Forget (28 page)

Long fingers fist his cock while he stands in front of my sitting form. Every hard inch of him is perfectly level with my face. He strokes from base to tip, staring down at me. It’s purely erotic the way he’s touching himself, his hooded eyes watching me watch him.

I fantasized about what Dylan looked like in the shower when he got off to thoughts of me. The visuals my mind conjured up didn’t do this justice. I’m shifting on the bed from the pulsating ache that’s rousing between my legs. This is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. I lick my lips at the sight, provoking a deep groan from his lips.

“Wrap your lips around me,” he says. His voice is damn near raw with desire.

The lyrics from the song strike a nerve, beckoning me. I’m reckless, uninhibited. I feel like I can say or do anything I want. It’s not pretend. It’s me wanting to be me, with him.

Fuck, I want to taste him, feel how hard he is against my tongue.

The song mirrors the feral look in Dylan’s eyes. The fierce expression on his face reveals how much he wants this, how much he wants
me.
I’m looking up at him, hungry and ready to devour. “Feed it to me,” I beg. My eyes are heavy-lidded, teeth biting at my bottom lip.

His hand strokes to the base of his cock, holding it out for me. With jaw clenched, and hooded eyes focused on my mouth, he rubs the tip across my lips. “Open those fuck-me lips,” he says, and I obey, not wanting to do anything else.

My tongue circles the crown of his shaft as he pushes himself into my mouth.

“
Suck. Me,”
he groans again, but it’s deeper this time, downright guttural. His hand grips my hair, gently pushing a little deeper into my mouth. By the shaking fingers pressing against my head, I can tell he’s holding back. He can barely restrain himself from driving deep and fucking my mouth without restraint. I’m high, practically addicted, to the rush I’m getting from his passionate need for me.

I wrap my lips around him, savoring the combination of smooth and silky, yet firm and hard. He’s thick and engorged and swollen with the need for release. I suck him hard and as deep as I possibly can, over and over and over again. When I gag a little, he starts to pull back, but I grab his ass pulling him deeper.

It pushes him over the edge. Both of his strong hands are in my hair, hips thrusting erratically, as he loses himself. A feral sound releases from his lungs, and then abruptly, he pulls away too soon for my greedy mouth. I lean forward, trying to put my lips on him again, but he steps back. His chest heaves up and down, as he wraps a fist around his cock. “Lie back.”

He watches me, eyes dark and impatient, as I scoot farther up the bed. I lie back, spreading my legs wide for his perusal. I want to feel him. I
need
him inside of me.

“Touch yourself, show me you’re ready,” he demands and then moves towards the nightstand, pulling a condom from the drawer.

With eyes wide and pinned to his, my fingers are sliding through my wetness. He kneels between my thighs, tearing the wrapper with his teeth. My fingers rub my clit, inciting soft moans from my lips.

Brows drawn, he rolls the condom down his length. I wish I had my phone so I could take a picture of him like this, his serious and focused expression. I want to capture an image of his shaking hands so I can remember the urgency in his need for this . . . for me. He moves forward, one hand by my head and the other guiding himself towards me. I feel the heavy press of him at my entrance, barely pushing inside, and then pulling back out.

“No . . . no . . . no . . .”
I whimper, begging to feel him all the way inside. I’ve never felt so impatient in my life, so utterly greedy to be filled.

He brushes his lips across mine, as he rubs his tip against my clit. “Did you know it would be like this between us?” he asks, but I can’t respond, because the breath is punched out of my lungs as he enters me in one long, single push.

“Oh fuck.” My head falls back, eyes rolling towards the heavens.

His hands brace my inner thighs as he pulls back slowly.

My hands grip his shoulders in response, nails digging into his skin.

His mouth responds with a hiss, and then a deep, husky groan. “I knew it would be like this between us. The moment I watched you walk off the métro , I knew it.” Hips thrust, slide back again, and he holds himself deep. “In the span of ten minutes, I saw you blush over the word
come,
and then I provoked that dirty little mouth of yours to throw sass in my direction.” He doesn’t move while his mouth finds mine, kissing me softly, and then hard, and then sucking at my bottom lip. “I knew you’d be hesitant, but if I could get you to lose yourself and submit to my touch, you’d be wild and reckless, and bloody hell, seeing you so wanton, so fucking greedy for my cock, is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s so good, but I need more. God, I need so much more,” I plead. My hands slide to his ass, gripping the firm and tone skin, and fruitlessly trying to get him to move. “Fuck me, Dylan. Please, fuck me.”

