Page 126 of Every Shattered Note
“My Aly,” he whispers against my lips, like a confession he’s no longer afraid to make.
ChapterFifty-Five
Dexter
I had a plan.
A decent, responsible plan.One where I kept my hands to myself.Where I locked every reckless impulse behind a steel door and swallowed the key.
That plan didn’t include this moment.
Aly.Me.Alone.
The penthouse is still and quiet, every wall whispering what I’m too scared to say out loud.
She looks at me like I might already be hers.Like she might fall if I so much as breathe too close.
And fuck, I’m starving.
“Aly.”
Her name is a rasp in my throat.I can’t remember the last time I said anything that meant this much.
She’s beneath me on the couch—back pressed against the cushions, thighs bracketing my hips, her hands tangled in my shirt like she’s holding herself together with me.
Our mouths meet again, and it’s not gentle.It’s all tongue and teeth and so much need.She kisses me like she might unravel if I stop.
But I need to hear it.
Need her to say it.
I pull back just enough to look at her, lips swollen, breath shaking.
“Tell me to stop if you don’t want this,” I whisper, voice hoarse, almost pleading.My forehead rests against hers, noses brushing, breaths mingling.“Please.”
Her eyes—fuck, her eyes—are endless and wet and wanting.“Don’t stop.Never stop.”
I crash back into her mouth like I’ve been set on fire.
Her dress isn't just fabric—it’s an obstacle, a tease clinging to her body after a night spent keeping other people’s love stories on track.
But I want hers.I want ours.
My fingers find the zipper at her side and drag it down slowly, the sound loud in the silence between us.The fabric loosens, slipping over her shoulders like it was waiting for permission to fall.
She shivers when I peel it down, exposing the soft curve of her back, the smooth line of her spine.I tug the straps off and press my lips to her collarbone as the bodice dips.
She lifts her hips just enough for me to slide the dress down her thighs, leaving her in nothing but a lacy scrap of black underneath—and it barely counts as underwear.Her beautiful breasts are perky and needy.
“Fuck, Aly ...”I whisper, awe bleeding into my voice.
I cup her breast in one hand, thumbing over the peak until it draws a soft, broken sigh from her lips.Then I dip my head, taking her nipple into my mouth, swirling my tongue slowly before sucking her deeper.
She arches beneath me, whimpering, her fingers threading into my hair and holding me there.Like she needs me there.
And I’m not stopping.
She arches, hands in my hair, hips lifting to grind against me through the fabric still between us.I’m shaking.I don’t know if it’s from restraint, or relief, or need.My hand slips under the waistband of her underwear, trying to take it off.
