Circling her as I sing, every word directed toward her, she follows in awe, stricken that I could have any talent beyond using my fingers and witty sarcasm to pick up women.
Singing may not be my passion, but it’s something that I keep locked away for when it matters. And right now, seeing Ashton speechless as she takes in every moment, is exactly what I need to fuel myself.
I stop right in front of her, invading her space, trailing my hands down her arm and reaching for her hand. She lets me, frozen where she stands until I back away, a cocky grin on my face as I let the instrumental take over.
There are whistles out in the crowd, but I don’t care. All I care about is showing Ashton what I’m made of, even if it means peeling back a few layers to prove I’m more than just a guitar.
She snaps out of it just as the song ends, crossing her arms on her chest and staring at me.
“What was that?” she questions, blinking away her surprise.
“That,” I reply huskily, “was a challenge.”
Her eyes narrow. “Challenge accepted.”
She talks into the mic now. “Pretty boy here has some vocals that none of us knew about. He was good, but who thinks I can top that? This is Nashville, after all. No room for rock when we’ve got country, right?”
That gets a big reaction from everyone, more people gathered than there were when we first walked on stage. The bar is packed, barely room for much movement, but unlike the concerts I play, I don’t soak it in.
This isn’t about me and the crowd.
It’s about me and Ashton.
“All right, country girl,” I challenge, waving my hand. “Bring it on. Rock against country.”
A smile lights up her face, but there’s a seductive gleam in her eyes like she’s about to hit me with something I won’t be able to handle. And I look forward to every second of it.
When the intro to the song comes on, I cross my arms on my chest, waiting for her to start the show I know she’s about to put on. What I don’t expect is for her to take on Carrie Underwood’s “Cowboy Casanova” and sing it better than Carrie herself.
And the way she walks toward me, one foot slowly in front of the other like a slow prowl, doesn’t help the evidence of my arousal. Now it’s my turn to gape as her hips swivel, singing about the man who can’t be trusted because of his antics. A warning to all the women that this man’s dangerous, that he’ll play you. A man like me.
And when she’s finally in my space, chest to chest, my heart is pounding so hard in my chest that there’s a chance she can hear it even over the music and crowd. My mouth goes dry when she puts her hand on my chest, raking one finger down the center of my pecs, into the dips of my abs, before gently pushing me away and backing up. The men in the room really enjoy the little dance she’s putting on, and I’d be two seconds from losing my shit if I wasn’t so turned on myself by the provocative movements.
Anybody would see this song just as a warning to never fall for the devil’s antics twice. But all I see is a woman who’s tasted what that type of man is and can’t get enough.
Well I’m right here, sweetheart.
She comes at me one last time as the song finishes, getting caught off guard when I spin her around so my arm is hooked around her waist with her back pressed against my chest. The crowd roars as I press my lips against her cheek as she finishes the song, both of our breathing heavy, in sync with one another.
Everybody is on their feet, and it’s easy to see who won.
“I think you used your sex appeal to cheat,” I whisper in her ear, grinning. I can’t say I blame her, and I definitely didn’t hate the performance either. “Just wish you would have left that little show for when it’s the two of us.”
She gulps, finally stepping out of my hold. She looks out at the crowd, smiling and waving.
“I’d say she won fair and square,” I tell them, listening to their riled responses agree with me.
I nod, clapping along with them. “Guess it’s hard to beat the player on her own turf, huh?”
That gets laughter and cheers in response.
It isn’t until the light is out of my eyes that I see various phones out, recording and taking pictures. Who knows how long they were doing it, but for once I don’t care.
Rush is on the bar howling over the crowd, demanding to be heard. I roll my eyes at him, but chuckle at him as he downs what looks like a shot in his hand.
Hollis raises his beer to me, shaking his head.
The manager comes back on stage looking between the two of us. “That was something else, you two.” He seems impressed, maybe even a little star-struck, which makes me grin. “I’m sure they wouldn’t mind one more song?”
He eyes the crowd, probably seeing dollar signs more than he sees anything else.
I look at Ashton, shrugging. “Up to you, Boots. Want to do another one? Anything but Abba.”
That makes her smirk. “You had that one coming the way you’ve been acting.”
I give that one to her. My eyes focus on a piano shoved in the corner of the room, and her eyes travel to it.
“Dylan—” she tries warning.
“How about a little sneak peek?”
Uncertainty washes over her face.
“One show. It won’t hurt anything.”
“They haven’t approved it,” she points out, looking nervously at the waiting crowd.
I use them to my advantage. “Would you guys like to hear what Ashton and I have been working on lately?”
The response makes it hard to say no, and I smile when Ashton succumbs. She’s like me, always wanting to please the fans. And we’ve got a building full waiting for us to make our move.
I get the manager’s help to move the piano over, so Ashton has room to play. There’s no guitar, but I make due, sitting on the bench next to her, adjusting our microphones so they’re at our level.
She gives me one look, but the smile I give her must make her decide to start playing. The noise instantly stops when the music starts, and everyone melts when she begins singing.
