Heartland (True North #7) - Sarina Bowen Page 0,76
I ask as we hurry past bookworms and sleepy students studying for midterms.
“Nope,” he says. “I’m from Vermont. I run hot.” Then he gives me a glance that smolders.
Wow. It’s disorienting to finally get this kind of attention from Dylan. I hurry to keep up with his long strides.
“I have my truck,” he grunts as we step outside. He steers me toward the parking lot, and in no time at all, he’s opening the passenger’s door and boosting me up to the seat. A blast of cool air finds my bare body beneath my skirt, and I clench my legs together with surprise.
The door slams, and Dylan reappears on the driver’s side a half second later, just as I’m reaching for the seatbelt.
But I don’t even get there, because two strong arms yank me against his chest. I gasp with surprise as his mouth claims mine. Impulse kicks in immediately. With a whimper, I go limp in his arms, molding my body to his, softening under his touch.
“Fuck,” he grunts. “I need to be inside you. I want it so bad.” His tongue invades my mouth, showing me just how urgently he needs me.
I tremble as his hand slides down my body, reaching under my skirt. As his hand skims up my thigh, I have to fight the impulse to be modest. Kissing a boy in a car is how I ended up with scars on my backside.
But I didn’t run away to Vermont to be afraid. So I grip Dylan’s flannel shirt in two hands and kiss him fiercely as his slow caress approaches. And then his thumb is right there, brushing tenderly over the mound between my legs.
He groans loudly. “I have got to get you home,” he says, pulling back, his eyes bright, his face flushed. “Like, yesterday.” And I’m not going to argue. “Put on your seatbelt, because my abilities are impaired right now. Good thing it’s a five-minute drive.” He shakes his head, as if he’s trying to clear it.
My seatbelt clicks into place, despite my shaking hands. And then it’s a long five minutes to Spruce Street. And quiet, because this turn of events has left me speechless. It’s almost too good to be true.
Tutoring, though. It’s still just a fun time for him. A tutor isn’t a serious role in someone’s life. It’s just extra.
My algebra class ends at Christmas time. I wonder if Dylan’s interest in me will last even that long.
“Fuck,” Dylan hisses when we pull into the driveway. Music is blaring from the house, and I see people in the windows.
“Problem?” I ask.
“Not really. I just forgot that Rickie invited people over.”
This place is a zoo. “Should I go home?” I wonder aloud.
“Oh hell no.” He cuts the engine. “Come on. Let’s sneak in the back door.”
I let out a nervous giggle, but Dylan has already exited the truck. Seconds later, he’s opening my door for me, shouldering my backpack again and helping me down. When he closes the truck’s door, I take a step toward the house.
Dylan stops my progress, pushing me back against the side of the truck, taking my chin into one of his roughened palms and then kissing me deeply.
His kisses are still a surprise. I’ve had quite a few of them by now, but I’m never really prepared for the warm press of his generous lips against mine and the commanding way he parts my lips to taste me. He kisses me with focus and intense concentration.
No wonder there’s always a line around the block to kiss Dylan Shipley. I get it now.
I lose his mouth after an intense minute or two, but he rests his forehead against mine for a moment. “That will have to hold me until I can get you upstairs alone. Now let’s go.”
As we head for the kitchen door, he takes my hand in his, which is a different kind of exciting. Is it weird that it makes me want to shout?
Dylan is holding my hand!
From the mud room where we’re kicking off our shoes, Dylan pokes his head into the kitchen.
“Dylan!” Rickie shouts. “Where’ve you been? The punch is half gone.”
“Hey, Rick,” Dylan says, hanging my backpack on a hook and then taking my hand again. “Quite the party you’ve got here.”
“Nice of you to stop by.” Rickie smirks at us. His eyes dart to our joined hands. “Who wants punch?”