Page 56 of The One Night Dash
“I don’t need highlights,” she groans as she moves and sits on the end of the bed.
“Yep, that’s how it all started, but you have more clothes on than last night.”
“Just shh,” she says then cringes as she holds her head. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I say, moving to my duffel bag. “The night started and ended the way I was hoping it would, just the middle part got a little messy.”
“What do you mean ended the way you thought it would?” she asks, eyes wide.
I place my hand on my chest. “Ouch, I would never fu?—”
“I know. Sorry, I’m?—”
“You’d know it if I’d been inside you. The night ended with your head on my chest, snoring softly. Cute as shit sounds, actually, and you fit perfectly.”
She turns her head, and I see her cup her hand and do a breath check, which makes me laugh.
“You brushed your teeth before you passed out, face on the bathroom counter.”
“Stop laughing. This isn’t funny. It’s horrifying.” She huffs as she crosses her arms. “Embarrassingly so.”
“Look, this thing?—”
“Oh my God, can we just never speak of it again?” She groans as she pulls the comforter up and over her face.
“Hell no.” I chuckle as I step into a pair of track pants. “This is one of those stories couples share with their?—”
“We’re not a couple.”
“Fuck we aren’t.” I roll my eyes as I pull on a long-sleeved tee and shove the sleeves up my forearms. “And don’t even try to argue, because this right here? This is how it starts. You puke on me, I take care of you, you wake up in my shirt, looking like sin, and not one single regret. Boom—origin story.”
She peeks out from under the blanket, eyes narrowed. “You are certifiable.”
I walk over and kneel in front of her. “But we’re still a couple. The kind people look at and say,that’s the gold standard.”
Her groan is muffled by the comforter. “Please, stop.”
“Nope.” I pull it away from her seriously beautiful face. “I’m your muse now. Every book you write from here on out, you’ll picture me. I’ll haunt your MCs. Their dirty mouths, their perfect hands, the way they worship their heroines … yeah, that’s me, Noelle. All those orgasms, ghostwritten by Dash Sterling.”
She gasps, face flaming red, yanking the blanket back over her face. “You’ve lost your damn mind.”
I tug it back down and catch her chin between my fingers, tilting her face up until those wide, soft deep brown eyes lock on mine. “I have. Already an addict. And I’m pissed I can’t stick around to make you come again.”
She feigns disgust, but I see the way her lips part, the way her throat works like she’s swallowing back a sound she doesn’t want me to hear.
“Sucks leaving,” I murmur, brushing my mouth against hers, “but we’ll make it work. You get time to write; I get time to think of all the filthy shit I wanna do to you.”
“Do I get a say in any of this?” she whispers.
I shake my head slowly, deliberately, before closing the distance. My mouth crashes over hers, hot, hungry, claiming every ounce of fight she pretends to have still. She melts into me, clutching the front of my tee like she doesn’t want me to let go.
When I finally break away, I rest my forehead against hers, both of us breathing hard. “That’s your say, Noelle. Right there.”
I press one last kiss to her lips, then straighten, grab my duffel, and head for the door, every step heavier than it should be. Because leaving her in my shirt, in my bed, is the last fucking thing I want to do.
“See you in New York, sweets.”
And with that, I leave her buried in my comforter, drowning in equal parts mortification and precisely what I wanted—thinking about me.
