Page 22 of Rockstar Rescue
"Your first time? And you're how old?"
"21," I say, not wanting to think about Wyatt's boyish grin or that failed attempt after high school graduation, or seeing him on television tonight with his model girlfriend. Those memories have no place in this bed.
"I'll be gentle," Dylan promises, his voice dropping to a growl that vibrates through my entire body. His eyes are dark with hunger, like a predator ready to devour me whole.
He lowers himself onto me, his weight pressing me into the mattress as he enters me with surprising gentleness.
I gasp at the unfamiliar fullness, the slight burn that gives way to something electric.
My hips rise to meet his, my body knowing what to do even if my mind is racing. Our rhythm starts slow—tentative—then builds as my fingernails dig into the hard muscles of his back.
"Oh my God," I whisper against his neck, tasting salt on his skin. "Oh my God."
The pressure builds low in my belly, spreading outward like wildfire.
Is this what everyone's been talking about? This feeling like I'm coming apart and being put back together?
We move faster now, his powerful thighs controlling our pace, my legs wrapped around him.
When he finally shouts, his whole body tensing above me, I feel the pulse of him inside me. He collapses, breath hot against my neck, his heartbeat thundering against my chest.
"Warm enough?" I manage to ask, my voice unrecognizable even to myself.
"Yes," he murmurs, pulling me tighter against him, his lips brushing my ear. "When we get out of here, I’m taking you with me."
CHAPTER 13
GINNY
Ijolt awake when Dylan starts thrashing next to me.
The sex-dampened sheets tangle around his legs as he twists and turns.
His breathing sounds all wrong—too fast, too shallow. I squint at the clock: 3:17 AM.
"What's wrong?" I roll over to face him. Even in the dark, I can see something's not right. His face looks sunken, and sweat glistens on his forehead even though our bedroom is freezing.
"I... I'm thirsty," he croaks, his voice cracking. His tongue keeps darting out to wet his lips, but they still look parched.
The pupils of his blue eyes appear enormous, setting off a jolt of alarm within me.
"I need water. Water—now." The way he says it—like he's ordering me around—scares me more than anything.
I scramble out of bed and rush to the kitchen, filling a glass and running back to him.
"Here," I say, pushing it into his shaking hands.He gulps it down like he hasn't had water in days.
I watch his throat working, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, up and down.
"Something's wrong!" I say, panic rising in my chest. "Tell me what you’re feeling now."
My mind races through everything that could be happening. He was in that motorcycle accident hours ago, but why would he suddenly get worse now?
Could it be trauma setting in just now, hours later?Not likely.
“Don't hide anything from me! You're burning up, you can barely breathe—that's not just from the crash. What is it?!"
He just shakes his head, but then his breathing gets even worse, coming in gasps.