Like every time I watch her play, I’m lost. Lost in her tranquility, lost in her sound. My body eases just like hers, giving into the music. When we start singing together, our eyes lock, a small smile appearing on her lips.
I match it, eyes swimming in hers as if drowning in them wouldn’t seem like such a bad way to go. Based on the crowd’s reaction of the uncut acoustic version, I’d say they’ll eat up the studio one once it’s on the album.
When the song ends, we’re still staring, still lost in each other. My fingers itch to touch her, but I refrain knowing we’re not alone.
What I’m planning to do to her doesn’t deserve to be witnessed by anybody in this room. Only us.
I swallow as we stand up, her hand reaching out to me as we both take a bow in the middle of the stage. My friends managed to meet hers at their table, all of them cheering the loudest compared to the others.
The way her fingers thread with mine make warmth consume my entire body, heart beating into overdrive, the feel of her skin being permanently cemented in my mind for when this is over.
Because it has to end eventually.
The realization crashes into me as I look at her, eyes clouded, everybody blurring out of focus until it’s just her staring at everybody with pure serenity on her face.
I know as soon as Tom sees the videos that are bound to go viral, he’ll call me home. Hell, the song is finished so there would be no reason to stay anyway.
There’s no tomorrow, or next week.
Only today. Tonight.
It’s our last shot. Our final good-bye.
And I’ll make sure it’s the good-bye she deserves. The only one I know how to make before the final departure.
Ashton
When the front door clicks closed and it’s just Dylan and I, everything shifts between us. Our hands still entwined, our eyes locked together, it’s like our song is playing in the background, con
trolling our every move.
He backs me into the house, to the edge of the stairs, and his hands travel to my waist as he leans in and brushes his nose against mine, slowly moving to caress my cheek and jaw, his warm breath kissing my skin. My hands tangle in his hair—not in rushed need, but to hold him, feel him, embrace the moment.
“This won’t be like last time,” he tells me, lips moving against mine as he speaks. “I need to take my time exploring you, mapping out every scar and freckle, until I mark and memorize every piece of you.
“I’m going to remember what you taste like.” His lips graze my skin until he bites down on my collarbone. “Memorize your silky skin.” One of his hands flattens against my bare midriff. “And make sure that every sound you make while I’m inside of you will be locked away in the back of my mind.”
I gasp when he tugs me into his body, his hard to my soft, a fire engulfing us until we’re burning out of control.
When we ascend the stairs, bodies pressed together, warning bells chime in my head. A guard goes over my heart, ready to cage it behind impenetrable bars.
We’re not made to love each other. We’d be a disaster in the making.
He told me that once, and nothing has changed. This had to be it for us. There’s nothing else left to offer each other, and when this night is over we needed to go our separate ways. Play it off like a lapse in judgement.
Standing outside my bedroom, he presses me against the wall, lips softly brushing against mine from every angle he could taste me in. His hands go to my shirt, slipping underneath it and slowly moving it upward until it’s off. His eyes ravish the sight of my pale pink bra, acting like the simplicity is the sexiest thing he’s seen.
“You’re …” He shakes his head, trying to collect his words. His eyes look into mine, the shade the softest they’ve ever been. I melt into the pools, drown in the feeling, burn by his touch. He dips down, peppering kisses across the tops of my exposed breasts until he reaches around and unhooks my bra, letting it drop on the floor next to us.
“You’re beautiful, Ashton,” he whispers, kissing me with everything he has in him—all the good and bad that he can’t express. His kiss exposes him, shatters his barriers, shows me the type of man he is, not who he wishes he could be. I kiss him with the same fierceness, needing him to see what he does to me even though I try fighting it. Fighting him.
But he is everything.
My air.
My space.
My thoughts.
I would give him every part of me if he’d let me. But every kiss we share is closer to good-bye, every touch a step toward the door, and every whisper a broken fantasy blown away in the wind.
Our tongues dance together as we cling to each other, my fingers pulling at the hem of his shirt until he relents and helps me take it off, our mouths only pulled away from each other for a mere second to let the fabric pass between us until there’s no barriers.
I pull him into my bedroom, and he picks me up, setting me carefully onto the bed, crawling over me until his lips are trailing down my body, between my breasts, tongue running down my stomach until they stop at the waist of my jeans. He slips his finger inside, popping open the button, focus carved onto his face as he unzips them tortuously slow, planting a kiss at the open spot just above my panties.
“Dylan,” I choke out.
“I told you this is different,” he tells me, sounding just as tortured by going this slow. He drags my jeans down my legs, me arching up to help him, and kisses the inside of my thigh as the material slides down.
I bite down hard on my lip, closing my eyes and absorbing every kiss me gives my body. My breath catches when he nuzzles his nose against my panties, biting down on the apex of my thighs.
I grip his shoulder hard, needing to pull him up to me. He chuckles and lets me take control for a short moment, letting me crash my lips against his as I work open his jeans and slide my hands inside, gripping his length.
“You’re not wearing underwear,” I state dumbly, staring at him.
His eyes squeeze closed as I tighten my grip on him just the slightest, running my hand up and down, my thumb teasing the tip.
