My hand slides across Dylan’s face as he turns to look at me, his cheek smooth above his stubbled jaw. “For the last eight years, yeah. I’ll show you a picture sometime. You might recognise me then.”
“That’s a long time. It must be weird looking in the mirror and not recognising yourself.”
“I didn’t recognise myself for a long time even before I cut my hair.” He picks at his food and looks back to the sea.
Despite avoiding talking about each other’s lives, things slip in. Like this explanation for the tightly wound Dylan I met a few days ago.
“Maybe I should cut mine, I can recreate myself too. This is the longest my hair’s been for a few years.”
Dylan strokes my fringe from my face, fingers trailing across my forehead. The touch ignites nerve-endings across my face. “I’m sure you’ll look great whatever you decide to do with your hair.”
“Grant said girls with short hair don’t look right.”
“Who’s Grant?”
I clamp a hand over my mouth. Real life things. Secrets. “Just some dickhead who used to be my boyfriend.”
“I wouldn’t think you were the kind of girl to date dickheads.”
I huff. “Yeah, some of them slip through the net and I don’t realise until it’s too late.”
“How can it be too late? You weren’t married, were you?”
I splutter Fanta over my cooling chips. “Hell, no.”
“Then what?”
“Once you fall in love, it’s harder to let go; even with dickheads.”
“But you let go? Is that why you’re here?”
This isn’t fair. He’s poking at what I came to escape from - letting things into our bubble world. I set the meal onto the sand next to me. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
Dylan’s scrutiny traces a pattern over my face, leaving a trail of heat. How does he do that?
“Such a shame I’m a dickhead,” he says in a low voice.
“I’m sure you can’t help it. Part of the Y chromosome disability, unfortunately,” I say lightly.
Reaching out a finger, he brushes salt from my lips. An embarrassing sound escapes my throat as he rubs the rough fingertip along my lips.
“Remember what I said about your sarcastic mouth?”
Of course, I remember, how am I going to forget? But all I can do is stare back like some wide-eyed idiot and nod.
He removes his finger and licks the salt off the tip; the move is impossibly sexy and fires arousal through me.
“I know kissing you is the wrong thing to do to you, but I’m starting to get obsessed.”
My brain struggles to keep up. “Wrong?” I ask.
“When you look at me the way you do, I love and hate it at the same time. When you don’t look at me the way I want you to, that’s even worse. Every funny thing you say, every time you blush, even just being in the same room fills me with an unexpected urge to kiss you. I don’t understand, because this isn’t what I want.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It doesn’t, does it? But nothing in my life makes sense to me.” He moves the fish and chips from his lap onto the sand.
Excruciatingly slowly, Dylan leans towards me. My heart somersaults and cheerleads in my chest as his mouth approaches mine.
“So about kissing your sarcastic mouth…?”
The words are spoken millimetres from my lips and as his mouth moves, his lips touch mine. He’s good at this.
“Yes.”
“Yes, you remember, or yes, you’ve changed your mind and want me to kiss you?” Dylan rubs his cool nose along my cheek towards my ear.
“Both. All. Whatever.” I’m losing the ability to process words.
Cupping my chin with his rough fingers, he rubs my cheek with his thumb. My breath comes in such short bursts. I’m convinced I sound like I’ve run a marathon.
Dylan replaces his fingers with his mouth, a hesitancy in his kiss I didn’t expect. Because he’s not sure I want to or he’s not sure he wants to? I push my lips against his, tasting the salt and Fanta. Dylan winds a hand into my hair and gently holds my face to his. His lips are firm and warm, softer than I imagined. When he runs his tongue along my bottom lip, the tingle spreads across my face and I’m gone.
I want Dylan to kiss, touch, whatever he wants. Because with one kiss, he’s shot my brain into orbit and left my disintegrating body falling into his arms. I grab Dylan around the neck, steadying myself, and unashamedly kiss him back. Hard.