“Do you need reminding, love? Do you want me to show you how good it feels when you let go?”

I nod frantically, knowing he’s referring to what happened in the kitchen . . .
and
the terrace. “Yes,” I gasp.

After what feels like an eternity, Dylan begins to move, slow and heavy strokes at first, and then heads towards a punishing rhythm. He grabs my hands, gripping them above my head. His chest rubs against mine, as he continues to drive into me, every grind and thrust becoming harder, faster.

I’m panting and shuddering with my impending release as my legs wrap around his waist. My thighs tighten around him as the pressure builds. He’s fucking me in earnest now, not holding anything back, and racing towards his release while making sure that he’s bringing me right along with him.

His lips are by my ear whispering sweet praise and filthy thoughts. When his voice turns seductive and switches to fluent French, I clench around him, and after several pounding thrusts, I’m falling, completely losing it. My head pushes back into the bed. Hoarse cries spill from my lips as I come.

Dylan is right behind me. His mouth latches onto the pulse at my neck, and his lungs release a raw growl. He holds himself as deep as he can possibly go while his length pulsates inside of me.

Lips find mine; pressing mind blowing kisses to my mouth, and my body goes limp underneath him. His kisses turn soft and slow, until he mutters, “I’ll be right back.” He slides out of me and moves off the bed.

My eyes are still closed, but I hear him walk down the steps. I’m assuming he’s handling the condom situation. I’m too relaxed to even lift my head. It’s a kind of sated I’ve never felt before. I could chalk it up to the two orgasms in the span of an hour, but I know it’s more than that. Hell, until a few minutes ago, I’d never had an orgasm with a guy, and honestly, sex had never been something that I enjoyed. It was a means to an end, and since the age of eighteen, one that I made sure I had complete control over. The having control over it meant more to me than any pleasure it could have provided.

The mattress dips and Dylan climbs back in. “Christ, you’re amazing. I’ve never felt anything that fucking good in my life.”

I turn my head, looking into his eyes. They’re still a deep green, but hints of gold highlight their emerald hue. His fingers brush a loose strand of hair out of my face, tucking it behind my ear. Instead of responding, I just stare at him, taking in the tender expression on his face.

I’ve witnessed so many of his smiles, and yet the one that takes my breath away is when he’s smiling in reaction to a happy expression on my face. It’s a smile that makes me feel like he truly cares.

It’s crazy that I let him take control, but I can’t deny how right it felt. I can’t deny the trust I so easily gave him,
would still
give him. I don’t know how or why, but I know Dylan would never do anything to hurt me.

Yes, I’ve known him for all of two minutes.

Yes, I never believed in all the swoony, “it’s fate” sentimental bullshit.

But I can’t deny how he makes me feel. I can’t ignore the look he’s got in his eyes. I can’t just write this off as a Paris fling. This is something else. Something deeper. Something that I’m not quite ready to admit, but can’t seem to find the strength to walk away from.

Last night on the terrace, he got pleasure out of making me feel good, and refused to take it further, refused to let other people see me in such an intimate state. He reversed the roles. I wasn’t the protector. I wasn’t the one doing anything and everything in my power to make someone else feel safe or happy or good. He was doing that for me. Those are not the actions of a man who’s just looking to screw, fuck, get a leg over. Those are the actions of a man who cares . . . A man who wants to keep me safe . . . A man who doesn’t want to hurt me.

It may seem trivial to anyone else, but to me, it’s not. How could it be inconsequential when the first half of my life I was surrounded by people who either didn’t love me or took something from me that I can never get back?

I feel like a bullet has been dislodged from my chest. The realization heals something deep inside of me, soothing something that’s been clawing for years and before now, I never thought it would go away. He gives me hope.

“I’ve never come—” I start to blurt out, but stop when I realize what I’m about to confess.

What in the hell am I saying?

