Love Emerged (Love Surfaced #3)
Dylan
I WAKE UP IN MY childhood bed with the scent of fresh laundry lingering around me. Clearly, my mom’s anal obsessive-compulsive necessity to wash sheets every other day is still intact.
That annoying chore of hers that grated on my nerves during my puberty years wasn’t appreciated until college. Imagine your mom coming to wash your sheets during your prime masturbation years. On more than one occasion, I didn’t care to discuss the stain or where it’d originated. One can only use the excuse of spilled milk so many times. Not that my mom ever questioned me. How? I have no idea because I’m the younger of two brothers, and from the thin wall that separates my brother Tanner and me, I wasn’t the first one to beat off in our parents’ home.
My legs rustle under the sheets until I hit a smooth leg. I glance to my right, finding a pair of hazel eyes that have been fixated on me for the past three days. They belong to the girl whose eyes have raked over my body, whose hands have touched me whenever possible, and whose pussy has rubbed up against my thigh more often than my mom’s new puppy, Dash. I’m not dismissing her. She’s a knockout with short blonde hair, as many tattoos as myself, long legs that leave you struggling to breathe until you catch a glimpse of her ass. Then, you’re completely breathless.
But I’m not in any spot to date anyone right now. After two failed relationships, I became celibate again. It’s not as distressing the second time around, but maybe that’s because, this time, my sex free life is my choice.
Bea, the girl in my bed, has been flirting with me since I arrived for my neighbor Brad Ashby’s wedding, and I’ve behaved, not allowing myself to waver over that friendship line. I’ve kept the conversations to television shows, music, and movies.
Last night though, I might have drunk one or two shots too many, drowning my willpower in the bottom of a vodka glass, when she circled her ass over my crotch on the dimly lit dance floor.
All our friends and family members had left the bar early after Brad had once again made a spectacle of himself. We stayed, which marked my first bad decision of the night. Then, she dared me to do a shot with her, resulting in my second bad decision. Then, she asked me to dance—my third bad decision.
She leaned in close to my ear, all breathy, and whispered, “Fuck me.”
No heterosexual male who’d drunk half the liquor shelf would or could decline an offer like that.
The ultimate failed decision is the reason I’m sitting against my headboard, wondering how the hell I’ll sneak her out of my bedroom.
Four days of having her eyes pinned on me like I was a damn rock star conquered the lacerations that Ava had inflicted from a five-minute conversation. Bea made me believe that Ava had made a mistake when she chose to release me into the open market.
Now, in the light of day, I’m thinking that Ava’s reason to break up with me was a good one. Even though I never thought that being too good of a person was a viable reason to break up, my stomach won’t stop twisting to the fact that I’ll be hurting Bea this morning.
“Dylan,” she coos, her hand extending over the imaginary line I’ve initiated between us.
“Bea.” I purposely attempt to sound indifferent to her touching my arm.
“Let’s go eat breakfast.”
Breakfast? What? Is she crazy? I have to figure out how to remove her from my house before my mom comes in to grab my sheets.
The buzz of my phone couldn’t have happened at a better time. I throw open the sheets, shrug on my jeans from last night, grab my phone, and hightail it out of the room.
“Hello?” I whisper, not to clue in anyone inside this house to the fact that I’m awake.
“Dylan, it’s me.”
My head tips back, lightly knocking the wall behind me, and my eyes focus on the ceiling.
“What do you want, Ava?” I really wish I had checked the screen before hastily answering.
“I want to talk. You keep sending my calls to voice mail.”
“What else is there to say? Aren’t I a wimp? Too nice of a guy who lets you walk all over me?” I argue, my voice rising higher than I wish since I’m hearing the clinking of pots and pans downstairs.
“Dylan, don’t be like that. I just meant that maybe you could be more . . . I don’t know . . . alpha.”
“Maybe, what? Toss you around a little? Tie you up and pull your hair while I fuck you? Is that what you want? Maybe I’ll go out with my friends, get wasted, come back, and push you down to your knees to suck me off. Is that what you want, Ava?” My blood boils more intensely each time I think of her sitting on my couch after a night with her friends, asking me to treat her like shit.
