Page 53 of Wildest Dreams

To my horror, a lone tear escaped my right eye.

This was why I was being horrible to him. My instinct was to push men away just to watch them leave. Only Rhyland hadn’t left in the six days since we’d reconnected. Yet.

But I already knew he’d meet this challenge head-on. That was just who he was. He never shied away from hard work.

He used his thumb to brush my tear away. “Someone told me enemies-to-lovers tropes have the best sex.” He popped his thumb into his mouth, tasting my tear.

“That someone sounds smart,” I mumbled.

He nodded. “Hot too.”

With that, he slid past me, his arm brushing mine in an erotic whisper, and walked away, leaving me in a pool of desire and anger.

What the hell just happened?

RHYLAND

Dylan_loves_Rhyland4ever liked your reel.

Dylan_loves_Rhyland4ever commented: omg you look so much better my love! The green hue is almost gone. The doxycycline is working!!

Rhyland Coltridge commented: Can’t believe you’re awake, babe. Thought you’d sleep off the hangover after that last binge.

Dylan_loves_Rhyland4ever commented: Burn in hell <3 <3 <3

Rhyland Coltridge commented: Ladies first <3 <3 <3

Dylan_loves_Rhyland4ever commented: Aw I love you so much I could strangle you.

Rhyland Coltridge commented: I want you so much I could suffocate you.

Tate Blackthorn commented: Wishing both sides success.

I’d always had mommy issues.

I once had a therapist who confirmed as much. Abandonment issues were secondary to my messed-up relationship with women, especially mothers.

Dylan tapped into my mommy issues like an erect dick on a perfect-peach ass. Everything about her triggered me. She was a hands-on, loving, fiercely protective mother. A constant reminder of what I didn’t have growing up.

I’d always had a fantastic talent for destroying any constructive relationship I had with women. That therapist, for instance? I ended up fucking and ghosting her—a punishment in my screwed-up head for making me open up to her about my vulnerabilities. And I could feel myself teetering on the edge of doing something really goddamn stupid with Dylan. I didn’t need her chef brother to know this was a recipe for disaster. All I needed was to feel in danger of opening up, of knocking down a wall or two, and I went into full-blown destruction mode.

And Dylan was dragging me out of my comfort zone kicking and screaming. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Now here I was, tucked in my McLaren, my Tom Ford shades covering my eyes, waiting for Dylan and Gravity to come downstairs. I glanced at my Rolex. The one I was definitely pawning this week to come up with the money for our deal. 10:45 a.m. She was late.

Fuck it. Let her get there in Jimmy.

I kicked the car into drive, about to slide out of my double-parked spot. Just as the McLaren started moving, Dylan and her daughter emerged from the building door.

And my entire fucking existence buckled at the sight of her.

She looked so good I choked on my tongue. I always knew she was a bombshell, but now, in broad daylight, the sun playing on her raven hair and her smooth, tanned skin, her honeyed glow burning the edges of her frame, I knew I had a problem.

A ten-and-a-half-inch problem.

One that threatened to poke my steering wheel and activate the horn.

She was wearing a floral yellow chiffon dress with a big white bow in her long hair. Gravity wore a tiny, identical version of the dress, and they were both sporting a pair of Mary Janes. God, I couldn’t fucking look away. The weight of my want for Dylan was pressing against my sternum, threatening to break my ribs clean.

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