Page 77 of Personal Foul

Dylan places a kiss between my shoulder blades, making a sleepy sound of contentment. Clearly he’s not having the same sort of existential crisis.

Should I ruin the mood and ask now? Or should I go home, sort myself out, and talk to him about it when we’re not both naked and in an altered mental state from stellar orgasms?

Dylan’s heat lifts from my back, and then he says, “It’s almost ten. I know you said you didn’t want to stay out too late. I’m happy to have you stay as long as you want, you can even stay the night, but if you’re wanting to head home soon, just let me know.”

The thought of going home sounds distinctly unappealing, as comfortable and sated as I am right now. I’d have to force my limbs to move and put on clothes and then go out into the cold night.

Granted, I wouldn’t really confront the cold night until after I’m back at my apartment since Dylan’s parked in the underground garage. Still. A fluorescent-lit parking garage doesn’t sound nice either.

But I really should. For all the reasons I enumerated earlier, plus the need to separate myself from the effect he has on me so I can be clearheaded while I decide what I want from this.

With a groan, I roll over to face him. “I should go home soon. But I’m not ready to quite yet.”

He smooths a few strands of hair out of my face, a gentle smile tugging on his lips. Then he reaches down and hitches my leg over his hip and moves me closer. “Sounds good. I’m not ready for you to go quite yet either. It’d feel too much like you were banging and bailing, and I don’t like that idea.”

Biting back a smile, I wrap an arm around him, which prompts him to do the same and pull me closer, my face nearly buried in his chest. His arms surround me, and I feel almost … protected. Which is kinda funny, all things considered, but I’m not going to examine all that too closely at this point.

Who would’ve guessed that the rich athletic playboy would be a cuddler after sex, though?

Not me.

I guess I kinda figured anything between us would be more of a hate fuck, and I’ve never understood those. Somehow, between agreeing to the double date with Isabelle—which he did to be nice and because I asked him to—and offering to talk to his mom to find out what, if anything, I can do about my situation, he’s wormed his way past so many of my defenses.

He’s gone from being an asshole who I hated to a caring person who I find myself liking despite my better judgment.

Tonight he’s been nothing but sweet and kind and considerate. He also follows through on his promises, both big and small.

And he knows all my secrets and doesn’t hold them against me.

Which, in my experience, is a rare and precious thing.

Does that mean I actuallylikeDylan now?

How in the world is this my life?

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Dylan

While I can’t manage to convince Charity to spend the night—much to my disappointment—I’m gratified that she lets me walk her to the door and kiss her goodnight.

“Text me your schedule for tomorrow,” I tell her before she leaves. “We’ll find time to get together.”

She grins. “Another homework date?”

“I’m good with that, if that works for you. You could bring a change of clothes if you want.”

Her grin turns almost shy, and she shakes her head. “Not on a school night.”

Sighing, I lean in for another kiss. “Alright. This weekend then.”

She hesitates, her mouth open, but then finally capitulates. “Okay. This weekend. I might have to babysit for my niece at some point though.”

“More tea parties?”

Laughing, she nods. “Most likely. Though at this age, she could decide she hates them one day and never want another one.”

I laugh at that. “Seriously?”

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