I grab my remaining banana from the table and peel it, dropping the skin in the bin on the way out of the door. The solace of my beach walk yesterday helped, and I don’t want to be in the house facing awkward conversations. Maybe I should leave and go back to Bristol.
As I wander towards the sea, I realise the weather is colder than I first imagined and my legs smart from the cold breeze. I remove my shoes anyway, and stand in the sand at the edge of the breaking waves. The water gradually buries them beneath the sand. Then one by one, I pull my feet out and move to a new spot, repeating the exercise. The sensation of being sucked down and trapped is odd. What would it be like to be dragged under quicksand?
A man walking a large, scruffy black dog passes and I nod hello, but the beach is almost empty again. I’m happy I remembered to tie my hair back today, not so happy about the huge drop of rain landing on my nose. So much for enjoying the seaside holiday weather. This isn’t any different to my childhood summer, rain is very much part of the experience. Good thing I have plenty of books to read, because today is a TV and books day.
On the short walk back to the house, I find Dylan walking across the sand towards me. He’s wearing his jeans and T-shirt but his feet are bare. In his arms, he holds his hoodie, the one I wore last night and left neatly folded over a chair in the kitchen this morning. I pause, debating what to do or what to say.
As he approaches, I study him with new eyes. The confident, lithe movements and his easy-going stroll are back. This Dylan is miles away from the uptight guy who rear-ended me, the one who reappeared last night.
When he stops short of me, blue eyes searching mine I want to ask him why. Why did he kiss me and say those things?
He’s wearing a sheepish look as he hands the hoodie to me. I stare at it blankly.
“Why are you giving me this?”
“I saw you on the beach from the window and I think it’s going to rain.”
“Very chivalrous.”
“And this is an excuse to talk to you and apologise about last night. We should talk about it?” He’s wary, which doesn’t suit him.
I lean down and pick my sandals up. “It doesn’t matter. Forget it.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you. I was upset about something and that kind of took over.”
“Really?” I ask sarcastically.
Since I woke, I’ve debated packing and going. I’m not sure I want to get involved in dramas with this person. But the fantasist inside wants to stay.
“I shouldn’t have said the stuff. About sex,” he continues.
Oh, God, don’t talk about sex again, not when you’re standing there in all your Dylan glory.
“You mean fucking? That’s what summer crushes do, right?”
He winces. “Not always. I never did, mostly because I was too scared to ask.”
His admission disarms me. This guy? Too scared to ask? I bet that hasn’t happened for a long while.
“Don’t tell me - you were a spotty teen boy who didn’t know how to talk to girls?”
Tensions ebbs away as he laughs. “No, I was too polite.”
“Right…of course, because you weren’t ruled by your hormones like every other teenage boy?”
“I’m not saying I didn’t do anything, just not all the way.”
“I bet you’ve made up for it since, with all these girls you fuck.”
He closes his eyes. “Okay, I said I’m sorry about saying that.”
“I came for a walk to be alone,” I tell him, but take his jacket and shrug it on. The scent immediately triggers memories of last night.
A second drop of rain hits my nose and I glance up. The darker sky rolls in. Great.
“It’s raining,” he says.
“Very perceptive.”
“What’s wrong? Is this all because I said stupid things last night? Or because I kissed you? Can we forget what happened and rewind?”
“To before we kissed? So it never happened?”
Dylan’s eyes glint as he reaches his hand to touch my mouth with cool fingers. “No. To the point we got home.”
I shiver at the suggestion beneath his meaning, but pull myself into the now. “Why?”
The rain falls, hard drops seemingly from nowhere; they’re so sudden. “I thought summer crushes lasted more than one evening?” he asks.
“You do more than one night stands then?”
He drops his hand. “Sky, what the fuck is going on? How many times do I have to say sorry? Seriously, if you don’t want me to touch you again, I won’t. But let me back in.”
“Back in where?”
“Your life. Here. This.”
I wipe the rain from my forehead. “This? What is this? You’re not in my life because this isn’t my life. Or yours.”
“Right here and right now this is our life, and I’m pissed off if I fucked that up last night. I guess I need to find a new way of relating to women.”
“Apart from seeing them all as a potential fuck you mean?”
Dylan pushes his hand through his wet hair, as the rain grows steadier around us. “What is your obsession with fucking?”
“You’re the one with the obsession! One kiss and you presume I’m going to say yes to sex with you?”
“Wow. Just wow. I don’t know what’s going on here but…wow.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m just glad I didn’t,” I retort.
“So am I.” His words sting. Yeah, I get that. I’m not exactly his usual type. “Not for the reason you’re thinking. I told you that last night; it’s because I think sex would spoil this.”
We watch each other warily and I don’t know what to say or do. He confuses me; the whole situation is surreal. I can’t get my head around what he wants - or what I want. One minute I’m staring at his killer body wanting him all over me, and the next I’m telling him to leave me alone.
