More Than Enough
Page 35

Using his body, he shifts me higher until his hardness is exactly where I want it.
“Dylan…”
He responds by moaning into my skin, his hand pressing harder on my wrists.
I try to break from his hold. I want to touch him. I want to feel every single inch of his body but he’s too strong. Too overcome by lust.
His hips start thrusting, slow, smooth movements and I’m wet. So damn wet.
“Dylan…”
He covers my mouth again, his tongue soft and warm and relentless. He keeps thrusting, keeps pushing me closer and closer to—
“Dylan!” For a second I’m confused because I didn’t speak his name and it’s not my voice. “Dylan!” Bang bang bang. I get pushed forward by the force of the door opening.
Dylan curses and drops me to the floor while his hand slams against the door. “What, Eric?!”
I wipe my lips with the back of my hand, my eyes wide in panic.
On the other side of the door, Eric shouts, “I left some shit I need for work in there.”
Clearly reluctant, Dylan plants his hands on my waist, guiding me in front of him with his hard-on pressed against my back. He opens the door for his brother, whose eyes widen when he sees us.
“Oh,” his brother says. Then he smirks. “Riley, right?”
I nod.
Dylan’s grip on my waist tightens.
His brother asks me, “You still got that mole on the inside of your left thigh?”
“What?” I pant.
“He’s fucking around,” Dylan says from behind me. “Get your shit and leave, E.”
Eric steps forward, his strides short and slow, his eyes staying on us. Dylan moves us as one, turning slightly to follow him across the room.
“I can’t for the life of me remember where I put it,” Eric says, index finger tapping his chin as he slows his steps even more. “Maybe it’s under your bed…” He stops moving.
So do we.
“No.” Finger on chin again. “We cleared that out for your she-male porn.”
“Get the fuck out,” Dylan snaps.
I giggle. Then trap my lips between my teeth when Dylan grunts. He adds, “I didn’t see your car out front. I didn’t know anyone was home.”
Eric smiles, his eyebrow quirked. “Baby brother, you been sneakin’ girls into your room when no one’s home?”
Dylan scoffs. “No. And girl. Singular. And still no.”
“Swear, it’s the first time I’ve been here,” I stammer.
Eric laughs, his head tilting back with the force of it. “Riley, Dylan’s a grown man. He’s allowed to bring girls home.”
Dylan sighs. “Seriously. What do you want?”
Eric’s grin widens. “Your truck.”
“What?”
“You want alone time with your girl? I want your truck. You’ve never let me drive it. Dad even hid the fucking keys while you were gone.”
“Fine,” Dylan huffs, throwing him the keys.
His brother’s face shifts from humor to shock when he looks down at the keys he just caught. “Seriously?”
“Just go!”
Eric shrugs as he pockets the keys. “I might just stay.”
Dylan grunts again.
Apparently Eric finds this funny.
Me? I’m just confused.
Eric says, “Retaliation is a bitch, Dylan. Have I taught you nothing?”
“I might go home,” I tell them.
“No,” they both say at the same time.
Eric’s tone turns serious. “I’m leaving.” He taps Dylan’s shoulder as he passes. “It’s good to see you happy, man.”
I unknowingly hold my breath as I watch him leave, only releasing it when I hear the front door close.
“You’re so cute,” Dylan says through a chuckle.
I face him. “What?”
“You were so scared, like we were busted or something.” He raises the pitch of his voice when he mocks, “Swear it’s the first time I’ve been here.” After I smack his chest, he tries to pretend to be hurt, but he’s too busy laughing. “You do realize we’re adults, Riley? I’ve been allowed to have girls in my room since I was sixteen.”
I stick my tongue out in disgust. “I guess that’s why you were so confident in your attack of me just now.”
He releases a chuckle from deep in his throat, his eyes on the ceiling as he starts to pull down the streamers. “Sorry about that. It’s your fault, though. You shouldn’t look so hot sitting in my truck.” He drops the streamers on the floor—the floor covered in glitter. “You’re lucky Eric walked in when he did. I probably would’ve fucked you against the door.”
“Dylan!”
He laughs again, louder and unrestrained as his gaze moves to mine. Then he steps forward, his hands cupping my face. “You’re blushing.”
“You’re purposely embarrassing me,” I admit.
“So you didn’t like it?”
“I didn’t not like it.”
He nods. “You want to stop?”
I shrug. “Maybe just slow down?”
He bites down on his lip, then exhales loudly. “We better do something else then because you, in my room, looking as pretty as you look right now…” He leans down, his mouth finding mine again. But it’s different than earlier, it’s slower and sweeter. When he pulls away, he curses under his breath and releases his hold on my face. “Yeah. We should really do something else. Or get out of here.”
“Eric has your truck.”
“Right.” He nods. “Want to help me clean this crap up?”
We spend the next half hour pulling down streamers and vacuuming glitter as much as we can. There’s not a lot in his room. Just a mattress in the corner—not even a bed—a desk and chest of drawers. We bag the trash and change his sheets (flannel, just like his shirts) and when we’re done, he opens a drawer and tells me to pick something to change into so I don’t have to go home covered in glitter. Then he lies on his bed, his left hand behind his head, his right on in his stomach, and his eyes on me.
I run my finger through his clothes, T-shirts with the USMC logo and even his combat uniform. I choose a flannel shirt, blue and white, like the one he wore the second day he showed up at my door. When I turn away from him, I shrug out of my top, leaving me in nothing but my bra and denim shorts. I button it up quickly and remove my shorts, not bothering to replace them. The shirt’s so big it ends just above my knees. I push away the memories of wearing Jeremy’s shirts for the past year and a half and turn to him, my gaze lowered and my thumb between my teeth.
“Riley,” he murmurs, and when I lift my eyes, I see his gaze moving down my body. “Come here.” He pats the mattress on the spot next to him.
I chew my lip as I take the slow steps toward him, trying to hide my hesitation. I sit where he indicated, one leg beneath me on the mattress, the other stretched out on the floor in front of me. He places his hand on my knee, then begins to slowly stroke up and down my leg. He smiles, his eyes on mine. “You look scared.”
I let out a nervous laugh. “A little.”
His brows knit. “Why?”