I WAKE UP IN MY childhood bed with the scent of fresh laundry lingering around me. Clearly, my mom’s anal obsessive-compulsive necessity to wash sheets every other day is still intact.
That annoying chore of hers that grated on my nerves during my puberty years wasn’t appreciated until college. Imagine your mom coming to wash your sheets during your prime masturbation years. On more than one occasion, I didn’t care to discuss the stain or where it’d originated. One can only use the excuse of spilled milk so many times. Not that my mom ever questioned me. How? I have no idea because I’m the younger of two brothers, and from the thin wall that separates my brother Tanner and me, I wasn’t the first one to beat off in our parents’ home.
My legs rustle under the sheets until I hit a smooth leg. I glance to my right, finding a pair of hazel eyes that have been fixated on me for the past three days. They belong to the girl whose eyes have raked over my body, whose hands have touched me whenever possible, and whose pussy has rubbed up against my thigh more often than my mom’s new puppy, Dash. I’m not dismissing her. She’s a knockout with short blonde hair, as many tattoos as myself, long legs that leave you struggling to breathe until you catch a glimpse of her ass. Then, you’re completely breathless.
But I’m not in any spot to date anyone right now. After two failed relationships, I became celibate again. It’s not as distressing the second time around, but maybe that’s because, this time, my sex free life is my choice.
Bea, the girl in my bed, has been flirting with me since I arrived for my neighbor Brad Ashby’s wedding, and I’ve behaved, not allowing myself to waver over that friendship line. I’ve kept the conversations to television shows, music, and movies.
Last night though, I might have drunk one or two shots too many, drowning my willpower in the bottom of a vodka glass, when she circled her ass over my crotch on the dimly lit dance floor.
All our friends and family members had left the bar early after Brad had once again made a spectacle of himself. We stayed, which marked my first bad decision of the night. Then, she dared me to do a shot with her, resulting in my second bad decision. Then, she asked me to dance—my third bad decision.
She leaned in close to my ear, all breathy, and whispered, “Fuck me.”
No heterosexual male who’d drunk half the liquor shelf would or could decline an offer like that.
The ultimate failed decision is the reason I’m sitting against my headboard, wondering how the hell I’ll sneak her out of my bedroom.
Four days of having her eyes pinned on me like I was a damn rock star conquered the lacerations that Ava had inflicted from a five-minute conversation. Bea made me believe that Ava had made a mistake when she chose to release me into the open market.
Now, in the light of day, I’m thinking that Ava’s reason to break up with me was a good one. Even though I never thought that being too good of a person was a viable reason to break up, my stomach won’t stop twisting to the fact that I’ll be hurting Bea this morning.
“Dylan,” she coos, her hand extending over the imaginary line I’ve initiated between us.
“Bea.” I purposely attempt to sound indifferent to her touching my arm.
“Let’s go eat breakfast.”
Breakfast? What? Is she crazy? I have to figure out how to remove her from my house before my mom comes in to grab my sheets.
The buzz of my phone couldn’t have happened at a better time. I throw open the sheets, shrug on my jeans from last night, grab my phone, and hightail it out of the room.
“Hello?” I whisper, not to clue in anyone inside this house to the fact that I’m awake.
“Dylan, it’s me.”
My head tips back, lightly knocking the wall behind me, and my eyes focus on the ceiling.
“What do you want, Ava?” I really wish I had checked the screen before hastily answering.
“I want to talk. You keep sending my calls to voice mail.”
“What else is there to say? Aren’t I a wimp? Too nice of a guy who lets you walk all over me?” I argue, my voice rising higher than I wish since I’m hearing the clinking of pots and pans downstairs.
“Dylan, don’t be like that. I just meant that maybe you could be more . . . I don’t know . . . alpha.”
“Maybe, what? Toss you around a little? Tie you up and pull your hair while I fuck you? Is that what you want? Maybe I’ll go out with my friends, get wasted, come back, and push you down to your knees to suck me off. Is that what you want, Ava?” My blood boils more intensely each time I think of her sitting on my couch after a night with her friends, asking me to treat her like shit.