Page 82 of Dirty Dylan: Dirty Dusters

The Hudson Dusters’ HQ, Manhattan, New York

“Quit man-handling me.”

He pulls me inside his office, closes the door behind us, then deliberately stands between me and the exit. I roll my eyes and turn away as I take in his workspace. It’s sparsely furnished. A black desk and not much else.

“Oh, look. There’s only one chair. Shall we share while we have this important conversation of yours?” I say sarcastically as I rub my wrist, which will no doubt bruise up nicely.

“If you like you can sit on my lap, and we can talk about the first thing that comes up.” He smirks.

Mature. Really mature.

“I’m going for lunch. This level’s empty, so you can make as much noise as you like.” Candice announces her departure through the closed door. I can’t see her, but I know she’s wearing a matching smirk. Yup. Another comedian right there.

I stare at Dyl. He’s dressed professionally but his tie is missing, and his messy hair has gotten way too long again.

He looks fucking perfect.

“Jessie, I….” His smirk is replaced by a frown, his tone now borderline apologetic.

I interrupt. “I’m not interested in anything you have to say, Dylan.”

Excuses. Lies. Reasons. Apologies. They’re all a waste of breath when they won’t change anything.

We stare at each other. Not speaking. Because what’s there to say?

“So why aren’t you courting her?” I break the prolonged silence.

He runs his hand through his hair messing it even more. “There’s some contractual paperwork Grace’s da wants in place beforehand. Our Paddy’s looking into it.”

Arranged marriages equal legal contracts. How romantic.

“How long will it take to resolve?”

“It should be sorted tomorrow.”

Manana. Tomorrow. The day that never comes. The world could have ended before then. I know we’re both now thinking the same thing. Has it suddenly gotten hot in here? There’s no sound apart from heavy breathing.

We can’t go there. Can we?

Since he’s staring at me like he wants to eat me alive, it’s obvious he seems to think we can. He reaches me in two strides, spins me around, and pushes me back against the wall.

“Get your hands off me.” I try to prize strong fingers from my hips. When I can’t, I stick my nails into his skin until I’m sure I can feel blood. He curses but holds fast.

I make eye contact. His are black with lust. I lick my lips. Big mistake. I watch as his gaze drops to my mouth.

“Don’t you dare.”

Oh, but he does dare. He’s taking. Because he knows I’m giving without me uttering a word.

His hand fists my hair before yanking my head back. I whine at the pain, then moan as he sucks on my neck. I know I’m done for the moment his mouth covers mine. His lips are hard and demanding, his tongue pushing past to claim ownership of my mouth. The taste of adrenaline and all things Dylan O’Connell drown my senses. My legs buckle, and he grips my hip tighter to stop me from collapsing to the floor.

His fingers dig in. Burning. Branding. Marking.

I can’t breathe. I can’t think. All I can do is feel.

“You want my tongue on your pussy, Jessie?”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Best get on your knees, then.”

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