Things We Never Said (Hart's Boardwalk #3) - Samantha Young Page 0,108
Dahlia. Since moving to Hartwell, he’d spoken to his mom only a couple of times, and any mention of his dad made her clam up. He worried that without him there in Boston, his dad would return to his old ways, taking all his drunken bitterness out on Michael’s mom.
Then there was Dahlia.
He wanted to be patient. He’d promised himself he would be. Yet deep down, he thought the giant gesture of moving to Hartwell for her would’ve broken through all those solid defenses she’d surrounded her heart with over the years.
It wasn’t working.
Michael was failing at the most important thing he’d ever faced.
He was just … failing.
Though as he led Dahlia by the hand into his spartan bedroom, he let go of all his miserable shortcomings. All he’d planned to do was lie down on the bed with her, feel her there in the dark, maybe pretend that everything was okay for a few hours so he could sleep.
He didn’t expect her to stop at the edge of the bed, stare up at him with those soulful blue eyes, and whisper, “Let me take care of you.”
Michael would never forget Dahlia’s version of taking care of him for the rest of his life. If it was all he ever got from her, then he was sure it was more than most men had ever had from any woman. First, she undressed them both, and then she’d asked him to lie on the bed. She’d hovered over his body, a fantasy of smooth skin, big breasts, tiny waist, generous hips, gorgeous legs, and dark hair that cascaded down her back. Her full breasts, with their tight, erect nipples, were so tempting, he reached for them. Dahlia had allowed the touch for a second and then curled her hand around his and pressed it back to the bed.
“Let me,” she whispered.
Michael would understand what that meant when she touched him. Her lips and hands were tender, slow explorers caressing their way around and down his body, learning every inch of him. She spent so long learning him, Michael’s heart felt like it would explode from beating so fast. He panted in the dark, trying to catch his breath, his legs moving restlessly against the sheets, his hips pushing up toward her in need.
But he never lost his patience because there was a part of him that didn’t want her to stop.
No woman had ever cherished—fuckin’ cherished—him the way Dahlia McGuire was doing right then.
She took him into her mouth, and Michael felt like a boy again, helpless against his own passion. This is heaven, he thought, as the electricity licked at the back of his thighs and his lower spine. He could hear his hoarse grunts of her name, the loving words, the dirty words mingling, falling from his lips as he watched the woman he loved suck and lick and devour him.
Then it hit. Hard and explosive and so fuckin’ phenomenal, he forgot where he was for a second.
Panting in the dark, his chest heaving as though he’d run a marathon, Michael could still hear his own shout of release ringing in his ears. His body melted into the mattress in utter satisfaction, his limbs tingling in the aftermath.
Dahlia.
Forcing his eyes open, he watched as she returned from his bathroom, her skin glowing in the moonlight filtering through his windows.
Christ, she was beautiful.
Not only beautiful on the outside. She was pieced together with layers of every kind of beauty there could be, so deep and full, it shone out of her.
Why couldn’t she see that?
She crawled up onto the bed beside him, and he wanted to touch her, repay the favor, but he was tired. He hadn’t slept more than an hour here and there in days. It seemed to take great effort, but he lifted his arm toward her.
“Ssshh,” she whispered, pressing it back to the mattress. “Go to sleep, Michael. I’m here.”
She rested her head on his chest and draped her arm over his stomach as she cuddled her soft body into his side. Cocooned by her, his eyes closed like they had a will of their own and the bliss of sleep took him into its dark.
For hours I laid awake, afraid to move in case it would disturb Michael. He was so exhausted; the weight of the world seemed to rest on his shoulders. And I knew his worries weren’t only about Freddie. I knew I was probably more to blame than anyone for his burdens.