How did I ever fall for this guy?
“How’s Liv?” he asked, still checking me out. Like he gave a shit about my family.
The girl sitting on his left was leaning on him, and before I could answer, she turned and purred something in his ear. She didn’t seem to like him paying attention to me, and gave me a nasty, pleased-with-herself look as he pulled her onto his lap. She then sat there with her boobs in his face, sipping her drink and chatting with her girlfriend as he waited for me to answer his question.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Honestly, Liv thought Johnny was a piece of shit, which was probably why he asked. It probably irritated the fuck out of him that a woman was actually immune to his charms, even if she was gay.
“She’s good.”
What the hell was I doing here? Was I really chatting with my ex-husband about my sister while some chick sat in his lap? She was talking in his ear again, and he held his finger up toward me as if to say, One sec, while I snuggle with this babe.
I glanced around, looking for Con. I wasn’t exactly in danger, but I didn’t want to back out of here alone, with my tail between my legs. I knew I could count on Con to get me out of this. He’d promised me he’d always be in my sight, and he’d given me a signal to use if I needed out of a jam.
And there he was, as promised.
He was leaning on the raised bar against the far wall, surveying the room. I could see his head up above most of the others, and he was looking around, probably trying to keep tabs on Dylan and me at the same time.
I looked around; I couldn’t see Dylan or Ashley in the crowd. So I gave Con our signal. It involved me running my fingertip over my bottom lip. It was sexy, as far as signals went, and I was pretty sure, as I did it, that Con had chosen it to amuse himself.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t looking at me.
I did it again, and realized Johnny was staring at me. I smiled a bit, dropping my hand.
“So, tell me what you’ve been up to,” he said, his piercing aquamarine eyes intent on me, even though the chick was still in his lap.
“Um…” I glanced up again, and Con caught my eye. I gave him the signal… and he started heading over.
Fucking finally.
“I’ve been busy. You know, photography.”
“Yeah? How’s that going?”
I jumped up to meet Con as he arrived, holding up a finger toward Johnny as if to say, One sec, while I snuggle with this babe. Then I turned to Con, leaned up against him and said in his ear, “Pull me onto your lap.”
He stood there looking down at me, and his eyebrow slowly rose. My hands were pressed to his hard chest, and I was glad he looked so hot tonight; he wasn’t wearing his biker vest, but a soft Henley shirt that hugged all his muscles.
“You drunk?”
“Just pull me onto your lap. Please.”
“Jesus,” he said, shaking his head a little and eying my tiny dress. “You are gonna get me in trouble, Amber Paige Malone…”
“I’m not.”
“No?” His gaze flickered past me. “Why you wanna make Johnny O jealous?”
Right. So he knew who Johnny was. And my motive was pretty transparent, at least, to him. Which was probably a good thing. Last thing I needed here was Con thinking I was actually coming on to him.
“Because,” I said, “he’s my ex-husband and he’s a douche and he fucked like five hundred other women behind my back when we were together.”
Con stared at me. He glanced at Johnny over my shoulder again.
Then he moved to sit in my vacated seat and drew me onto his lap. I glanced around as I draped my arms around his broad shoulders, but I still couldn’t see Dylan or Ashley anywhere. The place was pretty packed, so hopefully they couldn’t see me either.
“Connor, this is Johnny,” I told Con, like Con was more important—and like he didn’t already know who Johnny was.
“Connor,” Con said, extending a hand. Johnny shook briefly, sizing Con up, then dismissed him just as quick.
“So, you were telling me how you’ve been,” he said to me. “Still traveling the world? Been back to Miami lately?” He took a sip of his drink and kind of smirked at me.
Clever. He was referring to a particularly intense night of lovemaking that we’d enjoyed in the early days of our relationship—before I found out what a lying slut he was.
“No,” I said flatly. “Always found that place pretty obnoxious.” I pretended to be trying to recall some distant, unimportant memory. “Were we there together?”
He smirked again, appearing undaunted—until Con cut in. “Maybe we’ll go there soon, babe.” He put his hand on my waist and pulled me closer.
“Oh! That would be amazing.” I put my hand lightly on his neck and laid the batting eyelashes on pretty thick.