“I’m sorry, but you’ve never what?” he asks, brow furrowed.

My eyes have to be the size of saucers. I shut them, shaking my head. If I’d known orgasmic sex would make me so Goddamn contemplative and ready to bare my soul, I might have skipped it altogether. Or at least found some duct tape to cover my mouth.

His hand caresses my cheek. “Don’t shut me out, love.”

Tentatively, I open my eyes, taking in his concerned expression. Uncertainty and the need to shield myself grip my throat.

“You can tell me anything,” he encourages, voice smooth as silk.

Wrapping the sheet around me, I stand up from the bed, walking around his room without a specific destination in mind. “I’m not sure this is something you want to hear . . .”

He sits up on his elbows, still gloriously naked. “I’m certain that you’re wrong about that. I want to hear anything and everything you have to say.”

With my back to him, I stare at the myriad of photos pinned to his wall. How did I miss these? Rows and rows of pictures take up an entire wall of his bedroom. Most of them are Polaroids, taken in various places—some in Paris, some in London, and some places I don’t recognize. “Did you take all of these?”

“Consider it my second passion.”

I stare, awestruck, taking in each picture. Dylan’s eye for beauty is unreal. He has a very distinctive style, and each snapshot is its own. I’m mesmerized by one particular photograph. An impeccably dressed couple walks hand-in-hand past an alley. She’s wearing a gorgeous floor-length gown. He’s clad in a suit. I imagine they just left an expensive dinner or party. The photo catches a breathtaking expression on her face as she gazes up at the man beside her. But they’re not the focus of the photo. They merely provide a haunting contrast. In the other half of the frame, a man sits in the alley, back pressed against the wall. He’s homeless. A far-off expression fills his eyes.

“God, Dylan. I’m speechless.” I rub my finger over the homeless man’s face, wishing I could pluck him out of the photo and wrap him up in my arms. “I’ve never been so overwhelmed by just looking at a photograph. You’re unbelievably talented.” I know next to nothing about photography, but I know the fact that a picture is making me want to cry and smile at the same time proves he’s really gifted. “Like you could quit your day job kind of good, which is absurd because music is your day job, and I’d strangle you if you gave that up.”

A throaty laugh passes his lips. “Thank you, love, but no strangling necessary. I’m sticking with my number one.”

“Most of the ones I recognize from Paris are night shots. Any particular reason behind that?”

“There’s just something about capturing the city at night. Everyone is asleep. The streets are dark, sometimes eerily so, yet there’s always this edge of beauty.”

“I haven’t really had the chance to see Paris at night.” I glance over my shoulder, grinning. “At least not from a sober perspective.”

“We need to change that. Next midnight photo session, I’m taking you with me. Just make sure you don’t stop at a bar for half-priced shots before we go.”

“That was Lindsay’s fault, not mine!”

He chuckles.

“I’m noticing a Polaroid theme up here. Care to explain?” I ask, continuing to distract him. The choking unease I felt a few minutes prior is slowly dissipating.

“I guess I’m an old soul. I prefer vintage to modern. It’s kind of like vinyl records. There’s just something different you can get from a Polaroid. It’s instant, grainy, and there’s no filter. I can’t erase it. Change it. The true emotion in the photo is there. The moment is the exact way it’s supposed to be. Not posed. Not edited. Not photo-shopped.”

I recall our conversation at the wine bar. “Kind of like your preference to not have a Facebook account?”

“Or Twitter or Insta-whatever,” he adds. “If you can’t tell, I kind of loathe modern technology. Everywhere I go, restaurants, clubs, bars,
the bloody park,
people are glued to their devices. It’s ironic how their faces are fixated on a screen, fingers typing away about whatever is going on in their lives, when in reality, they’re missing out on actually living.”

“Insta
gram.
”

“Huh?”

“It’s called Instagram.”

“
Brooke,
” he sighs dramatically. “Please, don’t tell me you’re one of those people who have an account for every social media app available.”

I turn around, grinning. “
Dylan,
” I feign annoyance, even adding an eye roll. “Please, don’t tell me you’re one of those hipsters who judge other people for doing anything mainstream.”

His brow furrows. “I’m not a hipster.”

“
Surrrre
you’re not.”