Page 90 of Sweet Chaos

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“Shh. No peeking.”

No peeking. Well, that had me doubling over with laughter. I laughed so hard my stomach hurt. Dylan said ‘peeking.’ That was hilarious.

“You done yet?” he asked, exasperated.

I nodded and took a deep breath. “What’s in your hand?”

“My secret weapon,” he said, keeping his fist closed. “Now close your eyes.”

Seconds later, my eyes were closed, I wasn’t peeking, and I smelled the cherry scent and his minty breath inches from my lips as the tube of Chapstick glided over them. Then he cupped my chin and his lips captured mine in a slow, dirty kiss that wiped my lips clean and had him smacking his.

“Mmm. So fucking sweet. All done,” he murmured.

My eyes flew open. “All done? Chapstick isn’t makeup.”

He leaned back on the daybed, fingers laced behind his head, his tongue slowly gliding over his bottom lip. “It’s perfect. I like to see your face. You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice low and husky, and what I heard instead was,I love you.

Forever the optimist. Forever the believer in Dylan St. Clair. And two weeks from facing the firing squad. Lord, help me.

* * *

Dylan

I lit a blunt, using the flame from one of the twenty-seven candles in glass holders that covered every surface of our room, compliments of my little fucking ray of sunshine, and watched her through a haze of smoke. She was lying on the Egyptian cotton sheets, her skin bronzed by the sun, her blonde hair framing her beautiful face, naked except for the secret smile she wore.

I wasn’t sure what had possessed me but tonight at dinner, over margaritas and Mexican food under the moon and stars, I’d told her more about myself than I’d ever told anyone. I had talked about my mother, I’d told her the truck stop story and about the places we’d lived and how sometimes there hadn’t been enough food so me and Remy used to dumpster dive. I told her about all the fights I’d gotten into and I told her that my mother had always told me and Remy that she loved us but never backed it up with actions. The words had become meaningless, and I thought she understood what I was trying to tell her. Why I found it so hard to say three simple words that tripped off her tongue with ease.

Leaning over her, I moved my mouth over hers, covering it. Her lips parted and I shotgunned the smoke into her mouth. Pulling back, I studied her face as I took another drag. She was beautiful. She made me ache for her. Crave her like a drug. I wanted to climb inside her skin and live there.

I had nightmares now. I’d wake up covered in sweat, my heart pounding, gasping for breath. It made me angry that my mother wouldn’t leave me alone, not even in death. But Scarlett… she was always there with her soothing touch, her sweet voice telling me it was just a dream, her arms wrapped around me, holding on so tight like she alone could protect me. I hated it. It made me feel weak and pathetic and needy.

“I love you, Dylan,” she said now, not expecting to hear it in return.

“Show me.” Sex. My go-to when all else failed. I put out the blunt and knelt over her.

Snuffing out a candle, I dipped my finger in the melted wax.

“What are you doing?” Her eyes widened as I held the candle over her.

“Trust me?” I asked. It was a test, and she knew it. I was always testing Scarlett and she always passed because she was good and honest and true in all the ways that mattered most. She wore her heart on her sleeve and unlike me, she never harbored a grudge.

Her eyes locked on mine and I waited for her answer. She placed her palm on the handprint I’d tattooed with a Sharpie over my heart, and she nodded, her eyes and voice unwavering. “Yes.”

I love you. I’m in love with you. I fucking love you.

But I didn’t say the words. They remained locked inside me.

I tipped the candle. Warm wax dripped onto her bare stomach. She gasped, her back arching off the mattress as I poured wax over her tits, circling her pebbled rosy nipples.

“Oh God,” she moaned, writhing below me, her eyes closing, her lips parting as melted wax dribbled over her silky soft skin while I knelt over her, worshipping without touching her.

Had I ever even loved Sienna? It felt like a distant memory, but I don’t remember ever feeling like this with anyone, including Sienna. Maybe this was how it felt when you found the right person. You could just be yourself, in all your fucked-up glory, and the other person accepted you as you were.

With Scarlett, I felt like I was enough. I’d never had that before. I’d never had someone believe in me the way she did.

“What are we, Dylan?” she asked now, like she often did.

“We’re everything, Starlet. Every-fucking-thing.”