Page 62 of Dirty Dylan: Dirty Dusters

Forceful. Relentless. Determined.

He’s showing me what I’m going to be missing from this day forth. What she’s going to be getting from here on in.

His girlfriend. His fiancée. His wife.

His fingertips dig painfully into my skin. Bruising it. Burning my flesh and searing my memory with what’s taking place. Right here. Right now. He doesn’t want me to forget this moment.

I never will. Not ever.

His skin is hot and damp with sweat, and my mouth immediately connects, my tongue licking the saltiness off, the raw taste of him turning me on even more. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh and our mutual groans of appreciation fill the room as he fucks me into oblivion.

I don’t want to see. I don’t want to hear. I just want to feel. My body is singing for his, as he orchestrates it perfectly.

Tears prick my eyes as I come again, this time taking him with me. His hand fists my hair as he sucks hard on my neck. Marking me. Claiming me. He roars as he embraces his release, his hips jerking erratically as he empties deep inside me.

We stay there. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Panting. Just holding on to one another. Even though it remains unspoken, we both know this is the last time.

Pressing my nose against his damp skin, I inhale his familiar citrus scent once more before lifting my face from his neck. My eyes meet his sapphire ones, but they’re now closed off. The connection we shared gone. Lost forever. I can no longer see into his soul. I understand why. It no longer belongs to me. It belongs to her now.

Hasn’t it always?

What little remains of my heart shatters at the realization.

I was just allowed to borrow Dylan O’Connell for a short while. Now it’s over, and it’s time to give him back. To her. To his cliché blonde. To the girl he’s been pining over for so long. Placing my feet on the floor, I step away before pulling my slip back over my head.

“I need to go.” It’s barely audible. I have no voice. I have nothing right now. My lips find his. A brief touch. A memory more than a kiss. As all of this will be now.

Then?

I walk away.

CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN

JESSIE

The Hudson Dusters’ HQ, Manhattan, New York

“So,you’re going to gatecrash their meeting?”

I’m in a cubicle in the ladies’ restroom, where I’m mentally preparing myself for what’s about to go down. I’m chipper. I will remain chipper. If you look Jessie O’Brien up in the dictionary, it says precisely that.

Chipper.

After I left his apartment, I cried a boatload of tears into the crook of my elbow while wallowing in a bathtub full of self-pity. I then washed off all visible traces of Dylan from my person, aside from a few stubborn bruises and hickeys, then got out and dried myself off.

After staying put to watch the last of the water drain away, I exaggeratedly dusted my hands.

Life goes on. It has to. That Duster ship has sailed.

“Yes, siree.”

“And do what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll confront Despicable Dylan on being the spineless piece of shit he is. Maybe I’ll tell the Dusters who I am. Maybe I’ll go into the meeting and pull the cliché blonde’s hair. I haven’t decided yet. I’ll play it by ear when I’m in there. I’ll likely end up flicking them the professional bird by quitting on the spot. Can I do that? Legally? If I want to?”

“JAA can terminate the contract if that’s what you choose to do, yes. I’d find a loophole, don’t worry. I’m not sure about the notice period, but you can always work from home unless you have to undertake a formal handover procedure to a third party. That said, we can always offer up a suitable JAA alternative from one of our new recruits. We can decide once you’ve done whatever it is you feel you need to do, Jessie.”

“Move on with my life, Jaine. That’s what I need to do.”

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