Page 28 of Dirty Dylan: Dirty Dusters

Another alien feeling.

Confidence.

Given the way she’s admiring my body, I feel bold enough to use one of our Paddy’s expressions. I like the attention. I want her to look at me and like what she sees. And she does. I can tell.

“I think it’s best we don’t talk about pussies, Dyl. Or tongues, either, for that matter.”

Jesus Christ. My one-track mind doesn’t need any more encouragement, but her saying that means it’s now all Icanthink about. Her pussy. Her taste. Her smell. Her wetness. Her heat.

And my tongue.

“Dear Lordy Lou. You sure as hell are rocking that eight-pack.” She exhales long and slow, then exaggeratedly fans her face in an attempt to inject some light-hearted humor into an atmosphere that’s suddenly gotten very heavy and very heated.

As a result, that’s not the only thing I’m now rocking.

I run my hand slowly down my abs, resting it at the top of my jeans. I watch as Jessie tracks the movement then clears her throat. When she finally drags her gaze upward, our eyes connect. For the first time ever it’shercheeks that are flushed.

I retake my seat, and she stands behind me, running her fingers through my hair before gripping its length. There’s a growl. I realize the sound came from me. That I like the feel of her small hands fisting my hair.

Now would be a really good time to call our Paddy to talk mundane family matters, but I know I’m not going to be allowed that opportunity.

Fuck.

“You like that, Dyl?” she asks teasingly and deliberately does it again.

I don’t reply. She knows I do. The animalistic response I made was all the affirmation she needed.

We eventually lapse into a comfortable silence as she precedes to cut my hair using the small pair of scissors.

“Would you…” She nudges against my knees, motioning for me to part my legs so she can step in between. I do so, and her tits are then inches from my face. From my lips. From my tongue. From my teeth.

Two. Perfect. Fucking. Handfuls.

Her springtime scent envelopes me like an aphrodisiac, and my fingers are suddenly itching to grip her waist, and pull her down onto my lap so I can kiss her. Is she as affected by our close proximity as I am? Because I can see her heartbeat in her throat. It’s pounding, just like mine. I’m sure of it.

Fast. Furious. Erratic. Synchronized.

I close my eyes and lose myself in everything Jessie while gritting my teeth for control as she pulls on my hair.

I want time to stand still. I pray for this torture never to end.

“Tada,” she announces way too soon.

I open my eyes and take in her proud as Punch grin. Putting down the scissors, she places her hands on her hips once more and my gaze instantly drops to the bare skin of her tanned, flat stomach displayed by her little crop top. She then holds one out, motioning for me to take it in mine before yanking me to my feet.

“Come see my handiwork, Dylan.”

I don’t let go of her hand when I stand, and she doesn’t remove it either. It feels right. Perfect. Like hers belongs inside mine.

She chuckles when I pretend to drag my heels as she pulls me across the apartment. I’m guessing it’s her bedroom we end up in as it smells of her. It’s all glass and mirrors. Reflections everywhere.

My already provoked brain immediately thinks of us fucking. Seeing ourselves from every angle possible. How many men has she had in here? The thought of even one makes me feel murderous.

We stand in front of the mirrored wardrobes, and I stare at our reflection. Her blonde to my dark. Her tanned to my pale. Her softness to my ridged. We look good together.

So fucking good.

“Well, what do you think?” She nibbles on her bottom lip as she awaits my response. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her look unsure of herself.

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