Page 15 of Rockstar Rescue
He pushes forward slowly, inch by delicious inch, stretching me in ways I've never felt before.
My body yields to him, a surge of overwhelming pleasure radiating through me as he fills me completely. He pauses when he's all the way in, his chest heaving against mine.
I touch his shoulder. Both our bodies are slick with sweat.
"You feel so good," he whispers against my ear, his hot breath making me shiver.
When he starts to move again, it's gentle at first—long, deep strokes that make my toes curl.
Then faster, harder, his hips snapping against mine.
"Yes," I gasp, digging my nails into his back. "God, yes, don't stop."
Our eyes lock, and something electric passes between us. His rhythm falters as I clench around him, my entire body tensing.
The pressure builds low in my belly, spreading outward until I'm trembling beneath him.
When I finally come, it's with his name on my lips, my back arching off the bed as wave after wave crashes through me.
I open my eyes, expecting to see moonlight streaming through the window, but there's only a white blur.
The blizzard has arrived, snow pelting against the glass. Reality crashes back as the smell of butter, garlic, and onions drifts in from the kitchen.
Dylan's cooking dinner like nothing's wrong, but I can't shake the memory of that seventeen-year-old our team rescued last year.
One minute fine, the next gone—internal bleeding that no one saw coming. Dylan's motorcycle is scrap metal.
What if he's bleeding inside right now?What if his brain is swelling while he's standing there chopping vegetables? I grab my towel and scramble out of the tub, heart pounding against my ribs.
No way is this gorgeous man dying tonight.
Not on my watch.
CHAPTER 10
GINNY
Charlie Boy swings by to watch as I step from the bath into the freezing air.
Concerned about how Dylan is holding up, I make quick work of drying myself off and changing back to my jeans and shirt.
I imagine he might be lying dead on the floor.
But instead, he stands there, alive and focused, tearing crisp leaves of Iceberg.
Dylan works with surprising dexterity for someone who had seemed so close to death hours before.
Now, I smell bacon frying in the cast-iron pan, the fat popping and sizzling, filling the cabin with a comforting aroma that makes my stomach growl in anticipation.
The simple pinewood dining table has been set with care, the plates arranged just so.
He's found the nice plates—the ones Dad and I bought to celebrate Christmas years ago.
In the table’s center, he's placed one of those thick white emergency candles kept for power outages before personal electronics. The flame casts a warm glow across the table, making the cabin feel almost festive.
"Well," I say, taking it all in, "this is a fine Christmas dinner. All we need now is a Christmas tree and Santa Claus to come down the chimney. Think you can arrange that?"
"Maybe," he replies with a hint of a smile. "I have a good relationship with Santa. Got him into one of my sold-out concerts."