Dylan drops his hand from my hair and runs his fingers along my bare arm, adding to the goose bumps from the cold night. A small part of my brain asks why the hell this god of a man wants to kiss average me but who cares? He does. He delves his tongue into my mouth, snatching my breath. With Grant’s kisses, I couldn’t breathe because he suffocated me with bad positioning, but Dylan takes my breath away with the sheer expertise. I have never been kissed like this. Ever.
I slide my tongue to meet his and as the intensity of our kiss grows, I relish the burn of his stubbled jaw on my sensitive skin. He makes a low sound in his throat, and the fact I caused this arouses parts of me I’ve tried desperately to ignore around him.
Dylan pulls his mouth away, a tiny space that feels like a gulf opens between us, and his breath comes in warm bursts against my face. Shifting his attention to my neck, Dylan plants a row of tiny kisses before he flicks his tongue into a sensitive spot I never knew I had. I curl my fingers into his short hair press myself into him, not wanting this over any time soon.
With the sound of the sea in the background, and the cool sand beneath my legs, I’m pulled back to my first teenage summer kiss on the beach. Everything is new and forbidden - the excitement and illicitness of what might happen next adding to my arousal. Fourteen-year-old Sky takes control of my thoughts. Will he touch me? Or just kiss me? Where will he touch me? Should I touch him?
Dylan does touch me. Possibly, because I dive my hands beneath his hoodie first, eagerly scrabbling under his T-shirt to touch the lickable abs I need to inspect. He winces at my cold hands on his heating skin.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
If I sounded like I’d run a marathon before, I’m pretty sure I sound as if I just finished a triathlon.
“No problem,” he breathes.
Dylan snakes a hand under my shirt, the sensation of his feather touches on my lower back flicking some kind of switch. Heat streams through my body. To. Every. Part. Of. Me.
When Dylan slides his hands up my sides, towards my breasts I ache for him to explore. I don’t care I’m on the beach. But Dylan pulls away again and rests his head on mine. He sounds as if he’s joined me in my marathon, rapid hot breath against my mouth.
No, no, no. Don’t stop. For a heart-aching moment, he doesn’t speak and I need to know what he’s thinking.
“Did you have summer crushes when you came here in the past?” he asks, his breath ragged.
My ability to form a coherent response left minutes ago. “Mmhmm”
“Will you be my summer crush?”
“Mmhmm.” I don’t care how stupid I sound, or what a weird question this is, I want him back to kissing me again.
Dylan lifts his head away, and strokes my cheek with the back of his hand, placing a final kiss on my forehead. Then he takes my hand, laces our fingers and pulls me close. I lay my head on his chest as he wraps the other around my shoulders, rubbing my cool arm.
My disappointment at the end of passionate, teenage-style kissing on the beach edges away as I enjoy the comfort of his embrace. Nothing else is said for some time, as if everything is communicated by us being here in this moment.
I don’t think rock gods cuddle much, or ask people to be their summer crush, so now all I need to do is figure out what being his summer crush entails.
Chapter Seven
We walk back to the house along the beach, and I’m pretty sure the fizzing inside is from holding this guy’s hand and not the can of orange soda I just d
rank. Dylan dressed me in his jacket and I surreptitiously burrow my nose into the soft material, inhaling ‘scent of Dylan’. Sandalwood and male. Absentmindedly, I wonder if he has his own brand of fragrance. Then giggle.
“You okay?” he asks, pushing the front door open and flicking on the lights.
“Everything’s great,” I say staring at his mouth, wishing it were back on mine.
But something’s odd. Dylan’s looking too intense, and not in a sexual way. As if he’s considering what he’s done and is unsure about the kiss now we’re back in the light and he’s seen who I am.
“What about you?” I ask cautiously.
“All good.”
I don’t believe him and rather than stand and stare at each other awkwardly, I head for the kitchen. Cup of coffee? I don’t think so. I pull out my last bottle of red.
“Do you want a wine?” I call.
“You know I’m not drinking.”
I turn and he’s resting on the edge of the doorframe, one hand above his head holding the top of the frame. This exposes his lean stomach and the ‘v’ shape Grant definitely never had disappearing into his dark jeans. Why did he have to do that and set my mind wandering into his jeans?
