Page 20 of The One Night Dash
I rattle off four or five scenarios.
“Ouch.”
“Got a list started of asses I want to kick on the off-season, too.”
“Why wait?” she jokes.
“Jail. Coach D would be pissed if I got locked up and messed up her playbook.”
“Maybe your sister, Briar?”
I nod to confirm.
“Maybe she’s bored at school. Maybe she needs a hobby or to join a club?”
“She plays D1 soccer at Lincoln; she’s scheduled tight. She just has a knack for running into idiots.” I force a laugh, because yeah, I could dissect this for hours, but it’s not a Noelle issue; it’s mine.
“Is she safe?” Noelle asks.
“You mean, like protection?” I cringe.
She laughs. “I mean that, and does she tell a friend if she goes on a date? Does she share a location with someone who will look out for her? Does she make sure not to go somewhere that would put her at high risk?”
“I would assume so. I mean, fuck.” I sit back and roll the tension from my neck. “I’m worried about her getting used and some dipshit breaking her heart, not all that.” I lay my head back against the leather headrest and look up at the ceiling of the SUV. “Until now.” And then it fucking hits me like a freight train. “Are you?”
“Damn right I am. I could take down twenty men with everything I carry in my backpack, and that’s without even opening it.”
I roll my head to the side and look at her. “Do you have a good security system at your place?”
“Kevin McCallister has got nothing on me.”
SIX
NOELLE
After insistinghe walk me to the door, I immediately run up and grab my laptop out of my office before heading to my apartment to feed Hemmingway and get to work with manly inspiration fresh in my head.
Settled in with my tea, laptop open, Hemingway curling around my hip like he’s personally offended I left him alone for a few hours today, I pet him as I stare at the words that spilled out the other night.
Emmett’s eyes burned like fresh espresso as he pressed her against the counter, his strong barista hands cupping her like she was the only latte in the world worth frothing.
I groan out loud. “Oh my God, kill me.”
Hemingway stretches and flicks his tail, clearly unconcerned with my impending humiliation due to the fact that Dash Sterling read this.
I scroll down.
Her breath hitched as his fingers found the tiny silver spoon … and flicked her bean with the precision of a man who’d measured exactly one perfect scoop of sugar. With every swirl, every stir, she was closer to spilling over—hot, sweet, and impossible to contain.
My head drops into my hands. “Kill me twice.” I look at Hemingway. “This is what happens when you haven’t been on a date in six months and you write past midnight, hopped up on too much caffeine.”
But when I lift my eyes, I don’t delete it. Because buried under the whipped-creamcheeseof it all, something’s working. Something’s sparking. And maybe—just maybe—it’s fun to let it go too far.
So, I set my tea down, flex my fingers, and add:
He tastes like caramel drizzle and late nights, his lips bold and careful, like he knows exactly how fragile I am in this moment. One kiss, and I’m undone—steam rising, milk foaming, my heart hammering against porcelain ribs.
And then he’s inside me, sliding home with the slow, decadent pressure of hot espresso filling a porcelain cup. Thick, dark, and impossible to mistake for anything else.
