54. Dylan #2
He must notice I’m awake as he brushes a finger down the side of my face, and I shift slightly, just enough to see his face in the shadows. “Thorn,” he murmurs, almost reverently, dark eyes boring into mine.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to just pass out.”
He shakes his head. “It’s fine.” His arms tighten slightly, like he’s afraid I might disappear now that I’m conscious. “You looked so peaceful. We didn’t want to move you.”
“The others?”
“They went up to bed a while ago.” He’s still staring at me as though too afraid to blink, to look away. Even in the dim light of the room, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the darkness behind his eyes.
“You didn’t have to stay,” I tell him, feeling bad that he’s sat up with me when he’s bound to be just as tired as the others.
His mouth twitches, but the smile never forms. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”
I settle against him, pressing my cheek to his chest again.
We fall into silence, the kind that feels sacred.
The kind that says more than words ever could.
His arms remain a solid band wrapped around me.
Steady. Secure. Safe. They feel like home.
Like lazy Sundays and nights spent cuddling on the sofa.
Like somewhere I could grow. A safe place to fall at the end of a long day.
“I never got the chance to thank you,” I eventually say, breaking the silence that had cocooned us. I blink up at him, using the darkness as a blanket for the vulnerable words. “For coming for me. For…saving me.”
My words seem to gut him, and his jaw flexes. His expression hardens—not in anger, but in pain—and he can’t seem to meet my eyes as he admits in a rough, bitter voice, “I wasn’t the one who saved you, Thorn.”
Maybe not him, specifically, but he still came. He still helped. Jax might have been the one to expel the water from my lungs, but as far as I’m concerned, they all saved me that day.
I start to protest, but he cuts me off, finally looking at me—and the anguish in his eyes knocks the breath out of me.
“I froze, Dylan.” His hands fall away from my body like he’s disgusted with himself.
“I walked in and saw you in Jax’s arms—lifeless—and I just…
I froze. Griffin went for Kyle. Finn dropped to his knees and tried to get you breathing.
Jax was soaked and shaking, trying to keep you with us.
And I just stood there. Watching. Doing nothing. ”
The self-loathing. The hatred. The disgust. All aimed at himself… It flays me open. My cocky, confident, self-assured captain should never sound so broken. So hollowed out, like he left a piece of himself in that room.
I reach for him, but he flinches, pulling back like he doesn’t deserve to be touched.
“I’m their captain,” he spits, voice low but shaking. “I’m supposed to lead them. To protect my teammates. To protect you . But I stood there like a fucking statue.” He spits the words, vitriol lacing every hate-filled word.
“Ethan—” I try again, pushing myself upright on his lap and placing my hand over his heart. It thunders beneath my palm.
“I’ve never felt fear like that,” he whispers almost brokenly. “Not once in my entire life. It was like everything collapsed in on itself. Like the world tilted, and I couldn’t get my footing. I couldn’t breathe , Dylan. Watching you, like that…I’ve never been so scared.”
His voice breaks over the last word, a tear slipping free and racing down his cheek before he ducks his head to hide it.
I can’t take it anymore. I move to straddle his lap, cupping his face between both hands and forcing him to look at me. His eyes shine in the dim light, wide and cracked with emotion.
“Stay with me,” I say firmly. “Not there. Here. In this moment. I’m okay. I’m alive.” I take his hand and place it over my heart, letting him feel it beat, steady and strong. “You don’t have to be in control all the time. You don’t have to carry everything.”
He stares at me like he’s trying to memorize every inch of my face. Like he can’t quite believe I’m really here.
“You’re the only thing that’s ever made me feel like this,” he says, voice a whisper dragged from his soul. “The only one who’s ever made me lose control.”
“Good,” I breathe. “I like you like this. When you let go. Like you did in the training room.” I smirk. “I like knowing I’m the only one capable of undoing you.”
“You are,” he assures, eyes shining. “The only one. The only one I’d ever let see me like this.”
His hand slides to the front of my throat, not tight, just enough to hold me in place as he pulls me down to him. His kiss is searing—dominant, and commanding, like he’s reclaiming every piece of himself he lost that day.
Like he’s anchoring himself to me for all eternity.
For every inch of control I might take from him, he claims it all back, controlling the kiss, the pace, the rhythm. His tongue glides along mine, deepening when he demands and pulling back on his orders.
