Page 144 of Dirty Like Dylan

Amber…

He stayed like that, buried inside me, for a long time, as we both lay here, shuddering and panting, gradually floating back down to Earth.

And I felt it.

I felt it.

I wondered, was he feeling it, too?

He was the one who’d removed the camera. Made me come out from behind the lens. He’d had sex with me, alone, without Ashley. Without even mentioning Ashley. And for the first time, I lay here in the aftermath feeling naked and exposed, confronted with my feelings for Dylan Cope.

The feelings I’d been so afraid to face.

I’d had sex with Ashley alone. More than once.

It never felt like this.

Maybe I’d been afraid that whatever was between the two of us—Dylan and I—wasn’t actually real or of any substance. That it was just a kink. Just sex. That he needed Ashley in the room with us.

But when we were alone, without Ashley… it was very, very real.

Scary real.

If I thought sex with both of them was hot… sex alone with Dylan was off the charts. Not just because he was beautiful and sexy and had a huge cock. Not just because he knew how to fuck. Not just because he knew what to do with his strong hands and his gorgeous mouth and his green-gold eyes to make me melt in bliss.

Because my heart was all wrapped up in him.

I had big, beautiful feelings for this man.

Scary feelings.

And scariest of all… I felt like I could actually depend on him. Trust him. Like when he pushed himself up on shaky arms and looked down at me with those gorgeous eyes of his, I could ask Dylan Cope to do pretty much anything… and he might just do it for me.

Like I might actually be able to count on him to do something that was an incredibly foreign concept in my mind…

Stay.

* * *

“Isn’t this civilized,” Liv remarked as she sat down across from me at the vegetarian restaurant where I’d asked her to meet me for dinner.

“I know. Family meals. When have we ever had these?”

“We would. If you were ever in town.”

“Here I am.”

Liv just raised an eyebrow and picked up her menu. She perused it, or pretended to, then asked, “So when do you leave?”

“What?”

A waiter appeared at the table, and my sister said, “I’ll have the butternut squash ravioli, a cup of soup and a martini, Bombay if you have it.” Then she looked at me. “And she’ll have…”

“A house salad.”

“And a martini for her, too,” Liv said. “And get an entree,” she prodded me. “I’m paying.”

I stifled the urge to roll my eyes. “I want the salad. They have a kickass dressing.”

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