Page 100 of Dash

My thoughts slow, my skin warms, and my eyes grow heavy.

Don’t you dare fucking fall asleep with this beautiful man between your legs…

But it’s like someone pulled the plug out of me. My energy levels are dipping quickly, and even though my body is responding to his tongue, my brain is on a different frequency. That bitch is in shutdown mode.

This isn’t fair. I want an orgasm. Maybe two. Knowing Dash, probably more than that.

Maybe I’ll just close my eyes for a second and then I’ll be okay.

“Dayna?”

His mouth moves off me, and I try to prise my lids apart. I manage slits, and all I can see is his head lifted slightly, his brow raised.

“Hmm, don’t stop.”

“Babe, you’re asleep.”

“No, I’m not.” I try to come up on my elbows, but my body is so tired. “Maybe just five minutes and then I’ll be ready.”

I hope he doesn’t stop loving me because I fell asleep with his tongue inside me. That’s gotta be some kind of gut punch to a man’s ego, right?

His hand drifts to my hip, and then he’s pulling my underwear back on. “Dash.” My protest sounds weak.

He scoops me up me so I’m in the bed and not just flopped on the end. My eyes are closed when he wraps the covers around my body and presses a kiss to my forehead.

“Go to sleep.”

“I want… an orgasm.”

“After you sleep.”

“Okay.”

The next morning, I’m hugging his toilet like it’s a lifeline. My stomach is in knots, aching from vomiting for the last half-hour, and all I can taste is acid burning my tongue.

He’s sitting behind me, rubbing circles on my back, murmuring soft words of assurance. I don’t know how he can stand the smell. It’s making me feel more nauseous.

“You doing alright down there?” he asks.

I let out a groan, leaning into his touch. “Considering I was doing this on my own last week this is a major improvement.”

His hand stills on my back before he continues rubbing circles. “You shouldn’t have had to do that. I would have been there.”

I reach behind me, patting whatever part of him my fingers ghost over. “I know. I’m sorry.” My stomach contracts again, and anything else I was going to say gets lost in another round of projectile puke.

When it finally feels like it’s over, he helps me stand on trembling legs, puts me in front of the sink, and loads my toothbrush with enough mint I’ll be able to breathe ice.

He watches while I scrub my teeth.

“You know you’re not supposed to brush your teeth right after vomiting,” I say, spitting into the sink and swirling water around my mouth before going for another round of cleaning. “All I’m doing is brushing the acid around the enamel.”

“So, you’re just supposed to sit there with puke breath?” His tone is light, his stance is not. He’s leaning against the wall, arms folded, legs crossed, every part of him tight as he waits for something to break in me.

So, I do what I always do—I deflect.

I breathe in his direction. “Come kiss me.”

“Do you think I’m bothered by a little puke?”

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