Page 100 of Dream On, Ramona Riley

“Was that all okay?” she asked.

Ramona grinned. “Um, yeah. It was more than okay. Was it okay for you?”

“Jesus, yeah,” Dylan said. “You’re…god, you’re incredibly sexy.”

Ramona couldn’t stop smiling.

Dylan leaned in to kiss her. Then they just kept kissing, softhands roaming, making out for what felt like hours. Then, after they both used the bathroom and got some water, Dylan pulled the down comforter over their naked bodies, breath mingling, Ramona’s hands tangled in Dylan’s hair, mouth on hers again as though they’d both been made for this exact moment.

Chapter

Twenty-Five

Dylan slept sohard, it took her a few seconds to realize that the incessant knocking sound was not a dream. She pried her eyes open, blinked at the wavy hair that was splayed across her chest and over her face a little. She looked down at the dark head burrowed under her arm—actually, in her armpit—and the hand resting directly on her right tit.

Ramona.

God, so she hadn’t dreamed it.

For a moment, she really thought she had—the mind-warping sex, Ramona in her bed, kissing for hours into the night, then eating peanut butter and jelly on Ritz crackers in bed at two in the morning because that was all Dylan had in her kitchen, followed by even more incredible sex until they finally fell asleep near sunrise, limbs tangled like kittens.

Thank god it hadn’t been a dream. Dylan closed her eyes, then ran her fingers over Ramona’s hair. She’d nearly drifted off again when something else proved itself very real—the incessant pounding on her front door.

“Mph,” Ramona said without moving. She was so adorable, Dylan couldn’t help but smile.

“Go back to sleep,” Dylan said, not moving either. “Whoever it is will go away.”

But a minute later, the knocking continued, and Dylan’s phone had joined in the fun, buzzing on the nightstand over and over.

“Goddammit,” she said, reaching over to grab it. The screen was loaded with text notifications—never a good sign—and the first one that unfurled in its full glory was from Laurel.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

That was alarming enough, but the other seventy thousand texts were from her father. And her mother. And then her father again.

She blinked at the screen, hoping all that sex had blown her mind to the point of hallucinations.

But then…a voice, spoken loudly but muffled on the other side of the front door.

“Dill Pickle?”

“Fuck me,” she said, then sat up, Ramona’s hand flopping from Dylan’s boob to her lap.

“Readydid,” Ramona mumbled, her eyes still closed, which Dylan translated toalready did, which, dammit, was so ridiculously cute, Dylan wished she actually was hallucinating.

“Pickle!”

Ramona finally lifted her head, hair a mess, eyes bleary. “Did you order pickles?”

Dylan laughed. “God, if only. Stay here.” She leaned over and kissed Ramona on the top of her head, then got out of bed and threw on her robe.

The knocking continued, as did the nicknames, but she paused before heading out into the living room to text Laurel.

Dylan:You’re fired

Laurel:A comedian this morning

Dylan:I contain multitudes