Chapter 11: I’m Not Stopping This Time

Part 11: I’m Not Stopping This Time

The second the front door clicked shut behind Jake, my phone buzzed again.

Dylan: Don’t care if Jake’s in the kitchen. Come downstairs. Now.

I stared at the message, heart hammering.

He didn’t know Jake had left. He didn’t know we were alone. And if I told him—

I swallowed hard, thumbs already moving before I could second-guess it.

Me: He’s gone. You’ve got me all to yourself.

Three dots popped up. Then vanished.

No reply.

I stood frozen for a beat—then I heard it. A creak from below. A faint noise in the basement.

I stepped into the basement, and there he was.

Dylan.

Shirtless. Just those tight black gym shorts clinging to his thighs, the rest of him carved like a god. His chest was glistening slightly from a shower or a pump, shoulders broad and relaxed like he owned the world. Like he owned me.He didn’t move.

Didn’t say anything.

Just watched me, like a king waiting for worship.

I took a shaky breath. “Sooo ... Jake’s gone. All night.”

Dylan’s lip curled into a smirk. “Good.” He shifted slightly. “Means you can moan as loud as you want.”

My throat went dry.

“You gonna stand there looking at me,” he said, voice low and firm, “or you gonna come here and show me what that mouth was made for?”

I stepped closer, pulse wild, eyes locked on his chest.

“Start at the top,” he murmured. “Work your way down. Slowly.”

I reached up, fingers brushing across his thick pecs. His skin was warm, chest rising and falling beneath my hands. He was solid—immovable—like touching him was some ancient ritual.

“You like this?” he said, tone cocky, dipping his chin to watch me.

I nodded, too breathless to speak.

“Good. Now use your mouth.”

I leaned in, lips pressing softly to his chest—then tongue. His skin tasted like salt and skin and want. I kissed across his pecs, down the line between them, letting my hands roam lower.

“Slower,” he growled. “Like you mean it.”

I obeyed, dragging my tongue down the center of his abs, following the ridges like they were holy scripture. His hand found the back of my head, not pushing—just there. Possessive. Like he owned me now.

“Lower,” he said again. “Keep going. Don’t stop till I say.”

I kissed the edge of his V-line, the waistband of his shorts. He smelled like sweat and soap and something raw underneath—masculine and intoxicating. His cock twitched inside his shorts, thick and heavy, begging to be touched.

“You like that?” he asked, looking down at me. His voice was cocky now—completely sure of himself. “You like being on your knees for me?”

I nodded, lips parted, breath shallow.