My hips move without thinking, grinding against him as heat pulses between us. He groans into my mouth, and I feel the tight coil of tension unraveling in his grip. In the way his hands glide low on my abdomen and pull me tighter.
He might be losing himself in me, but he’s still Ethan. Still the one in control, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Not when his hands are on me. His teeth sinking into my lip and his tongue learning the grooves of my mouth.
My hands slide up the front of his chest, the hard planes of his abs rippling beneath my palms, before I entwine my fingers with the fine hairs at the back of his neck.
His lips on mine are all heat and desperation, the air around us growing hot and electrified with every sweep of his tongue over mine.
Every nip. Every suck of my lip. Every soft moan and hungry growl.
Grabbing the hem of his T-shirt, I go to lift it, but he stops me with a hand catching mine, breaking our kiss to meet my gaze.
“Please,” I plead before he can say anything. I don’t need to hear his words, I can see the hesitation written all over his face. “I need this,” I whisper. “I need you . I need to feel something good. To remember what safe feels like—and that’s here. With you.”
For a moment, his jaw tics. War rages in his eyes. Then, decision made, he slams his lips back on mine, hungrier than before. “You’ll always be safe with us,” he growls against my lips.
With fast, frantic movements, I tear his shirt over his head, my heart thundering as I drink him in under the dim light of the TV. Broad shoulders, defined muscles, warmth and tension carved into every line.
Before I can do more than look , he catches my chin between his fingers and reclaims my mouth in a commanding kiss. I move with him, following the pull of his mouth, the way he knows exactly when to take more, when to slow, when to make me beg without ever speaking a word.
When I reach for the hem of my own shirt, his hand catches mine again.
“ I get to take this off you,” he softly demands, his tone low, coaxing, and laced with steel.
A thrill rolls down my spine. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve waited to get you naked,” he murmurs, eyes dropping as he slowly lifts the fabric of my T-shirt, revealing inch after inch of skin. “To see all of you. Feel all of you. ”
Despite his lust-laced words, he takes his sweet time pulling my top up. His eyes darken with every inch of milky skin he exposes, but his control remains precise. By the time the shirt clears my head and drops to the floor, I’m breathless. Exposed. His gaze devours me.
His hand finds my side, slides up to cup my breast, then the other. He strokes me deliberately, watching every reaction, drinking in the way I arch toward him. When he brushes his thumbs over my nipples, I gasp, grinding against the growing heat between my legs.
“More,” I demand, breathless, needing to feel his lips on my skin, his tongue sliding over my flesh.
He gives me a look. That cool, unreadable smirk he wears when he knows he’s in full control. “Patience, Thorn.”
I huff, but it turns into a moan when his mouth closes around my breast. He licks, sucks, and grazes it with his teeth until I’m trembling. My fingers dig into his shoulders, leaving behind crescent moon marks as he shifts to lavish the other one with the same worshipful care.
Releasing me with a pop, his fingers follow his gaze down my stomach, teasing the waistband of my sweats. They don’t dip below, just skim the edge, his knuckles brushing skin as his touch makes my breath hitch. I whimper with need. My body is burning up, my core hot and wet and needy.
And he knows it.
“Need something, my prickly little thorn?” His words are a taunt murmured against my overheated skin.
“Yes,” I grit out, grinding against the hard length beneath me until he hisses. “I need you to make me come.”
He hums, low and cocky, and presses his mouth back to mine.
“All in good time.”
In contradiction to the need building inside me, this kiss is slow, languid. And it does sweet fuck all to fan the flames of my desire. If anything, the control he wields despite knowing he’s as desperate for me as I am for him, only stokes them higher.
I’m a puddle of lust, breathless and pliable in his hands by the time he finally— finally!— releases me.
My gaze latches on to his, and something dark and possessive, so unlike the boy-next-door Ethan I know, flashes in his eyes. “Take my dick out, Thorn.”
I shiver at the command.
Not needing to be told twice, I reach beneath the elastic of his sweats and free his hard cock from the confines of his boxers. It bobs in front of me, erect and angry, with precum beaded at the tip. I stare at it for a moment, my mouth salivating.
“Touch me, Dylan,” he groans, desperate, all-consuming need, lacing the order.