“Okay.” I pour myself a generous glass and his eyes zone in on my mouth as I sip.
Dylan’s phone rings upstairs.
“Is this where we get awkward?” I ask him.
“Awkward about what?” He glances towards the stairs.
Like he doesn’t know. Jeez. I’m not having elephants in the room. “You kissed me.”
“And you kissed me,” he replies with a small smile.
“And…?”
“And…?”
I narrow my eyes. He’s playing games. Was the kiss a game to him? “Nothing.”
“I’ll be right back. I’ve been waiting for a call about…something.” He heads in the direction of the incessant ringing.
I thought he was hiding?
I sit at the table, body still wired from our kiss, and struggle to decide what to do if he wants to take things further. Such as to bed. Or against the wall. Or wherever. Maybe the walk along the beach and phone call defused a situation heading towards explosive. The murmured conversation Dylan has upstairs grows louder. Being the nosy person I am, I sit on the bottom step and listen.
“I don’t give a flying fuck what he wants!” He sounds different. Not just the swearing, but his accent has more of the American twang.
Long pause.
“Yeah, well, tell him to go fuck himself. I’m not doing what he says. I’ll do what I fucking like with my life!”
Even when our cars collided, and I was rude, he didn’t show any sign of this kind of anger. The vehemence in his tone shocks me.
“I don’t think so,” he continues, “and don’t think about trying to find me or I’ll fucking leave for good!”
Another pause.
“Fuck the contracts, so sue me! I don’t fucking care!”
That’s a lot of fucks. He’s definitely a different Dylan. I retreat to the lounge with my glass of wine and retrieve my book from earlier.
The conversation stops and there’s a fair bit of banging around upstairs. Suddenly, I’m not sure I want to be in the house with Mr Angry, remembering I don’t know much about this guy at all. The worry empties my wine glass so I find the bottle and set it on the coffee table, curling up with my book.
I lose track of time, lost in the world of the billionaire and the PA. Why do I read this stuff? Oh, yeah, escape. Fantasy. Like holidays with mysterious men, who kiss in an unimaginably skilful way.
I’m aware of Dylan’s presence in the room again and turn my head. He’s watching me; the idea he may have stood there for a while sends a shiver through. Maybe this guy is unstable and I haven’t seen his true self yet.
I wish I knew what was behind those ocean eyes. They’ve regained some of their guardedness - worry etched back on his face. The aura emanating towards me isn’t anger or danger, but stress in his slumped stance.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, attempting nonchalance.
“It doesn’t matter.” He sits in the chair opposite, not next to me. Damn.
“Liar.”
Dylan looks genuinely taken aback. “Okay, no. But that’s my shit to deal with. The other world we’re not living in at the moment.”
I’d like to say he’s deluding himself; we’re not closed off from the real world, but I’ve joined in the illusion so I can’t.
“Want to talk about it?” I suggest.
“I said that shit’s not part of this world,” he snaps.
I pull a face, not impressed by him talking to me like this. “What world are we part of, Dylan?”
“The world where the man from the sea meets the summer sky.”
“Pardon?”
“My name. That’s what it means. I love the ocean so my name’s pretty apt. And you’re like the sky.”
Okay, did he take something illegal when he was upstairs? “Expansive and empty?”
He leans back and places his feet on the coffee table. “Where the sun’s hidden behind the clouds, and some days the sun shines through and fills the sky with warmth and brightness.”
I’m beginning to suspect he might be the band lyricist.
“How do you know what I’m like? You’ve known me two days.”
He watches as I gulp more wine. “I know you’re hurting. And I know you hide behind your sarcasm because you’re vulnerable underneath.”
“You don’t know me at all. You know a girl you met, who shares a childhood past. You know the childhood me.”
He inhales, and then exhales slowly. “Fine. I don’t want to argue with you.”
I shrug and return to my book, considering why I’m so irritated. Because he kissed me, set my body on a collision course with his, and then backed off? Or because this real Dylan poked his head out?
