How the Light Gets In (Cracks Duet #2)(33)
Regular as clockwork, the door opened and closed with a loud snick. I slumped back into the pillows in relief.
Dylan stroked my hair away from my forehead, staring down at me with affection. “I should be leaving, too,” he said with regret.
I swallowed. “Listen, Dylan, about last night—”
His finger went to my lips to stop me. “Let’s just enjoy this, Ev. I know you’re still not ready, and I’m willing to be patient. We can go at whatever pace you need.”
God, he was too perfect.
I let out a low chuckle. “We just spent the night having sex. Pretty sure my pace is completely out of whack.”
“Well then, for now we can be friends. Really, really close friends,” he said, with a devilish grin.
I shoved him away and rolled my eyes, even though the idea of being friends with Dylan while being able to use his body for sex was dead appealing. I felt like a bit of a scumbag for thinking it, but there it was.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he went on, distracting me from my thoughts. “I have a charity event I’m attending tomorrow night, and I’d love if you’d be my date. It’s to raise money for homelessness.”
“Oh,” I said, taken off guard. “I mean, I’d love to go but I have nothing to wear to something like that.”
“Evelyn, when are you going to realise that I couldn’t care less what you’re wearing? You own a dress, don’t you?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Then that’s perfect. I’ll pick you up at eight.”
Before I had a chance to respond, he was out of bed and pulling on the clothes he’d shed last night. I admired his naked form before it was covered, then got up, and headed into the kitchen.
“Do you want breakfast before you go?” I called back.
He came out of my room, sliding his tie around his neck. “I’m in a real hurry, love. But maybe next time.”
“That’s okay,” I said and went to put some toast on for myself. My thighs clenched at the idea of a next time. Dylan wrapped his arms around me from behind and pressed his lips to my neck. “I’ll miss you today.”
“Me, too,” I whispered in reply.
He caught my mouth in a quick kiss then hustled to the door, turning back just before he left. “See you tomorrow, Evelyn.”
*
Later that day evening, about an hour before I had to go to work, my inbox pinged with a new email.
Tuesday 17:11 [email protected] to [email protected]
I’ve been thinking about you all day . . .
Tuesday 17:13 [email protected] to [email protected]
Me, too.
About you, I mean.
Tuesday 17:15 [email protected] to [email protected]
Can I call you?
I chewed on my lip, wondering what he wanted to talk about, then shot off a simple reply: YES. My phone lit up with a call not long after.
“Hey,” I answered, hesitant. Now that we had a day of distance between us, I felt unsure of myself. I also felt selfish for leading him on, especially when I didn’t know how long it would take for me to be ready for a proper relationship.
I was officially one of those indecisive arseholes who strung people along.
Oh God . . .
I was Kourtney Kardashian.
But then, that would mean Dylan was Scott, and he was absolutely nothing like him.
And yes, having no close friends and no social life these past few years left a lot of room for reality TV.
“Evelyn,” he breathed. He sounded . . . aroused, and my stomach flipped at the mere idea of a turned-on Dylan.
“What did you want to talk about?” I asked tightly, trying to sound normal when I was feeling anything but.
“I can’t stop thinking about last night . . .” A sigh. “The noises you made, your taste.”
My breathing grew choppy, his voice working me up. I really hoped he was someplace private. “I’ve been thinking about it, too.”
“Do you know how much I’ve missed the feel of you?” he went on. “All day I’ve wanted you in my arms.”
I swallowed and closed my eyes. This was on the verge of turning into phone sex, and I was helpless to stop it.
“Where are you right now?”
“In my bedroom,” I whispered. “Getting ready for work.”
He swore under his breath. “I’m at the office.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Come over. I want to fuck you on my desk.”
“Dylan,” I gasped. When we were younger, he’d never been shy, but this grown-up version of him was very forward. He didn’t mince his words. And a part of me liked that very much.
“Come over,” he repeated.
“I can’t. I have a shift.”
“You can call in sick,” he argued, a seductive lilt to his voice.
I lay back on my bed and my hand somehow found its way to my stomach, my palm flat to my skin. “You’ll see me tomorrow,” I whispered.
He groaned softly. “I’m not sure I can wait that long.”
“It’ll be a lesson in delayed gratification,” I said, teasing now.
He swore under his breath. “This entire day has been a lesson in delayed gratification.”