His hazel eyes are so dark and piercing, and that look alone brings me a breath closer to the edge. He pulls me into him, so that his hand is wedged between us with no extra space. I’m still moving against his palm, but when I rock hard enough, I’m pushing against his erection, too. I know when I’ve done that because I can feel his heavy exhale against my lips.
“I’m going to watch you, Dylan. Just like this. I’m going to watch you come apart around my fingers, and it might just be the hottest f**king thing I’ve ever seen.”
My eyelids start to fall under the pleasure, and he twists his fingers inside me. I pull his hair on accident, and he growls in approval.
“Look at me, Dylan. Don’t close your eyes. I want to see it. I want to watch you come for me. Can you give me that?”
“Si-Silas.”
His grin is so wicked, so gorgeous. I just stare at him. I could stare at him all day.
“Feel free to say that while you come, too.”
And that’s it for me. I feel it building the second before it hits, like I can almost see the shadow of a wave cresting just behind me, and then it crashes over my head and I am . . .
drowning and
dying and
breathing and
perfect . . .
Everything is absolutely perfect.
Silas’s lips touch mine, surprisingly soft, and I sink into him, boneless and exhausted and too undone to be embarrassed. My skin is buzzing, and my hearing is off, like I’m underwater. I can feel the delay between my thoughts and my movements, like my body short-circuited and is still trying to reboot.
“I was right,” he breathes against my lips. “Hottest f**king thing I’ve ever seen.”
He kisses me again, and that’s when I realize . . . this isn’t over. I’ve just had an incredibly intimate, incredibly vulnerable encounter with a relative stranger, in a bathroom, of all places, and though I had a (rather wonderful) moment, he didn’t. And this was all just prelude.
Which is terrifying because that prelude was the scariest and most erotic moment of my life, and I might not survive more. And though I definitely wanted what just happened, my brain is still too fuzzy and disjointed for me to figure out what else I want.
He slides his hand out from under me, and I realize that we’re both still fully clothed. Other than my soaked panties and unbuttoned shorts, you can’t tell we’ve been doing anything more than kissing.
There’s something even sexier about that, but at the same time, it wakes me up to a twisting sensation in my gut, something I recognize all too easily as guilt.
It’s not like I’m against sex or anything.
But like this? When it’s this . . . impersonal? I have no clue what I’m doing. It’s as if I woke up today and completely forgot who I was, who I’ve spent my whole life becoming. And I don’t know whether to be angry at myself for that or for feeling guilty about doing what I want. What feels right.
When is it okay for want to overpower common sense? And how do I know if this is just some phase, some rebellion? Or if it’s me finally waking up, letting go of expectations and responsibilities and rules?
How do I know what to trust—what I feel or what I think?
I’m scared that whatever I decide, I’ll end up regretting it.
I’m still straddling Silas when I ask, “You said you and Stella hooked up last year. That’s what this is . . . right?”
He kisses me on the shoulder and helps me stand. “My room is right across the hall. Let’s go over there.”
He pulls open the door, but I plant my feet.
“This is just a hookup.”
I don’t phrase it like a question, but from the wary look he shoots me, we both know it is.
“What do you want it to be?”
I frown. “I’m not sure.” I’m not really the one-night-stand kind of person, but I also can’t picture myself having a relationship with Silas. I like him and the way he makes me feel, but that’s not near enough to build a relationship on.
A holding cell meet-up and a few hot minutes in the bathroom is not exactly how I pictured my next romantic encounter.
“Can’t we just leave it at that? Figure it out later?”
“No. I can’t.”
He leaves the door to cross over to me. He scoops my thick hair up and pulls it over one shoulder. Then he trails a finger down my cheek, and I’m relieved to note it’s not the hand he recently had buried in my shorts.
“I think you’re great, Dylan.” He doesn’t use any stupid nicknames. I guess that’s another perk of the activity we’ve just done. “I like you. I like making you come. That’s all I know right now.”
I will not blush. I will not blush. I will not—
Damn that cocky smile.
I wish that were enough. I wish I could be fine with just worrying about right now.
“I don’t ask questions to be a pain, Silas. I ask questions because I’m the kind of person who needs answers. I just am.”
“What answer do you want? A relationship? Because that’s not really something I do.”
I don’t think that’s what I want. But I don’t like that it’s not even a consideration.
“How do you know? Do you have trust issues? Or you get bored easily? Or you’ve just never tried?”
He drops his hand away from my face.
“Dylan, I’m not sure what I want from you, but it isn’t to be my shrink.”