Page 70 of How to Love a Rockstar

“No idea why?”

“Yeah. What’s so special about you anyway?”

“What’s special about me?”

“Yes, you’re a rockstar who can make pancakes but there’s probably tons of those in the world.”

“Tons of those, huh?”

I shrug. I hope it appears nonchalant and not as if I don’t know how to carry on teasing him.

He drops his plate on the nightstand with a clink before shoving the tray off my lap. It clatters to the floor.

Before I have a chance to tell him he is cleaning up his mess he crawls on top of me and pins me to the bed.

“Someone needs a reminder of how good I can make her feel.”

His deep voice causes shivers to run through my body. Heat follows in their wake.

“A reminder might be necessary.” I try to sound all prim and proper the way a librarian should but I don’t think I achieve my goal. Not when my voice is all breathy and my chest is heaving.

Dylan presses his hard length into my stomach and I wrap my legs around his waist.

“Nope,” he admonishes as he unwinds my legs. “I believe I have to demonstrate my finger technique first.”

His hand trails down my side until he reaches my panties. He toys with the waistband until I’m squirming beneath him.

“When does this demonstration begin?” I ask when he doesn’t continue his exploration past my waistband.

“Is someone impatient?”

I am but I will never admit it. Dylan will use the opportunity to slow things down.

“It’s okay. I understand if you have performance anxiety.”

He growls. “Performance anxiety?”

“Yeah, it’s when you’re worried your performance will not meet certain expectations.”

“I know what performance anxiety is and I don’t have it.”

“Oh?” I push my glasses up my nose. “It appears as if you do.”

His hand dives into my panties and he buries two fingers inside of me. I moan and my head falls back.

“Is this performance anxiety?” he asks as he thrusts his fingers in and out of me.

“What about this?” He withdraws his fingers to circle my clit before plunging his fingers into me once again.

As he continues to pump his fingers in me, he uses his free hand to lift my t-shirt until it’s shoved up to my neck. He plucks and pinches at my nipples.

I’m in sensory overload. His hands are everywhere. Inside me, on me. I’m ready to explode and I’m still wearing my panties and t-shirt.

I plant my heels in the bed and use the leverage to move with his thrusts. My walls quiver around his fingers as I rush toward euphoria.

“Look at me,” Dylan demands. My eyes fly open and I drop my chin to meet his gaze. “When you come all over my fingers, you look at me.”

I should probably be embarrassed. The light is on and it’s daytime, but I don’t care. My body is in charge of this moment. No, Dylan is in charge of my body.

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