7. ey
Seven
Shelley
Y ou know, I’ve imagined making out with Dallas Adams in dozens of different ways, in hundreds of different places, but getting tangled up together on the driver’s seat of his truck, parked way out of the city on the edge of the rocky desert, is not somewhere I ever pictured.
It’s beautiful out here. Harsh and alien and wild, with thick clouds gathering overhead in a silent promise. Lightning flashes, strobing behind the clouds, and thunder rumbles, low and growling. The sun has slipped away again, the daylight dimming.
We barely notice. We’re too wrapped up in each other, desperate and moaning between kisses, the truck windows fogging all around us.
The driver’s seat creaks loudly as Dallas leans back, tugging me with him, encouraging me to sprawl over his magnificent chest. He’s so freaking sculpted under these fancy weatherman clothes—it’s like laying on top of a living marble statue.
And he’s hard everywhere. My breath catches when I feel it, my hips instinctively grinding down.
“Ngh,” Dallas says, gripping a handful of my hair and tugging playfully. “Fuck. That feels good.”
Yeah. It really, really does. Turns out that pining after someone for six months, dreaming of them every night in bed, memorizing their face and voice and figure… that doesn’t automatically mean that the real thing will pale in comparison to those fevered daydreams.
Not when the real thing is Dallas Adams, sexy weatherman extraordinaire.
Sometimes the real thing is even better.
“Shelley,” Dallas mutters now, trailing hot kisses up my throat and pausing to nibble on my earlobe. Molten heat twists in my belly, and I whimper, squirming on his lap. “ Shelley . God, you have no idea how much I’ve wanted this.”
Oh, I really think I might.
“Your hair,” I mumble, incoherent. My fingers weave through the thick, dark strands of his hair, twisting and tugging. It’s surprisingly soft and bouncy, and it smells faintly of fennel. “Your glasses, Dallas. Your chin .”
He laughs, low and rich as molasses. And when the weatherman steals my lips, kissing me deep and long, all the nerve endings in my body tingle. I whimper, clinging on to his shirt for dear life and kissing him back.
Outside the truck, there’s another crash of thunder, loud enough to vibrate the hard dirt where we’re parked.
Inside the truck, we’re rearranging, laughing together at the clumsiness of our limbs as Dallas tugs my legs up one by one and coaxes me to lay back against the wheel.
BEEEEEEEEEEP.
I sit bolt upright, shrieking, and the horn falls silent. Beneath me, Dallas is weak with laughter, his body slumped and shaking. I smack his shoulder, equal parts shocked and amused.
“The horn! You did that on purpose.”
“I didn’t, I swear.” Dallas squeezes my hips, his dimples out on full display. For a man who claims he didn’t just set me up, the weatherman looks downright gleeful. Who knew there was a dormant prankster inside the charming Southern gentleman, just waiting to be let loose?
“Come on,” he says, shoving the truck door open. “We’ll have more room outside.”
“More room for what?” I ask, but I already have an inkling. My heart gallops as I swing one awkward leg over Dallas’s lap and hop down onto the packed dirt, landing with shaky muscles.
The weatherman unfolds himself out of the truck too, moving much more smoothly than I did. At least , I tell myself, he looks as flushed and bright-eyed as I feel.
Out here, the air smells like cinnamon and dry earth and rusty old pennies. The clouds rumble and churn overhead, getting ready to split open and soak the ground for miles around.
“We’re gonna get caught in the storm,” I warn as Dallas leads me around to the front of his truck and lifts me up with a hand on either side of my waist. He makes it seem easy too, with no grunting or puffing as he scoops me onto the hood.
Excitement zips through me, and I smile up at the weatherman, giddy with happiness and relief.
This is it. We’re finally together.
“Oh well.” He grins back, goofy and unrestrained. “It’s just a little rain.”
Even though we’re out in the middle of nowhere, miles and miles from any other people, I still glance around quickly before lifting my hips and letting Dallas tug my black pants and underwear down my thighs.
He tugs them all the way to my sneakers, then mutters something to himself and stops to untie my laces, my clothes bunched up around my ankles.
I bite my lip against a laugh, the truck hood warm and damp against my bare ass.
“This is one of those things,” I say, as Dallas curses quietly and tugs at a knot, “that we’ll get smoother at with practice.”
He shoots me a rueful smile, dropping one of my sneakers onto the ground and moving on to the second. “Let’s hope so.”
To cheer him up, I tug my t-shirt and bra off too, lobbing them gently at his chest. The weatherman glances up, then does the most gratifying double take of my life.
“Huh,” Dallas says. His hands have gone still on my sneaker laces, but when I clear my throat, he gets back to work with new urgency before finally dropping my second shoe to the ground.
The breeze is fresh as it gusts over my nipples.
When the city’s favorite gentleman finally straightens up and drags his hungry gaze over me from head to toe, I’m buck ass nude on the hood of his truck and freaking desperate for him to touch me.
