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“I don’t think I ever said this before, but I’m real proud of you. And I’m proud to call you my daughter.” His words reach to me with invisible fingers that heal everything they touch. That gap inside shrinks and fills with something tender, fragile and unknown. My hands go to my chest. I want to cradle this moment like a newborn baby. My vision goes blurry behind my wet lashes. I blink away the wetness. My throat too tight to speak. I mouth the words instead.

“Thank you … Dad.”

Chapter Forty-Five

I parkin front of his house, turn off the car and watch rivulets of rain running down the window. Dylan didn’t text or call after that weird encounter yesterday. It’s better this way. I’d rather talk to him in person, see his face, read his reactions. “Now, if I could only get my ass out of this car and knock on his door. Yeah, that’d be great.”

I don’t even know if he’s home. He could be on campus. If he’s not here, it wasn’t meant to be. I pull the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, tuck my hair in, get out and jog up the driveway, water splashing with each step I take until I’m under the safety of the veranda.

I wipe my hands on my jeans, square my shoulders, breathe in and ring the doorbell.

Wait.

Nothing. No sounds come from inside. No steps on stairs, no click of a lock. The steady drumming of the rain is the only sound around me.

I lift my hand to try one more time. I catch a movement to the side of the house. A dark moving blur that stops inches away from me.

Dylan. He’s dressed in all black. Jogging clothes plastered to his body and his hair in a disarray of wet locks.

His rapid breath sends smoke signals into the chilly air. He smells like rain and earth and something entirely him. It’s a drug that pulls me closer until we’re nearly touching.

“Becca …” My name forms on his lips.

My fingertips trace his eyebrow, track a water droplet on his cheek, palm his face. I step closer still, stand on tiptoes and brush my mouth against his. He tastes like rain, mint, and hope. His skin is cold to the touch, but his lips are warm and tender. And when he kisses me back, I open up for him.

All gentleness disappears.

His mouth takes mine, hungry and possessive. His hands pull my hood back and tangle in my hair. He positions me the way he wants me and deepens the kiss.

I meet his demands willingly. Mold my body to his, the heat burning inside growing bigger despite the cold and our wet clothing. My feet leave the ground, and we’re moving. He braces my body against his, one arm around my waist and the other angling my head to his.

We end up inside the house and pressed against the closed door, all without him letting go or ending the kiss.

When he pulls back, our rapid breaths mingle, the front of my clothes are nearly as wet as his. He touches his forehead to mine. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I lost myself when I saw you there, standing at my door. I thought I was hallucinating for a second. Until you touched me, I wasn’t sure you were real.”

“I’m real. And I’m here. I needed to see you.”

He picks me up, pulls my legs around his waist, and walks to the back of the house and up the stairs. “First let’s get you a towel.”

He carries me to the second floor and down a hall. He stops at his bedroom door and kicks his sneakers off before bringing me into a room painted in shades of gray. A large bookcase holds hundreds of books. Abstract paintings add bright splashes of color. The wall behind the mahogany king-size bed is darker than the rest and across from the bed there’s a fireplace. He walks through another door and sets me on the bathroom counter. This room too is decorated in soft gray and white. Both rooms are spotless. He takes two dove gray towels from a shelf and gives me one of them, setting the other on the counter next to me. Dylan pulls his wet shirt up and over his head. It comes off in slow motion, peeling away from his skin an inch at a time. The wet fabric clinging like a desperate lover who doesn’t want to let go.

He’s all lean muscle and golden skin with a dusting of dark hair on his chest. I can’t peel my gaze away from him either. He shivers when the cold air hits his bare and damp torso. I fist my hands into the towel he gave me to keep from touching him.

But why? Why should I deny myself in this? Why should I deny myself at all?

I slide off the counter. My feet taking me closer to Dylan. I rub the towel over his chest, shoulders, arms, stomach. He’s frozen in place. His shallow breath is the only thing betraying his perfect replication of a statue. I circle around him, rubbing the towel on his back.That’s not enough.I drop the towel to the floor. Trace his shoulder blades with my fingertips. He sucks in a breath. Every muscle comes to life under my touch. His reaction empowers me. I splay both hands on his back, cover every inch of naked skin, circle back to stand in front of him.

His gaze meets mine, his eyes dark and his face flushed with restraint. I start with his shoulders, run my hands over his biceps, down his forearms, the inside of his wrists, my palms brushing his until only our fingertips touch.

Then start again with his chest, graze his pecs, move down to his stomach, trace each muscle and dip in his abs and obliques. He shivers under my touch. I lean into him, inhale his scent. He smells like rain and lust. I kiss the center of his chest, taste his skin, trace a finger around the edge of his jogging pants.

“Becca …” My name is a plea.

I press my hand into his chest, his heart beating wildly under my palm. “Touch me.”

His fingers wrap into my hair, his mouth is on mine, demanding, pushing in, nibbling. There’s nothing gentle about this kiss. Nothing tentative. No holding back.

He kisses my neck, licks at the hollow of my throat, nips at the curve of my shoulder. His hands find their way under my hoodie and T-shirt, and his touch is cool on my heated skin.