If you've ever had sex with one of your exes after you'd broken up (or fantasized about it, as I had), you'll have an idea of what sex with Dylan was like that night.
I had been with other men (and in one notable case, a woman) since Dylan and, knowing him, I had no doubt he'd been with others as well; we'd both learned new things, discovered new things about ourselves and our sexuality...but there's something incredible about getting to play your greatest hits.
We were barely through the door before his lips and tongue were on a secret spot just beneath my ear, which makes me forget I have legs. For a moment, I was weightless, my knees evaporating, but he was ready for it. He caught me and paused for a moment, looking deep into my eyes.
"Not romantic," I breathed, reaching for his belt. "Hard."
There was that grin again.
This time I welcomed the sensation it brought to my body. I grinned too.
Then he threw me backward onto one of our hotel room's two beds. We hadn't bothered with lights; we didn't need them. There was enough moonlight through the curtain that we could still admire each other's bodies, but not so much that it had to feel personal.
I didn't want it to feel personal.
I began reaching for the top button of my jeans, but Dylan grasped my wrists and wrenched them away, pinning them above my head. Enough time had passed that he confirmed, "Is this okay?"
I nodded, squirming under his weight. "Yes. Please. Please."
He nodded and released my hands, which I kept in place, reveling in the feeling of his hands grasping at the waist of my jeans. He ran his fingers along the inside of the waistband, grazing the tender skin there and causing me to gasp. I hate to admit this, but I actually blushed.
Like I said, it had been a while.
My anticipation mounting, I rubbed my thighs together, the pressure causing a crest of pleasure to radiate outward — Dylan clearly caught this and gave me a disapproving shake of his head.
"Not yet." He leaned forward suddenly, sliding his tongue deftly into my mouth, reminding me of just how talented he was with it. He continued to remind me as he quickly unbuttoned my jeans and pulled them down over my thighs.
My panties went with them.
And then his tongue was on me, and the tension of all the furtive looks, innuendo, and longing exploded into waves of pleasure. He remembered what I liked, the tempo, the direction, the pressure, and when his hands got involved...
I was worried I was going to crush his skull as I clamped my thighs together hard, my orgasm causing me to curl forward and grab his hair. His eyes caught mine and they were no less alluring, no less probing...but they were, perhaps, a bit more self-satisfied.
"Pleased with yourself?" I managed to stammer, and he kissed the inside of my thigh, causing me to twist with the unexpected, focused pleasure of it. He stood, dropping his jeans, the moonlight catching his impressive, throbbing erection and causing me to spread my legs wider for him. Aching for him.
"Condom?" he asked, already digging into his jacket pocket. (Sonuvabitch, I thought later, he'd been just as ready as I was the whole time.)
"Condom," I confirmed, slowly rubbing myself in firm circles as he quickly tore open the wrapper. No reason to break the mood for logistics.
I enjoyed watching him watch me hungrily, enjoyed hearing his soft moan as he rolled the condom down the thick expanse of his cock, enjoyed the brief show he put on for me, both of us pleasuring ourselves in our own way before enjoying each other.
And then he thrust into me, and we enjoyed each other quite a bit more.
***
Dylan was gone in the morning like I'd asked him to be, and I enjoyed the quiet squalor of the motel room for a few hours, drifting in and out of sleep, sipping terrible motel coffee (and vaguely passable motel tea), letting the memories of the night before drift back to me in waves (and letting my hand drift between my legs accordingly). Despite the shabby surroundings, I felt more human than I had in weeks. I had a long, hot shower (trying not to feel like a germophobe for putting a towel down in the shower — there is some grime human feet are not meant to touch) and was pleasantly surprised to find my clothes from the night before washed and folded on top of the dresser, with a note that read:
Princesses deserve clean clothes, even fake ones. -DZ
I smiled at the kind sentiment, then caught myself. Smiles like that (and the warm feeling that accompanied them) were precisely what I didn't want to revisit with Dylan. I didn't hate him anymore, but I didn't want to love him anymore either.