The front door closes as Dylan leaves the house.
I’m confused. After our tryst on the beach, every time I meet his eyes, I want to throw myself at him. Maybe I should. Isn’t that what he’s used to? Is that why he’s annoyed? Because I haven’t?
Still wearing his hoodie, I follow Dylan out of the door expecting to follow him to the beach but he’s in the shadows, leaning against the house and looking at the stars.
“Are you sure everything’s okay?” I ask, touching his arm.
“We can’t escape really, can we?” he asks quietly, eyes fixed on the stars still.
“Not everything. But we can control some of what happens to us.”
“I don’t feel like I can.” He takes my hand and squeezes. “I don’t feel like I have any control over my life.”
The happy guy from the beach, the summer boy who ate fish and chips with me on the sand, left when he went upstairs. This Dylan is dejected, shoulders slumped, and he tears at my heart because he’s touched my life in a way that makes me feel the opposite.
“Of course you do, and if you don’t, change things.”
Dylan looks at me and makes a soft sound of derision. “That’s why I came here, but I can’t run forever.”
I want to hold him, but his body language creates a barrier I don’t want to cross, and be rejected.
Gently, I stroke the back of his hand. “Then enjoy the freedom and control you have now, and when you go back change what you can.”
“Yeah, maybe.” He runs a hand through his hair, and turns to me sliding his arm around my waist. My scalp tingles as he nudges his cool nose into my hair, and I place my hands on his chest, desperate for him to kiss me again, filled with trepidation of what happens next.
“I want to kiss you again, Sky. But I don’t think I can stop there and I don’t want to spoil this,” he says, voice muffled in my hair.
“How would you spoil this?” I ask, pulling back.
Dylan releases his grip on my waist and quietly says, “Because when I fuck a girl, I don’t want anything to do with her afterwards.�
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Anger flashes across my mind and I shove him hard in the chest so he stumbles backwards. “I wouldn’t let you! I don’t fuck people, you arrogant bastard!”
Dylan straightens. “I told you I was a dickhead.”
“And now I believe you,” I snap, shaking with a mix of anger, disappointment and arousal.
“Sky,” he says, softly, closing the charged space between us, hovering his mouth close to mine in his annoying seductive way. “If I took you upstairs to bed, I wouldn’t fuck you. You’re worth so much more than that. You have no idea…the things I want to do to you…”
The heat from my anger dives straight to my core, arousal by his words taking me by surprise. But I keep a grip and don’t meet his mouth or touch him.
“And if you’d let me finish what I was saying, I would’ve explained what this would do to my head is the problem.”
I step back, to reinforce the impression I don’t want him anywhere near me. “I think we’d better stop now, you’re right, this is going to spoil…whatever this is.”
Rubbing both palms across his face and down to his neck, Dylan appraises me one last time. “Suit yourself. I think I need to go for a walk.”
That’s a typical male shutdown response there. His tall, but hunched, figure strides away, hands buried in his jeans pockets. I watch him go, guilty about my overreaction to this troubled guy.
I already have a problem caused by ‘whatever this is’: the inexplicable need to be around Dylan.
Returning inside, I grab my book and a glass of water, and then traipse upstairs to bed. I can’t be wrapped in Dylan’s arms, but I am wrapped in his hoodie still. I drift to sleep, arm across my face, his scent following me into my dreams where we do more than kiss.
Much more.
And he doesn’t use the word ‘fuck’ once.
Chapter Eight
I wake early, and listen for movement downstairs. Nothing. I never heard him come back last night, but I presume he did because where else would he go? Apart from back to where he lives and I don’t think that’s likely. I look out of the window hoping to see the sun but I’m greeted by a cloudy day. Summer here is so hit and miss; the sunny childhood day replaced by grey for a second day. The floorboards creak as I leave the room. Dylan’s bedroom door is closed and he leaves it open when he’s not inside so he must be in bed still. Good. I don’t want to see Dylan; I don’t know what to say to him.
Summer Sky: A Blue Phoenix Book Page 5
