Page 97 of Two Wrongs
Baby brain strikes again; I didn’t tell him I’m having a boy. Fuck it. I’m not going to cry, despite getting it wrong again. Only, Dylan doesn’t look hurt but stunned. Maybe? And he hasn’t lowered his hands.
‘A boy? We’re having a boy?’
‘So I’m told. You can have it if you want—the actual birth, I mean. Take one for the team?’Stop. Babbling.
‘May I?’ he asks, gesturing to the area currently doing the rumba under my oversized tee.
‘He’s obviously an actor’s son,’ I answer, smoothing my hands over the cotton.
Dylan’s eyes rise from my moving midsection. ‘How’s that?’
‘Little Vlad here does a meanAlienimpression, though it’s a bit dramatic for my tastes.’
‘Vlad?’ he asks, trying hard to conceal his distaste.
‘Don’t ask,’ I say with a sigh, taking his hand in mine and placing it on my stomach, and giving him something else to focus on. ‘The name won’t be sticking around for his arrival into the world.’ And like a made-for-TV film, Vlad choses his moment well, kicking out against Dylan’s hand.
‘Please don’t start crying,’ I whisper as awe spreads across his face. ‘I seriously don’t have the energy to join you.’
He blinks. Heavily. Once. Twice. Three times. Drops to his knees and feeding his hands under the hem of my t-shirt, pushes it upwards to expose more than just my blue cotton knickers. I should be protesting. I should be moving away. Instead, I’m leaning against the wall before my knees give way.
‘Dylan.’ So much meaning stuffed into one word. I place my hand on his head as he lowers it, his shoulders rolling forward like a penitent. Only he’s not sorry—not at all—if the way his hands trail the backs of my thighs then palm my arse is any indication.
His lips press softly on my stomach, and I’m done for. Both hands in his hair now, I toy with the strands and stroke the nape of his neck.
He pulls himself from his knees, sort of like someone who’s just suffered a frontal lobotomy yet is still alive. Without words, he takes my hand and leads me down the narrow hallway and into the living room. And what’s more, I just let him.
‘Which is your bedroom?’ His eyes scan the white doors leading off the small room.
‘It’s that one.’ I point at the first door on the right. I mean I could protest. Ask him what this means, what he’s all about, but what would be the point? If he said he wanted to say thank you for allowing him to kiss his child, or that it was comfort he was offering me, a one-time deal or a pity fuck, would I say no?
How about you don’t ask yourself.
Dylan pushes the door open, and before I can speak or think, he’s on me. I don’t even have a chance to inhale. His arms around me, he holds me up, which is just as well; I’m afraid my body might turn to vapour, bypassing both the liquid and solid stages.
‘Tell me you don’t want this,’ he whispers, his words barely puffs of breath against my jaw. ‘Tell me, and I’ll stop.’
‘If you do, I won’t ever speak to you again.’ I sense his smile against my cheek; the bristles on his jawline rough against my skin. ‘I want you. Right here and right now.’I’ll want you forever, I don’t say.
‘I want you all the fucking time,’ he growls against my neck, unravelling the loose twist of my hair. ‘It won’t go away.’
I tilt my head, smiling in satisfaction and not wanting him to see.Long may he want, and long may he receive.
His hands feed under my nightshirt, pulling it over my head, and at that moment, our bodies are separated, and his eyes widen—like, massively. I back away, unsure, the bed bumping the back of my legs. But I needn’t have worried as he falls to his knees in front of me again.
Dylan Duffy. On his knees. For me.
‘Christ, you’re so beautiful,’ he murmurs huskily, the words sounding dragged from the deep.
I don’t feel it, but the look in his eyes is almost enough to make a believer of me. His hands drift up my thighs, my hips, his mouth covering one hard nipple, the other caressed and pinched between his fingertips. I cry out; the sensation is too much. The way his green eyes watch from under his lashes, the satisfaction glowing there—it’s pure sensation overload.
His mouth comes away with a soft pop, the full flat of his tongue swapping attentions while his big hands now frame my breasts.
‘What the fuck did you do to these?’ he asks, almost awestruck.
My head rolls back almost at a right angle to my neck because yes, more of that, please. The touching, the kissing, the confidence boost.
‘Plastic surgery’s all the rage thesedaysss. Oh! Yes!’
