Page 131 of Dirty Like Dylan

Who was I to complain about what I was getting here?

As I relaxed back on the pillows next to Dylan, he took my hand, lacing his fingers through mine—and Ashley went down on me. And a pleasured sigh escaped me.

Who was I to ruin this?

Dylan rolled toward me and his wounded hand drifted to my breast, his fingers teasing my nipple as Ashley spread my thighs wider and delved his tongue deeper. Dylan leaned in and flickered his tongue over my nipple, and I arched my back. Then he raised his head and kissed me, and I melted as both of them worked me with their mouths.

And I just tried to shut off my brain and enjoy this for all it was worth.

I tried, and I failed.

I was afraid that if I brought up the whole question of how they really felt about each other—or more specifically, how Ashley really felt about Dylan—all of this might just fall apart.

Even as I came, I couldn’t help wondering about it—about something happening between the two of them. A touch. A kiss.

More?

I wondered about it, and it didn’t turn me off. But it scared me, even as the orgasm ripped through me. I wrapped my hand around Dylan’s neck, holding him to me as we kissed. My other hand was buried in Ashley’s hair. I was holding on with everything I had, even as the world spun out from under me.

I didn’t like the feeling as I came down—the sensation of free-falling, of not being sure of how to land, of where I really fit in.

I was in-between them right now… but what if that changed?

Chapter Twenty-Five

Dylan

When we got home to the island, it was raining out. I got pretty drenched tying up the boat, while Amber and Ash jetted up to the house. I didn’t mind. I found them in the pool, with the heat cranked up, and quickly joined them.

It was Saturday, I had no rehearsal to go to, and we spent the rest of the day cozy inside my house while the rain pelted down outside, lashing the windows.

Amber chose the music—Van Morrison—because she said Ash always got to. Which was fair enough; Ash usually did commandeer the music selection. I usually let him, since he also cooked for me.

Ash made dinner, which was beef nachos, vegetarian for Amber. She helped him dice veggies on the island, while I sat on one of the built-in bench seats in front of the wall of windows, just watching.

It was pretty damn perfect.

Amber was wearing a long, black sweatshirt she’d found in my closet, with the Eagles’ Hotel California album cover on it, which I didn’t even remember owning. I kept offering to take her shopping since she hardly had any clothes, but she kept refusing. Instead, she’d started hanging out around the house in mine. I didn’t mind. The shirt hung almost to her knees and her legs were bare underneath, the sleeves rolled up. Her soft hair was tied up in a loose ponytail, chunks of it falling out around her face. And she kept looking at me.

Ever since I’d knocked out Johnny O last night, she’d been looking at me like that. Soft and tender.

It was making me melt.

“What?” she asked me, a smile twitching at her mouth.

I got up, passing her on my way to the fridge. “You look pretty,” I told her as I put my hand on her ass and leaned in to kiss her neck, slowly, inhaling her soft scent. She sighed and stirred, closing her eyes. I gave her tight ass a lingering squeeze, then went to the fridge.

“Why are you so damn perfect?” she asked me, gazing at me as I poured her a glass of wine. “Like, you’re annoying me right now. Can you please just tell me a couple of things girls hate about you? There has to be something.”

I laughed. “Yeah. There’s probably a few.”

“Few dozen,” Ash put in helpfully.

“Like what?” Amber pressed.

“Like you haven’t seen him after he plays a show,” Ash said. “He sweats a few hundred gallons onstage and his feet smell fucking terrible.”

“That can be remedied with a shower,” Amber said, unimpressed. “Tell me something gnarly.”

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