Page 65 of Sweet Addiction
“You better be ready to put on a good show tonight, Dillan,” I warn her.
“And why would I do that?” Her eyes flick back to mine, a fire burning there.
“Because I’ve already given you a show. Now, it’s your turn.”
DILLAN
You know the complete confidence you feel when you’re about to sneeze? You’re absolutely positive it’s coming. You’re prepared. You’ve even grabbed a damn tissue. Your body is primed. It’s ready. But after all the hype... it never happens. Frustration overwhelms you as you struggle with your ridiculous need to sneeze. Now you know how I feel after trying to get myself off,unsuccessfully, for the past thirty minutes.
Damn you, Rome Beneventi.
—Dillan’s Secret Thoughts
Rome sits entirely too close during the typically quick car ride into the city that feels insanely long tonight. The heat of his body pressing against me in the cool car makes it entirely too hard to stop imagining him with his eyes closed, mouth open, and water trickling down over hard muscle. It’s impossible to be this close and ignore it. Ignorehim. I almost burned myself with my own curling iron at least five times while I was getting ready. I was so distracted by the thought of it all, and he was nowhere near me at the time.
This? Him here, next to me...? It’s cruel and unusual punishment.
What did I do wrong in a previous life to be tortured like this?
I’m a good person.
Okay, I try to be a good person.
My mouth sometimes has other ideas, but for the most part—oh, fuck it.
I’m so screwed.
Between what I’m now referring to as the pregame show, hot as it was, and the amount of press I spot lining the street along the outside of the venue as the limo rolls to a stop, my nerves—what little I have left—are completely obliterated.
My breath leaves me in a whoosh, and my chest tightens.
I’m not sure I can do this.
Terror drags its sharp claws along my skin, looking for the softest place to dig in and hold on when I start to count the cameras. “I don’t think I can do this,” I whisper, this time as much to him as to myself. “Rome...”
Rome turns to look at me, and whatever he sees on my face must be pretty bad, considering the way his face reddens in return. Shit. Is he pissed?
“One more time around the block,” he tells the limo driver before putting the window between us and the driver back up and taking my face in his hands. Damn it. Why does he always do that? “Breathe, baby.”
The way he saysbabyis soft and sweet and pisses me off—because this man is none of those things.
My heart races, and my eyes burn as I close them and open my mouth to tell him I have a name and it’s notbaby, but nothing comes out. No words. No sounds. Just... nothing.
“Look at me, Dillan.”
My eyes open, my gaze flying to his, and my breathing stutters as the rough pad of his thumb sweeps gently along my cheekbone. I focus on the sensation, inhaling as slowly as possible and exhaling each deep breath even more slowly. Intentionally. Trying desperately to calm my overacting nerves and control what little I can. “That’s it. Deep, slow breaths. You’ve got this.”
I absolutely do not have this, but I don’t tell him that.
I know my triggers and should have seen this coming.
“Sorry,” I finally manage to tell him after a few more deep breaths, my skin prickling with the fine sheen of heated humiliation. “I’m okay.”
“You sure?” Rome almost sounds like he cares as he drops one hand, leaving just the hand rubbing my cheek, holding my face. And damn it, I really hate how much I find comfort in that single touch.
What I don’t hate is how much that pisses me off because the fire it stirs in my stomach makes me feel alive. Alive and pissed off, and pissed trumps scared all day, any day.
Okay, maybe I can do this.