Dallas stares, his chest heaving.
My pulse thuds everywhere—in my wrists, my throat, my clit.
“Please.” Gathering my courage, I drag my bare feet up onto the hood and slide my legs apart, showing the weatherman the glossy, swollen evidence of how much I want him. “Please, Dallas.”
His throat bobs.
Dallas clears his throat, plucks his glasses off, and leans around to toss them onto the driver’s seat. “Don’t let me sit on those later.”
“ Dallas .”
“Okay, okay.” Stepping close, he sets a big, manly hand on each of my knees, pressing them gently but firmly wider. As he stares down between my legs, he draws in a deep inhale, then gusts out a long breath.
“This,” he says at last, “is what I’ve been waiting for. You are what I’ve been waiting for, Shelley.”
Likewise. Oh my god, likewise.
His dark head ducks down, broad shoulders nudging between my spread legs. My hands plunge into his hair again, as my back crashes down against the still-warm hood. Like a puppet cut from its strings.
The first long, slow swipe of hot tongue makes my spine arch and my teeth grit. Every muscle in my body is tensed.
“Dallas,” I pant. “Don’t tease. I’m gonna explode.”
His hum vibrates the most sensitive parts of my body. My toes curl; my eyes squeeze shut then open again as specks of warm rain start to dot my cheeks.
Then the weatherman grips my ass in both hands, squeezing possessively—and with a ragged growl, sucks my clit into his mouth.
“Oh!”
My hips buck up, so suddenly that Dallas flattens a hand over my lower belly and pushes me back down, pinning me to his truck. He’s so much bigger and stronger than me, so in control, and it leaves me breathless in the best way. Whining and gasping, I writhe beneath his lips and tongue.
“So good,” Dallas mutters against my folds, licking and nibbling and sucking every over-sensitive inch of my pussy. “So fucking good, Shelley. You’re sweet and salty at the same time.”
“Best popcorn flavor.”
Dallas’s laugh makes my body arch and roll, seeking more of his touch. More of the primal, possessive way he claims my body as his own.
“Exactly.”
As the rain comes down faster, harder, plunking off the truck roof and drumming on the glass windshield, soaking into my hair and trickling down my face and shoulders, Dallas bends over and feasts on my pussy, seemingly oblivious. Thunder rumbles, but my nerve endings are already jangling.
An extra cold raindrop slides over the hard bead of my nipple, making me grunt and arch my chest for more. Down between my legs, Dallas’s white shirt is going see-through, clinging to the muscles of his back so tightly that I can see a small birthmark on the back of his left shoulder.
This is perfect. Like something in a dream.
And as Dallas presses one long, thick finger past my entrance, there’s barely a pinch of discomfort before my body stops fighting and sucks him greedily inside.
That stretch and press, the feeling of something brushing against my most sensitive spots inside, makes my eyes drift shut and my ears ring.
Lightning flickers through my eyelids.
My teeth dig hard into my bottom lip, and my hips roll, trying to chase the press of Dallas’s finger.
“More?” he asks, his normally smooth voice scraping on its way out.
I whimper and nod, eyes still squeezed shut—and when a second finger joins the first, a hot mouth closing over my clit, I cry out, my whole body starting to shake.
It’s so much.
Sensory overload, in the best way. The storm, the static, the whip of the breeze and the icy sprinkle of the rain.
Dallas’s hot, hungry mouth and the shameless sounds that he makes between my legs, not shy at all about how much he enjoys licking me.
Those hard, long fingers spearing deep, so much deeper and thicker than I could ever get on my own.
It builds and builds, until my eyes open, hazy and damp from tears of pleasure, to find Dallas watching me from between my thighs. He pins me with those ocean blue eyes, and that gaze is filled with so much possessiveness and love that my heart actually skips a beat.
My hips twitch; my abs clench.
My channel clamps down on his fingers, my inner muscles shuddering with pleasure.
And it’s so different, so much more intense than any orgasm I’ve ever had on my own, that for a split second I don’t realize what’s happening to me.
I’m too far gone, hips rolling against Dallas’s fingers and tilting up to seek his tongue, my nipples beaded in the onslaught of the rain.
The pleasure rises up and washes over me in a powerful wave, drowning me in sensation, and once it’s over, my teeth are chattering.
Dallas stands up and wipes his mouth on his forearm. “Are you cold?” he asks.
Dazed, I shake my head, then reach out for him from where I’m flopped on the trunk. My core is weak as jelly as I sit up. When I get a handful of his shirt, I have to tug a few times, weak as a kitten, before he realizes what I’m trying to say and steps forward, hips between my bare thighs.
“We don’t have to,” the weatherman says, hands already tugging his belt loose with a clink. “We can stop here, Shelley.”
My whole body throbs with the need for more, more, more , and I start to flick his shirt buttons open one by one. My fingers are clumsy but determined.
I pin the weatherman with a fake glare. “Don’t you dare.”