And so it went.
Every time Johnny tried to talk to me, Con cut in. I flirted—with Con. Johnny got increasingly pissed off that he could barely get a word in. I was pretty sure it had little to do with me. If I hadn’t parked myself on Con’s lap right in front of him, he might’ve already tired of talking to me. But Johnny O’Reilly did not like being one-upped, by any man. Least of all some big, handsome biker dude with a white-toothed smile that rivaled his own for blinding brightness.
He got pretty agro about it, actually, his jaw hardening and his focus shifting from me to Con, completely. “The fuck is your problem?” he suddenly snapped, about the fourth time Con cut him off.
“No problem,” Con said cooly.
“I’m talking to Amber.”
“Not anymore.”
At that, Johnny set his drink down, lifted the girl off his lap and set her aside.
Then Con set me aside.
Uh-oh.
Johnny stood up. Con stood up. They were about the same height, but Johnny was easily fifty pounds lighter and I’d never actually seen him in a fight. Con, however, very possibly had a weapon on him, and his fists looked like anvils as they clenched at his sides.
“How about you back the fuck away from my table,” Johnny suggested, as I scrambled to my feet. Then that beefy dude who’d given me the bubbly suddenly loomed, giving Con some serious stinkeye. Johnny’s muscle, obviously.
Great.
I grabbed Con’s arm and tried to pull him away, but it was about as effective as a gnat landing on a bull. I didn’t even think he felt me. He and Johnny were trading expletives, only some of which I heard over the music and my rising panic.
Then Johnny’s security guy shoved at Con, kind of knocking him into me. I stumbled back. Con shoved back, pushing the guy away from me. Johnny tried to grab me. I was pretty sure he was trying to yank me out of the way, but I pulled away from him—total instinct. I bumped up against Ashley, who’d suddenly appeared. He intervened, stepping between me and Johnny. I couldn’t even hear what was said as I got bounced around. Everyone was kind of shoving around us now.
And then, out of nowhere, Dylan clocked Johnny.
I didn’t even see Dylan coming. He was just suddenly there, and his fist was cutting through the air, and… damn.
Johnny went down, hard, smashing into the table. Girls screamed and fluttered everywhere like birds taking flight, and the last thing I saw was a pile of bouncers descending on the scene before Ashley pulled me into his chest and took me away.
Back at Dylan’s house in Santa Monica, I tended to the damage on his face. He had a bruise over his left eyebrow, with a nasty-looking but shallow scrape, probably from a ring. Apparently, Johnny’s bodyguard had managed to get one in before Con and the bouncers stopped him.
The house felt empty around us. It had just gone up for sale; Dylan said he wasn’t keeping it, that the house on Isabella Island was his permanent home now and he didn’t need two. Which meant that this house had been pretty much cleared of his personal belongings and staged to sell.
I peeked in the freezer in hopes of finding a bag of frozen peas or some ice to put on his bruise, but the best I cou
ld find was a half-full bag of freezer-burnt strawberries, probably left behind from some party where margaritas were to be had.
I wrapped the bag of strawberries in a dish towel and sat myself on Dylan’s lap. He was sitting at the dining room table looking kinda tired and wired at the same time. Probably the adrenaline dump from getting in a fist fight less than an hour ago.
Ashley lay on the couch in the adjoining living room, his feet up on the arm, smoking a joint. He watched as I carefully cleaned Dylan’s wound with a damp tissue. Dylan winced a little as I dabbed at the raw scrape; I wanted to make sure there was no dirt in it, but it looked okay.
Johnny had really gotten the worst of it. I’d seen him briefly at the front door of the bar before we left. He was pretty pissed that Dylan had given him a black eye; apparently, he was playing a show tomorrow night.
“I’ve never seen you like that before, man,” Ashley said, grinning just a little. “I’ve never seen you cold-cock a guy.”
“Because I never have.” Dylan hissed a bit as I pressed the cloth with the bag of frozen strawberries to the swollen bruise over his eye. “And I didn’t actually knock him out.”
“Dude. You had him reeling. There were definitely a few seconds there where Johnny O was trippin’ the light fantastic in outer fucking space.”
