50. Chapter 35 #2
I skip my way to his bedroom and fling open the closet.
The rich tobacco-and-wood smell of Dutch hits me as I rifle through his collection of T-shirts.
All of which are hung neatly on matching hangers, before selecting an ancient T-shirt with the sleeves cut off.
In swapping my sexy little dress for the comfortable cotton, I realize Dutch was right.
I never could have gotten out of this thing without his help.
My short arms couldn’t have reached the top of the zipper.
However, thanks to him, I make quick work of changing and am grateful for the soft, loose material rather than constricting pleather. My stomach growls, and I decide to forego any bottoms in favour of getting back to where the food is.
Tip-toeing my way back into the kitchen, my heart squeezes at the sight of Dutch curled over the stovetop.
It’s so fucking domestic. Something I’ve not really experienced since Grams died.
Before I can stop myself, I’m running up behind him and throwing my hands around his waist. My cheek presses into his back, and though I don’t say a word, I hope he senses what I’m trying to convey with this hug.
“I thought you were hungry?” he teases. “Go sit down, and I’ll bring your sandwich over.”
As commanded, I head for the couch. Like most of the furniture in this apartment, it’s small and clearly a bit dated, with fabric fraying at the edges of each armrest. But I couldn’t give a shit.
It’s still way more comfortable than anything on the tour bus, and I happily pop my bare ass down on the cushion.
Only to be greeted a second later by a plate full of not one, but two grilled cheese sandwiches, dripping with ooey-gooey goodness.
And thank fuck, the next thing Dutch drops is a huge bottle of hot sauce.
“You’re the best,” I manage before my hunger takes over and I proceed to chow down. Dutch joins me a minute later, and we eat together in silence. It’s comfortable. Soothing, even, after all the dramatics.
My food is long gone, and I use the opportunity to watch Dutch eat. His eyes close as he savours his last bite. I’m not sure what comes over me; maybe it’s gratitude, but more realistically, it’s the melodic hum of satisfaction he makes at the taste.
I want to hear it again. I want to be the thing that elicits that sound from him.
Sliding from the couch, my knees hit the floor with a soft thud.
Thank God there’s carpet in here, thin as it is; otherwise, my knees would be screaming at me for this.
I push his legs wide and move myself between them.
His eyes spring open, and his gaze instantly turns scalding when he realizes where I am.
“Rainy,” he groans appreciatively. Like I’m personally torturing him, in a good way. His body gives away his appreciation as much as his voice, given the obvious bulge of dick versus denim.
My mouth waters, and I goad him into giving me what I’m craving. “Are you just going to stare at me, Dutch? Or are you going to put this mouth to good use?”
He smirks. “Still hungry, Rainy?”
Call it hunger, call it lust. Whatever it is has me squirming worse than in the truck, and my cunt pulses as those thick fingers of his flick open the button of his jeans.
“You want my dick, babygirl?”
All I can do is nod, because my every nerve ending is alight with that want.
Worse still, when his hardening cock springs free, I reach for it like the greedy slut I am.
And I’m rewarded with the exact moan I wanted when my hand and mouth each wrap themselves around the thick, rosy-coloured skin of his dick.
He tastes like Dutch, smoky and salty. My tongue swirls over every inch, and there are inches, learning every vein and ridge.
Or at least, the bits I can reach. My lips have to stretch to accommodate his size but, like always, I welcome a small spark of pain with my pleasure.
I welcome it even more when my tongue brushes the underside of his shaft, and he can’t help but thrust deeper with a groan, “Fuckkkk, that pretty mouth.”
The heat from his stare never leaves me, but his verbal encouragement has me opening further for him, until his cock hits the very back of my throat. It causes me to gag and spit, so I back off a hair, but Dutch must like the sight because his low voice turns commanding.
“Do that again.”
Bossy Dutch is one I’ve rarely seen, but it’s sexy as hell, so I’m happy to do as I’m told.
I swallow his dick as far back as I can.
Over and over again. The thickness of it makes tears well in my eyes, and my pussy is weeping too.
The thin fabric of my thong slides between my folds, and I long to reach down and relieve some of the building pressure.
As he senses my desire, Dutch fists his hand in my long hair and pulls me back until my mouth pops off him. He seems entranced as he winds his fingers through my purple strands.
“Always wanted to do this,” he mumbles.
I’m not sure what he means until his grip tightens and he tugs me up a little.
He clearly knows what he’s doing, because his hand is close enough to my scalp that he’s not actually damaging my hair as he pulls on it.
I follow his lead and climb from the floor, over him, until I’m straddling his lap.
This is almost more torturous because now, I can feel the heat of him and his hardness throbbing against my desperate core.
The temptation to rise and let him slip inside is there, but I ease it by leaning in for another kiss.
His tongue twists with mine. But this isn’t the urgent, frenzied kiss we shared in the alley.
It’s not the slow, languid kisses we shared the morning after either.
This kiss is deeper. More. In every meaning of the word.
It doesn’t break when he stands, lifting me with him as if I’m nothing but holding me like I’m everything.
Without words, he carries me to his bedroom and oh-so-smoothly lays me amongst his pillows.
Unlike Trey, who owned one single yellow pillow the entire time we were together, Dutch’s bed has layers of them and a whole ass duvet.
“Okay, Romeo,” I tease after being carried like a damn princess.
Yet I find myself more and more turned on the longer he goes without saying a word.
He lets his gaze wander, and his brown eyes rove over me, taking in every inch.
He strips away his T-shirt, jeans and boxers until he’s standing at the edge of his bed, fully naked.
The lights are low in here, but his tattoos are on full display.
His arms and body are muscular, not from time spent in any gym, but from drumming and years of damn hard work, years of holding others down while no one did the same for him.
Physically, and in every other way, he’s just so damn beautiful it steals my breath.
I reach for him then, pulling him by the arm until I can kiss his wrist, his bicep, his shoulder, his neck. My lips touch every bit of skin I can as his body settles over mine, until our mouths reunite us in another passionate embrace.
That kiss only ends because I crave more. I crave the heat of his skin on mine. Firstly, I pull his shirt from my body, tossing it away before reaching down for my panties. My hands are stalled before I reach my hips.
“Let me,” Dutch says. For all his strength, his touch is delicate as he releases my wrist and goes to rid me of the last barrier between us. Then it’s my turn to stay his hand when he goes to reach for his nightstand.
Confusion laces his face. “But Rainy, condom?”
I shake my head and offer up one of the only answers I’ve got, “I want to feel you. All of you.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice rough, nearly choked with the same lust that’s soaking the inside of my thighs.
My mind whirrs, second-guessing myself, unsure if this is something he’ll want with me, even though, since he confessed his feelings, he’s given me no reason to doubt him.
“If you are,” I manage to reply in a tight whisper.
Dutch braces himself up on one arm, creating enough space between our bodies for me to brace for rejection, for mistrust. Instead, his free hand brushes a strand of hair from my shoulder. Each soft touch of his is almost more damning than the rougher sex I’m used to.
My skin is electrified everywhere his fingers trace as they slink up my neck so he can tilt my chin up to look at him.
“Oh, Rainy-girl, I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
There is nothing but adoration in those soulful eyes. I’m not just wanted or desirable. I’m cherished. It’s cheesy as hell, but for the first time in a long time, I remember why people call it making love.