Page 39 of Dirty Dylan: Dirty Dusters

He looks at me, his blue eyes almost black. Then we both watch as, inch by perfect inch, he sinks into me until he’s fully sheathed and buried.

Our eyes meet. I smirk, deliberately clenching around him, causing him to curse before pulling out and pushing straight back in with one single punishing thrust.

I groan as the friction of his dick embraces every pleasure point all at once.

Perfect. Fucking. Fit.

“Dylan, please,” I beg shamelessly, needing more.

Moving my hands above my head, he pins them down with one of his own. Then he gives me exactly what I begged for.

More. Way more.

Those O’Connell boys? Well, they must be born masters of their craft as all I can do is anchor my legs around his hips as he drives into me with deep, ruthless thrusts. I try to pull my hands free, but he holds fast, and I sink my nails into his skin as I come again.

“Fuck.” He curses as my walls grip his thick shaft, pulling him over the edge with me, his hips jerking as he fills me with his cum in short steady thrusts.

We lay there afterward, his sweat-sheened body still pinning mine down, his heart thudding in time with my own.

I’m fucked. I know I am.

I’ve caught the feels and then some.

As I lie here, tasting him, smelling him, breathing him into my lungs, I realize every fuck will just be another nail in the coffin that already contains my doomed heart.

CHAPTEREIGHTEEN

DYLAN

Dylan’s Apartment, Hudson Yards, New York

Mind-fucking-blowing.

It’s the type of word our Paddy would use, but it’s the only one I can think of that adequately sums up what just happened between Jessie and me.

My whole body weight lies across her, and she loves it. I know she does. It seems she likes to be pinned down. If she could purr with contentment right now, she would. If I could, I’d be doing the same.

My deflated dick is still nestled in her pussy. He doesn’t want to leave the paradise he’s found, and I can’t say I blame him. I lift my face from the crook of her neck and look down at her. Her lips are swollen and bruised, and she’s glowing. Orgasms suit her complexion. I need to make sure she has plenty. Every day. Several times a day.

I can’t quite believe it. Right here. Right now. Jessie O’Brien is all mine.

Her two endless legs are wrapped around my hips, her perfect tits are smashed against my chest, and her fingers are stroking gently up and down my bare back.

I’ve died and landed in heaven with a brainiac blonde supermodel angel.

My mind drifts unwittingly to the recent conversation with Da about this arranged marriage malarkey. Nothing’s been said since, so maybe it’s not happening. I mean, the girl ear-marked to be our Eoin’s future wife is now living in New York, working for the company, and he’s fucking her on a daily basis. Meanwhile, I’ve still not been told anything nor shown any air-brushed photos of my proposed intended.

I reckon our Paddy’s right. I reckon it was all a false alarm.

Da likes Jessie. Would he and Ma deem her suitable if I were to ask to court her? It’s not like I can accidentally get her pregnant like what happened with Cill and Sarah. It’s just my luck that Jessie’s on birth control. Would she let me fuck her bareback if she wasn’t? Probably not. And I’m not sure my dick would want to give that up.

Da would want to know how high up the rankings she is, although as our accountant, maybe that could be bypassed. She’s already proven herself invaluable to our organization.

But would Jessie want to date me? Our relationship has changed from strangers to working colleagues to friends with benefits. Is that all she’d ever want from me? Or would she want more? Our Paddy says most people have fuck buddies these days.

Is that all I am to her? All I ever will be?

I should ask her. But we’ve just taken a huge step. Maybe it’s too much too soon to start talking about relationships and commitment. Perhaps she’d run a mile at the mere mention of anything more permanent. She knows in this life, combined with the fact we’re both Irish Catholic, what courting leads to.

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