I cringed, recalling it. I’d definitely seen Johnny’s head kinda bounce off the table. And as much as I’d almost convinced myself, once upon a time, that I hated the guy, I didn’t actually want to see harm come to him.
“Well, thank you for coming to my rescue,” I said, with only slight sarcasm.
“He grabbed at you,” Dylan said. “Didn’t like that.”
“I think he was trying to get me out of the way of the two giant bodyguards going at it.”
“Hard to know, from where I was standing.” Dylan’s green eyes met mine, his warm hand settling gently on my bare thigh. “You had him pretty riled up. Sitting in Con’s lap like that.”
Oops. “You saw that?”
“Yup,” Ashley said.
“That was just for Johnny,” I explained, in my defense. “He was being a douche. I don’t care if we were only married for sixteen days. It’s poor form to have another woman in your lap while you’re having a conversation with your ex-wife.”
“Yup,” Dylan agreed.
“Don’t worry, babe,” Ashley said. “I’m pretty sure Johnny O had it coming.”
“Still.” I lifted Dylan’s hand and kind of winced at the sight of his knuckles; raw and slightly swollen. He’d need ice on those, too. Maybe we’d have to send Ashley out to get some. “I’m sorry you hurt your hand,” I said, kissing Dylan’s unbruised cheek. “And your face.”
“It’s okay.” He looked at me under lowered eyelids; despite whatever pain he might’ve been in, he was clearly thinking about other things. “Long as you’re here to kiss it better…”
So I kissed him, tilting his head back and going in deep and slow, kinda loving that he was in a vulnerable state and I could take care of him a bit. Actually, it was turning me on; my pussy was starting to throb…
“Hmm. Always thought of myself as a pacifist…” I murmured, nibbling at his full bottom lip as I wriggled a bit in his lap. “Who knew violence could be so… exciting?”
Dylan chuckled.
“Jesus,” Ashley said. “Get a room.”
“Have one,” Dylan murmured in-between kisses. I could feel his dick getting hard under my ass. “Upstairs. You might have to help me out, though…”
I did help.
I led him upstairs and since his right hand was sore, I helped him out of his clothes. Then I laid him back on the bed. And since he said his head was pounding too much to fuck, but his dick didn’t seem to agree with that, I went down on him.
While I did that, Ashley helped himself to shoving up my little yellow dress and fucking me from behind.
He also asked Dylan if he was okay—a couple of times—in a soft, concerned voice, while he fucked me. Dylan said yes, and groaned as I cranked up the intensity of the blow job, sucking him harder, faster, rolling my mouth over his swollen head and tonging his slit… kind of weirded out that they were talking to each other while I was doing this.
I kept trying not to ask myself the questions that were now nagging at the back of my mind every time the three of us ended up in bed together. The fact was, I was pretty busy down here, what with Dylan’s giant dick in my mouth, so I had no idea if they were looking at each other while they enjoyed me.
And either way, I’d probably never know what they were really thinking.
Out of nowhere, I thought of that dumb joke some of my guy friends in high school used to say to crack each other up. It’s not gay unless there’s eye contact.
When Dylan came in the back of my throat, and Ashley came deep in my pussy, only seconds later, I didn’t even want to know where they were both looking.
As Ashley slipped himself out of me and I kissed Dylan’s hip before rolling away, I just told myself to keep playing along, playing within whatever carefully-laid boundaries they’d arranged between themselves.
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 sh
e 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.”
“It’s pretty gnarly, believe me,” he said.
“Besides,” she added, eying me up and down, “he’d be wearing a kilt, right? So I’m thinking the hotness of that would probably overshadow the stinky feet. By a long shot.”
“You might think,” Ash said.
“How come Ash doesn’t have to give you a list of his shittiest characteristics?” I inquired.
“Because A,” she said, “they were obvious from day one—”
“Thank you,” Ash said. “I try to be transparent with people. It’s kinda my new thing.”
He shot me a sidelong look and I smiled. He was definitely opening up, or something. Amber had brought out a whole lot of good shit in him.
“You’re welcome,” Amber said. “And good for you. Transparency takes courage. I’m rather opaque myself, I know.”
“You are not,” I said, sounding a little more sarcastic than I meant to.
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