The buzzing of someone calling up from downstairs interrupts us.
I place my computer on the coffee table and make my way over to the door. “You’re very wrong. Cake is not the same as sex.”
“Maybe to me it is. Maybe I like your chocolate cake as much as I love tits.” He winks.
I pretend to roll my eyes. But the idea that Dylan thinks about my tits does weird things to my insides.
“Imagine if I licked chocolate frosting off a pair of tits. Best of both worlds.”
Thank goodness I’m no longer right in front of him because my entire body feels as if an inferno is ready to engulf me in a ball of flames.
I press the intercom button and say hello.
“Hey, it’s Lyle. Is Dylan there?”
I pretend to laugh. “Of course he is, but plug your nose when you come in.”
I press the button to let him in downstairs, then I open the door and walk back to the chair, picking up my computer.
Dylan’s hand lands on my upper thigh, way too close to the center of my legs. “Your chocolate cake doesn’t control me anymore.”
I stare at his hand, his warmth leaking through my leggings and spreading across my skin like a brush fire. I set my computer on the table again and lean toward him. “Okay, so if I bake one right now, you wouldn’t take a shower for one slice?”
His fingertips grip my inner thigh a little tighter and all I can think about is how if they inched a little higher, they’d be exactly where I want them.
“Not on your life.”
“Only one way to test the theory,” I singsong.
He wraps one arm around my waist and pulls me into his lap. With only one arm, he still manages to tickle my ribcage as I squirm out of his hold.
“You’re going to hurt your arm,” I say.
Between his track pants and my leggings, I’m sliding around his lap. His lips are right at my ear, my body over his. It’s then a hard ridge slides against the seam of my ass.
We both freeze in place.
“Is this what you guys do for fun?”
Our heads whip up to Lyle gawking over the couch. I scurry off Dylan’s lap. He grabs the pillow and places it over his crotch.
“Rian,” Lyle says, his eyes scanning my body as if he has X-ray vision.
“Lyle,” I say, though not in the same flirtatious tone he said my name.
Not that he’s a bad kid, but he’s just that—a kid. Lyle’s nineteen and has followed Dylan around since he was sixteen, begging for him to take him on as an apprentice. Dylan finally had a moment of weakness last year and took him under his wing.
“You two could add Jell-O or oil to your wrestling routine,” Lyle says with a smirk.
“What do you want?” Dylan asks.
Lyle sits on the opposite end of the couch as I busy myself in the kitchen, trying to convince myself that my ass wiggling didn’t give Dylan a hard-on.
“You gotta come down to the shop. Frankie and Jax argue nonstop. It’s bringing back memories of my childhood, man.” Lyle’s voice cracks as if he’s going to cry.
“What are they fighting over?” I ask, my interest piqued. I thought for sure they’d work well together.
“Everything. His clients. Her clients. What’s for lunch. The candy Frankie brought in for clients. The magazines in the waiting area. Everything and anything. It’s like they secretly enjoy it.” Lyle pinches the bridge of his nose.
“And you’re here why?” Dylan asks.
“Because you’re the boss. Fix it. I can’t be creative in that type of environment.”
Dylan looks at me and I shrug.
“Jax actually says things?” Dylan asks, which would be my question.
Frankie definitely speaks her mind and I can see her going crazy about certain things. But Jax is pretty laid-back, allowing stuff to roll off his shoulders.
“He mostly grumbles and grunts. But they went in the storage room to hash it out when this group of girls came in last night. They came for Jax, but as you know, he’s booked.”
Dylan nods.
“He told them they could stay and observe if they wanted. Frankie lost it because she had a client booked and there was nowhere for them to sit while they waited.”
As Lyle tells the story, he’s so dramatic. Like they’re his parents having fights all over again.
Dylan raises his hand. “Okay, I’ll head over and see if I can’t get this straightened out.”
Lyle looks him over. “After you shower, right? Because they’ll probably just team up on you if you come in looking like that. How much food has fallen into that shag carpet on your chin?”
Dylan peers down at the track pants and T-shirt I think he’s been sleeping and living in, then he looks at me.
“And I didn’t even have to make the chocolate cake.” I smile sweetly.
He grumbles and stands, heading to his room. “Give me a half hour.”
Lyle stands. “You guys are into some kinky shit.” He leaves, shutting the door.
Dylan walks out of his room. “Well, lucky you. You get to shave me.”
My stomach catapults like I was shot out of a cannon. “Shave you?” I follow him to the bathroom. “I said I would start a shower for you.”
“I’m not going to use my right hand because I don’t care for the ‘I just got mugged in an alley’ look.” He peeks over his shoulder. “You’re the only one here, so you’re the lucky lady.”
“But… I could call Seth or Knox. I’ve never shaved anyone before.”
“You shave your legs?” he asks.
I nod.
“And your pussy?”
My eyes widen. “That’s none of your business.”
He holds out the razor. “I’ll walk you through it. Just imagine my face is your pussy. Be gentle as fuck.”
He grins and pats the bathroom counter, stripping off his T-shirt with his good arm. He’s really getting used to the one arm thing. My eyes zero in on his tattoos. I slide up on the counter, my heart racing a million beats per second. He starts the water and pulls out the shaving cream.
His hand glides up my inner leg, spreading my thighs. My breath hitches.
“Come on, make room for me,” he says and laughs.
“Are you sure?”
He locks eyes with me, and I swallow the lump in the back of my throat. He’s the most gorgeous man I’ve ever known. “You’re the only person I would trust to do this.”
I slowly take the razor from his hand and nod.
So we’re doing this then.
Chapter Eighteen
Dylan
After Rian uses my trimmers to trim off the excess hair, I debate whether I should have her shave the rest completely off. I could keep the scruff I’ve perfected over the years, but being this close to her feels good. If I have to look like I’m fifteen all over again to prolong this feeling, so be it.
Rian’s hands are soft as she puddles water in her palms and runs it through my beard. I ignore the droplets falling to my bare chest. Once what’s left of the beard is wet enough, she cups her hand and dishes shaving cream in it, then uses both hands to lather it on my skin.
“It’s now or never,” she says, her gorgeous blue eyes shining under the lights in the bathroom.