through me like lightning. I can barely breathe. My thighs clench around his shoulders as I come undone on his tongue.
When I finally release my grip on his hair, he kisses his way up my body, chest rising and falling against mine. His erection drags through my wetness, sending another jolt through me.
I push him over, sliding down his chest, kissing each inch, tasting myself on his skin. When I reach the waistband of his jeans, I tug them down and his cock springs free—thick, flushed, already leaking.
I wrap my hand around him and stroke once, twice—then lower my mouth over him, letting him slide deep onto my tongue.
His moan is instant, raw, sharp.
“Fuck, Morgan, that—” He grits his teeth, head pressed into the pillow, fists tangled in the sheets, unable to finish his sentence.