Why did he have to kiss me and drag us up to this level?
I turn back to the waves tumbling in, willing him to walk away. The white surf rolls over but never quite reaches my toes. Shells have washed in with last night’s tide and are dotted around, stuck in the sand as the sea retreated. Ignoring Dylan, I walk along the shore towards the shells and dig them from the sand. Something about the possibility of finding a perfect shell draws me to them every time. A large patterned tip protrudes from the sand and I wander over. Bending down, I dig around with my fingers and pull out a huge purple and white spiral shell. Twisting the shell in my hands, I check the intactness. Perfect.
“Sky! Waves!”
I have my back to the ocean and a wave crashes against my legs, destabilising me. I regain my footing and attempt to move before the retreating water sucks my feet into the sand. At that moment, a larger wave wipes me completely, dragging my body underwater. I panic at the confusion of being pushed and pulled out of my control, seawater swirling hair into my face and the bubbles rushing into my ears. The shell remains tightly gripped in my hand.
As water draws away, I push my head free. Dylan stands on the edge of the shore, water lapping his ankles, laughing. I spit out seawater and stagger to my feet. The weight of the damp hoodie threatens to pull me down again as I push hair from my eyes.
“That was fucking funny! You should see your face!” He wades towards me, arm outstretched to help.
Attempting to keep my footing, I lunge at him and slap his hard chest with both palms. “It was not! Screw you!” Dylan catches my arms as I make contact, and pulls me towards him.
Scrutinizing my face briefly, Dylan takes my cheeks in his broad palms and crushes his lips against mine. I gasp again, but it’s not the sea snatching my breath this time. A new wave sways us, and Dylan holds my face tightly, his own footing steady, as his mouth claims mine. A small voice in my head asks what the hell I’m doing, but I ignore it. Dylan overwhelms all common sense the moment I have any physical contact with him. Losing myself in his mint-flavoured kiss, in the slide of his tongue, I yield to the power he holds over me. Dylan c
urls his fingers into my wet hair and pulls me closer; I respond with a deep kiss, running fingers across his face.
Fierce or gentle, his kisses mould my soul to his as perfectly as his body shapes with mine, as if we’re in a place created by our coming together. Kissing Dylan last night pulled me into his orbit, and when I see stars again, I swear his kisses will always take me away from the real world. If Dylan can remove me from reality with only this, God knows what anything else he’s skilful at would do to me. The thought of us skin on skin, united through more than a kiss, lights a fire deep inside that would take more than the cold Cornish sea to extinguish.
Dylan loosens his grip on my hair and slides his hands across my damp back. He closes the final gap between us as our bodies meet; the soaked clothes annoyingly in the way. “I have never met anyone so…” He grasps for a word, but then gives up and rests his forehead on mine. “I feel as if I’ve waited my whole life to meet you and then suddenly you’re here.”
For a moment, I consider whether he’s teasing me again, but I guess I’m very different to the people in his real life. “I can honestly say I’ve never met anyone like you, Dylan Morgan.”
He wipes water from my cheek with cool, damp fingers. “No one’s met Dylan Morgan apart from you, not for a lot of years, anyway.”
I stare at the truth reflected in his pale blue eyes, unable to believe any of this is reality. His grip on my back loosens, and I step back. Rain drips down his face, soaking through his now damp T-shirt and clinging to his body in a way that does nothing to help my mounting desire to get my hands on him.
A subject change is needed rapidly, before I begin drooling. I hold out the shell in the palm of my hand. “I was getting this.”
“For your treasure box?”
“Kind of.” To replace his; the one I destroyed thirteen years ago.
He takes the shell from me and inspects it. “Oh. A good find, definitely worthy of the secret box.”
“Not worth half-drowning for though,” I mutter.
A seagull shrieks overhead, I could swear the bird is laughing at me.
Dylan shoves the shell in his pocket. “Let’s get you home.”
We tread across the soaking sand and as the rain switches to a vertical sheet of water, I pick up the pace. Dylan strides to catch up.
“I’ll carry you?”
I speed up. “Don’t you dare put me over your shoulder again.”
“Piggy back?” He turns and bends slightly gesturing with his arms.
“You are one big kid.”
“Yep. And loving every minute! Come on!”
Every time I think I can avoid physical contact with this man, I’m in a position to get my hands on him. And how can I deny myself? I jump onto Dylan’s broad back and wrap my legs around his taut waist, arms around his neck. Dylan grabs me under the legs and runs.
“You’ll drop me!” I shout, alarmed by his speed.
“You’re not heavy! But stop strangling me!”
I shift my arms, crossing them over his toned chest instead. Close contact with Dylan, even through my soggy clothes, sends the butterflies in my stomach into a frenzy. My damp cheek rests against his, and I fight the urge to bury my face in his neck and kiss him.
We arrive at the house in half the time walking would’ve taken, and he sets me on the floor.
