Page 56 of Isla

Fucking hell.

All I can think about is getting him out of this damn shower and riding him until we're both a melted puddle of goo.

"What are you thinking about?" he rasps, eyes hooded, cheeks ruddy.

"Climbing you like a tree and fucking you until we forget our names," I say, picking up the pace with my hand, watching the head of his cock slide past my pinky, thick and red and utterly perfect. It'll feel so goddamned good inside me. His abs clench, his thrusts becoming uncoordinated.

"Isla," he moans, his jaw clenching. I pull my hand away, letting the water wash away the soap, and then I'm on my knees, gobbling him down. He stops moving, breathing hard, looking down at me, his eyes roiling with indecision.

"Use me, Dylan. Please."

He makes a broken sound, his hands diving into my hair, holding my head still as he thrusts past my open lips. I pull him closer, encouraging him to take what he needs, concentrating on breathing through my nose as he fucks my mouth. I palm his balls, rolling them in my hand, tugging gently. He groans my name, thrusting once, twice, before I feel the heat of him hitting the back of my throat. I swallow him down, keeping the suction until he's completely spent. I don't stop until I've licked him clean, giving his cock the attention it deserves. He pulls me up, pushing my hair away from my face before lifting me, wrapping my legs around his waist, and pressing me to the glass.

"You're a fucking minx. That mouth of yours will be the death of me."

"Would you be happy dying with your cock in my mouth?" I murmur, sluicing the water droplets off his eyebrow with my thumb and watching them drip down the angles of his face.

"I'd want it engraved on my tombstone," he says, catching my lower lip with his teeth.

"Death by blow job?" I ask, chuckling. "Was it that good?" I slide the tip of my nose along his.

"The fucking best I've ever had."

His praise makes me blush. I bite my lip to keep from grinning. I'm beginning to think I may have a new kink.

"Let's dry off and eat while we watch a movie. Then we can move on to round two."

"Round two?" I ask, arching an eyebrow.

"And three and four, if I get my way. Maybe even five if we're lucky."

Fuck. Me.

I've been waiting my entire life for this.

26

Dylan holds the towel open for me as I step out of the shower, wrapping it around my shoulders and using another to squeeze the water from my hair. The tenderness in his touch has tears pricking my eyes. I had his cock between my lips less than two minutes ago, and here he is, gently drying me off, taking care of me. It makes what we did–what we're going to do–seem so sacred. Religious, almost.

"I'll heat up dinner while you get dressed," he says, pulling on his sweatpants, leaving them slung low around his waist.

"Okay," I whisper, looking up at him, knowing there are stars in my eyes and not giving a single fuck. This man has me wrapped around his little finger, and I'm here for it. He gives me a crooked grin and kisses me soundly before leaving the bathroom. I press my fingers to my swollen lips, turning toward the mirror. The woman looking back at me can't hide the blush creeping up her cheeks. There's an extra sparkle in those green eyes. A secret behind that smile. Holy hell. I'm in so much trouble. I pull on my pajamas and run a comb through my hair, leaving it loose to air-dry. Walking down the short hallway to the kitchen, I peek around the corner. Dylan isstanding at the stove, stirring something in a large pot, two bowls next to him on the counter.

"What can I help with?" I ask, watching as the muscles in his back shift with every rotation of the spoon. He glances over at me and then does a double-take.

"Are those guinea pigs?" he asks, his gaze sliding over my body, his eyebrows almost touching his hairline.

I look down at my favorite pair of pajamas, not realizing how ridiculous they must look until right this moment. "Not exactly sexy, are they?" I laugh, shrugging my shoulders.

"You could be wearing a floor-length Victorian nightgown and you'd still be sexy," he says, spooning the contents of the pot into the bowls. "But I have to ask–why guinea pigs?"

"I had one when I was little. Her name was Little Bit. She was my best friend, really. I was beside myself when she died." I take the bowl of stew he hands me.

"You never got another one?" He grabs two spoons and leads the way to the family room.

"No. And then I grew up and didn't have time to care for myself, let alone a pet."

"And now?" Dylan sits, looking up at me with those chocolate-brown eyes.

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