After quickly dressing, I checked with the front desk to make sure the room was paid for — not that I could afford it if it wasn't; I just didn't want anyone to be put out by my desperation tryst. And it was, including a healthy tip and an apology for the noise (and the sheets). Dylan's Harley was gone from outside the Queen's Head, but I did have a text waiting from him with a link to the contract to be signed when I'd spoken to Mom.
Mark Twain once said, "If you have to eat two frogs, then eat the ugly one first." Telling Mom was the ugly frog...but then I also had to tell Amara. Dylan wouldn't approve, but fuck him. I tell Amara everything, have since grade two, and while there was no love lost between them (even back then), she's like a sister to me. No way I'd break a bunch of laws and go undercover without knowing she's onside.
And so, still broke, but very satisfied, I set off to eat my frogs.
***
"This is ridiculous, Eddie."
My Mom, Kendra, was pretty frail at this point — chemo is a bitch — but her voice was still like steel, her eyes still keen, and her point was...incredibly valid.
"I know, Mom."
"And Dylan Zane? The boy who left you without so much as a word, that you wept over right here on my chest," she pointed a finger at her chest under the heavy blanket she was wrapped in and shrugged, "back when I had a chest to cry on, at least? Now you're going to work for him?"
I couldn't fault my Mom for having a bleak sense of humor about her condition — she'd always used it to deal with hard things — but it didn't make me any less uncomfortable.
"Not for him. With him. And a bumbling king, apparently." None of this was helping win her over, I could tell. "But most importantly, Mom, it means we'll be okay."
We both knew by 'we' I meant 'her,' but by unspoken agreement, neither of us acknowledged this.
"Eddie, honey, I know serving at the Goose House isn't glamorous, but it's honest work..."
My face fell.
"I know, Mom. And it's 'The Lucky Goose,'" she muttered something under her breath that sounded like 'damn stupid name for a restaurant' as I continued, "but that's no longer an option. I got fired yesterday. They're closing the restaurant."
Mom sighed, took my hand, and squeezed.
"Oh, honey. That's bullshit." She smiled a wry smile that only ever accompanied her rare instances of profanity — which never failed to cheer me up, I should add. "That restaurant was stupid anyway." A strange look crossed her features. "Awfully convenient timing for our old friend Mr. Zane to arrive, isn't it?"
I groaned, "Yes, Mom. It really was. I was caught in the rain, wearing a hot dog..." She shot me a quizzical look. "Long story," I offered. "But if he hadn't come along when he did, I literally don't know what I'd do. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. We can't say no."
"You can always say no, honey."
I smiled. I never wanted to imagine what my life would've been like without Kendra Shaw in my corner.
"I know, Mom. But this time I am going to say yes. We're going to say yes. It'll be a weird month, I know, but I've been reading up on the medical system in Valandria, and they'll be able to give you great care in the meantime. Even if I can't win him over, it'll do you good. Trust me, it'll be worth it for the spas alone."
I said the magic word: spas. Since we didn't have much money when I was growing up, spas were a rare and valued luxury. Our little act of defiance against common sense and sound financial planning.
"One condition."
I raised an eyebrow.
"When this is all over — and I mean OVER over, you need to make it right with this Prince Harry guy."
I chuckled. "I've been reading up on him too. Apparently, he hates being called that."
"I'm sure he does, but I bet you a spa day he'll hate losing you more," she placed her other hand over mine, and they felt so small, so fragile compared to Dylan's, "and you'll need to make that right. We'll take this lady's money because we have to, but I didn't raise you to be cruel."
As always, she'd seen the very heart of my reservations and had presented them back to me bluntly and articulately.
The world needs more Kendra Shaws in it.
I brought up her hands, once so strong and comforting, now strong in a different way, a survivor's hands, and kissed them.
"Deal, Mom. I promise, no matter what, I'll make it right."
Her tired features split into a grin. "I know you will, honey. But you keep your heart safe, too. All the movies I watched as a little girl taught me princes are handsome and irresistible. And then I saw Prince live on tour that one time and..." she winked suggestively, "he taught everyone in that stadium how true that was."
I didn't know whether to laugh or gag, so instead, I just hugged my Mom, my rock, and then signed the contract.
I was in.