Page 54 of Love You Truly

“There’s a shower upstairs.” I point, and his pupils dilate. The blue of his eyes intensifies.

“Careful, Mellow Yellow. I might take that to mean you want us to shower together.”

“Maybe I do,” I say boldly, even if I’m unsure what I mean. The words fall from my mouth as though my rational brain has come unhinged from my basic thoughts—he’s here, and I want him.

Dash takes a step closer to me. Ordinarily, this would feel like nothing, a meaningless adjustment in proximity. Instead, it feels like everything.

Just moving a couple of inches closer, Dash has the effect of a force field, and I’m drawn to him like he’s a hot, sexy magnet. I step forward and meet his gaze, challenging him to make another move.

We stand only inches apart, and I feel a hum of vibration throughout my body. Dash’s pulse thrums beneath the taut skin of his neck, and I want to lick him right there, taste the salt and sweat. I watch his hand move slowly toward me until he cups my chin. His touch feels hot against my skin, and ripples of heat rush down my neck, dead-ending at my core.

This is lust, pure and simple, and I’m here for it.

His thumb rubs circles beneath my chin, and I suck in a breath. It seems impossible for such a small movement to elicit such a strong feeling, but there it is.

Dash tips my face up slightly so it’s aligned perfectly with his. I have one more chance to stare into the stormy blue of his eyes before he’s too close for me to focus, and my eyes drift shut.

Then his lips are on mine with all the heat and intensity of my daydreams. This isn’t soft or tender. We’re not in love. This is feral, hot, and driven by need.

I want him, and now that he’s here on my doorstep, I can’t let him leave without seeing this through to the end.

Dash kisses me like he’s on a mission to save himself before the end of the world, and I’m his only hope.

He feels like mine.

His tongue sweeps across my bottom lip before he nips at it. Gently at first, teasing. Then he bites down harder, and a jolt of heat races straight to my core. I move closer to him, pressing against his leg because I suddenly need some kind of friction. I need everything all at once, and we’ve only been kissing for ten seconds.

Our lips stay locked to each other as I take several steps backward, walking us in through my front door. Dash kicks it with his foot, and it slams behind him. Now that we’re inside, away from the bright sun, the mood changes.

Dash pulls me harder against him, our bodies melting into one another while our tongues tangle, and Dash runs his hands through my hair. There are almost too many senses firing at once for me to untangle them, so I don’t even try. What’s the point of listing the ingredients in a chocolate soufflé when it tastes so damn good?

“Upstairs?” I pant against his mouth.

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Dash nods, and we fumble up the narrow staircase from my entryway to the large loft where I have my bedroom and a small office. We’re kissing and touching and looking down so we don’t trip, eventually making our way to the top step.

It’s lighter again up here, and Dash stops to glance up. “Wow, cool.”

“Yeah. Skylights.”

We sound like cave people. Our brain cells are too busy calculating how to kiss some more and get each other’s clothes out of the way.

Arms wrapped around me, Dash walks me backward until my legs hit the bed. He holds me close, and I blink up at him, wondering what he’s thinking about me, my bedroom, and this crazy idea of hooking up. “Do you make your bed every day?”

He smiles or, rather, smirks while his eyes drift around the room, taking in a mismatched set of furniture—a tall dresser painted antique white, two bedside tables in raw oak, a giant fluffy comforter on the bed, and yellow throw pillows on a green upholstered bench at the foot of the bed.

It always strikes me as amusing when people say things without self-editing. I do it all the time, and it feels comforting to have Dash do it now. It softens his hot guy facade. I’m sure he doesn’t care a bit about whether I make my bed, but the thought entered his head, and instead of resuming kissing his way down my body, he asked the question.

“I don’t always. In fact, about two days a week.”

He’s still smirking. “So…did you just have a feeling you’d bring someone up here to see it today?”

“Nope. Just lucky, I guess.”

I’m not sure what he’s getting at. Does he really think I make my bed on weekends because I think a guy may end up in it?

“I do feel lucky.” His voice comes at me like the growl of a cheetah, and I have no problem being his next meal.

“Yeah?”

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