“Fuck, you need to stop,” he groans, tilting his head back. He jerks his hips forward, letting me take more of him in my hand.
He lets me stroke him a few more times before he pulls my hand away, sliding his jeans off and throwing them behind him onto the floor. His lips go back to mine, teeth biting my bottom lip, hands sliding into my panties and fingers teasing my clit.
I arch into him, groaning as his fingers slide into me, the movements too languid and slow, my chest rising and falling and legs opening for him. His body comes down on mine, erection pressed against my stomach, his fingers picking up pace, causing me to pant and writhe.
My lips go down his neck, nipping just over his pulse, tongue running over the salty skin. He hooks his fingers in me, and I know it’s only a matter of time before I’m going to come.
“Dylan, please,” I beg, fingertips digging into his shoulders so hard they’ll leave marks.
“Let go, sweetheart,” he says into the crook of my neck, kissing me until his lips are over mine and containing the orgasm that racks my body. His tongue swirls with mine as he rides out my spasms, his fingers hooking into my panties and sliding them off me.
“I need to touch you,” I tell him, sitting up and kissing him again, hands running down his chest until they’re over his length again.
He flips us over so I’m straddling him, his eyes watching me completely consumed as I stoke him up and down with my hand. His breathing hitches as I pick up the pace, the heat between my legs demanding attention from him.
His fingers dig into the flesh of my hips, riding my hand until his cock twitches in my palm. A bead of precum escapes the head and my eyes flash with an idea that he seems to read on my face.
“As much as I want those pretty lips around my cock, I need to be inside of you,” he gravels.
I reach into the nightstand, pulling out a foil packet and ripping it open. He helps me roll the condom on, our eyes both locked on each other, afraid to look away. Afraid the moment will disappear.
He grips my hips again. “This is about you, sweetheart. Take what you want.”
“I want you,” I breathe, eyes blinking back the emotion that’s building into a typhoon inside of me. He can’t possibly know how much truth is woven in those words.
He uses one hand to brush back fallen hair from my face, his thumb caressing my cheek.
“You’ve got me.”
It’s all I need to hear before lifting my hips up and slowly sliding down onto him, both of us groaning in unison as he fills me.
My movements start off slow, calculated, taking him in and making the moment last as long as I can. He watches me ride him, the pure ecstasy on his face mirrors my own, my toes curling as he shifts up and buries himself deeper.
He curses as he repeats the action, meeting my hips every time I come down. My hands rest on his chest, fingertips curling and tracing the phoenix tattoo that wraps around his left side. I wonder if they’re a promise to himself—that one day he’ll rise from the ashes despite the doubt he puts on himself from ever coming out of the soot.
I move faster, frantically, feeling him catch on and mimic my changing speed. I tilt my head back when his finger brushes my clit, rubbing the pad of his thumb in circles over it until my body threatens to fall apart around him.
Right before I’m about to let loose, he switches us, flipping me onto my back and hovering over me with him still buried in me. His movements are quick, hard, punishing, like he doesn’t want to it to end but knows that it’s inevitable.
We’re inevitable, he told me.
His features are hard, pained as he looks down at me. My hands press behind me against my headboard as it hits the wall with every thrust, my knees tight against either side of his waist as he takes me in the way he needs.
It isn’t just about me an
ymore. It’s about us.
Always us.
I moan his name the harder he moves, his body crashing into mine, his hands on either side of the bed, gathering the sheets in his palms. My voice becomes a mangled mix of breathy noises, and he groans when I tighten around him, unable to hold back any longer.
When he hooks his arm around my lower back and lifts me up, entering me from a new angle, my body quakes around him, and the dominating look on his face as he slams into me only makes the orgasm blast through me harder, body giving him everything, and taking what he offers all at once.
“Fuck, Ash.” He uses my name like it’s the worst word in the dictionary. A curse. A plague. The ending to him and everything he knew.
And when his release hits him, the pain on his face consumes me, absorbing into me like it’s my own. When his sweaty, breathless body drops next to me on the bed, we stare at each other through hooded eyes, too lost in the moment to make another sound.
We don’t need to talk to know what’s coming next. Neither of us needs to say the words, because just like he promised, he’d branded me. My thoughts, body, and soul, are all his whether he wants to keep them or not.
He has everything but my heart, my heart too frail to be held by anybody yet. We both know that it’ll shatter everything inside of me if I let him have it now. The hope for anything between us will be left tangled in the messy sheets we’re wrapped in.
I would let him have everything else, but never the one thing I know I need to trust myself to give away again.
It’s over ten minutes of us just staring, letting ourselves catch our breaths, before either of us says anything again.
“Tell me something you haven’t told anyone else,” I whisper, hand brushing his until he lets me hold it.
He swallows. “That’s a lot to cover.”
“Anything.”
Needing some part of him in exchange for everything I already handed over was the way I was going to justify letting him have me when I promised that I would stay away.
“I’m afraid of storms because my darkest moment happened in one.” His eyes darken, Adam’s apple bobs, and lips purse.
The Moments We Share Page 21
