Page 59 of Pulse
Fuck.
Dahlia rolls onto her back, bending her knees and letting them fall to the side—giving me full view of her pussy. She holds my gaze as her fingers drag between her tits, over her stomach, and between her thighs. Her eyes flutter closed as she whimpers.
It takes everything I have not to pull her beneath me and sink into her as far as I can go.
But I don’t. Even though I can’t recall why I’m not supposed to do this, I know that if I do, things won’t be the same.
If I touch her,she’s mine.
There will be no going back.
“Are you sure?” I ask, my voice rough.
She giggles, fluttering her lashes at me. “I couldn’t be surer.”
“I’m serious. This is going to complicate things between us infinitely.”
“Troy, if you haven’t noticed, things are infinitely more complicated between us now, whether I come on my fingers or on your cock.”
I shudder at the energy centering in my groin. My stomach’s clenched so tight that I grimace.
“I don’t have any condoms,” I say.
Her jaw hangs open, and her hand pulls away from her clit. It rests on her stomach. Wetness coats her fingers, and I force myself to look away.
“How?” she asks. “How do you not have a condom?”
I chuckle at the look on her face. “This was a work trip.”
“And you don’t always carry some around with you?”
“No, I don’t,” I say, my chuckle becoming a laugh. “I don’t normally fuck on the clock.”
She grins. “That’s good to know.”
“This is your call.”
“I went to the doctor when I broke up with Freddy to ensure things were good. All clear. I prioritize my birth control appointments. I assure you I’m ninety-whatever percent unable to get pregnant today.”
The thought of impregnating her turns me on.
What the fuck?
“What about you?” she asks.
“They ran every panel available on me when that guy sliced me with a knife at Laina’s concert a couple of months ago. I haven’t had sex since.”
Her lips break into a wide smile, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
“Then you have two choices, Mr. Castelli.”
I grin. “Give them to me.”
She sits up with her legs tucked under her. Her hair brushes against her shoulders in wild waves. The way her tits hang, the soft curve of her stomach, the bend of her hips—she’s an irresistible picture that’s burned into my mind.
A picture of perfection.
“Option one,” she says, smirking. “Fuck me.”