“So we rewound to last night after the kiss. What now?” he asks, eyes shining.
A mess of arousal from his holding me, and shivering from my soaking, I can’t think straight. “What did you intend to do last night?” I ask
“I was leaving that up to you. I didn’t want to scare you off. What would you have done?” His eyes search mine as we puddle water onto the polished wooden floor.
We’ve stepped over the line so far now, I don’t think there’s any point holding back. I’m pulled in and locked into Dylan whether I like it or not.
“Probably, I’d have kissed you some more and finished my fish and chips. Maybe not in that order.”
“Sky, you are the funniest girl…” He wipes water from my face with his palm.
The kiss Dylan gives me next is brief and soft, rather than the all-encompassing one from the beach. I attempt to control my chattering teeth but fail.
“I think you need to get changed,” he says, peeling the hoodie from me.
Before I decide to let him undress me completely, I head upstairs.
Chapter Nine
When I return downstairs, Dylan has changed into jeans and a T-shirt, and sits crossed legged on the sofa. The brightness of his tattoos contrast his dark clothes, adding the edge of exotic to the ordinary.
“I don’t know how you’d ever hope to blend in anywhere,” I say.
“What do you mean?” I indicate his tattoos. “Oh, I cover up sometimes. I look pretty fucking hot in a suit too, you know?”
His slips back into foul-mouthed do-I-give-a-fuck Dylan amuses me; they’re as big a contrast as the ink and the dull English summer day. I want to say he’ll never blend in because there’s something about him that fills the world around with colour as bright as his tattoos. Is this how some people become famous and others fail? Do they have an aura like Dylan’s, sucking everyone in?
He tips his head at me. “What are you thinking about?”
“You.”
“Oh…?” He moves and crosses his leg over his knee, stretching an arm across the back of the brown sofa. And gives me that look – the one worming its way past my anti-male defence system, the system blown apart by Dylan Morgan.
I poke my tongue out. “Don’t presume I’m thinking anything good.”
“Sky, I can read your face, and your eyes.”
Ignoring him, I walk to the window and peer out. The rainy weather has taken hold, the bright world of yesterday muted into greys.
“It wouldn’t be a summer without this,” he says from behind. “What did you used to do here on rainy days as a kid?”
I turn back and shrug. “Stay home and read. Fight with my brother.”
“None of those sound fun to me.”
“TV?”
Dylan’s eyes flick between the TV and me. “Do you like snuggling?”
Here we go again, Mr Random. “As in?”
“Cuddling with someone, relaxing, maybe watching TV together.”
Like I did with Grant? Watching TV together with a Chinese takeaway was his idea of a hot date. His snuggling involved groping when he was drunk - or decided I was drunk enough. I scrunch up my nose but before I can respond, Dylan disappears, jumping upstairs two steps at a time. Seconds later he reappears with his duvet, the seashell covered pattern looking out of place in his inked arms.
“Do you know how long it is since I’ve snuggled?” he asks.
“Umm…?” Actually, I can imagine. “Not rock star behaviour, I guess.”
He narrows his eyes. “Reality stays at the door…”
“Okay. No, I don’t.”
Dylan resumes his seat on the sofa and picks up the TV controller. “Choose a DVD?”
There’s something about Dylan, which makes him hard to refuse. Apart from what my mum would call devilish good looks, he has an odd presence. The presence of someone used to people agreeing with, and never questioning, him.
The DVD collection stacked in the TV cabinet is eclectic and I attempt to find one he’ll hate.
“Twilight.” I hold up the box and fix him with a ‘don’t disagree’ stare.
After an initial tug of the eyebrows, he shrugs. “Sure. I’ve never seen that one.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“But I know…” He stops himself.
“You know who?”
“Do you have popcorn?”
Again, the subject change. He’ll give me whiplash. “No, why would I?”
“But you have crisps? Lots.” He grins teasingly and stands.
I load up the DVD and settle on the sofa. Dylan returns with a huge plastic bowl of crisps and some cans of coke.
Setting them on the table, he curls his long legs under him and pats the sofa. I get up from the floor and hesitate.
“Live dangerously,” he says and smiles.
Snuggling under that duvet with him is dangerous - to my heart rate, my hormones and eventually my modesty.
But I climb onto the sofa with Dylan anyway.
Compared to the cool outside, Dylan’s hard, muscled body is warm. When I cuddled Grant, there was a lot of loose flesh; I don’t think Dylan has an ounce of fleshiness on him.
I extricate the controller from under the duvet and hit play. Dylan leans forward, drags the bowl of crisps onto the duvet between us and sighs. I smirk. He’s sitting through the whole thing, whether he likes it or not. This is pay back for my second dunking in as many days.
Me, I’ve seen Twilight around twenty times. Don’t judge. There’s something about Edward - so what if he’s pale, skinny and the antithesis of the man I’m currently lusting over? Maybe I like the unattainable. Every now and then, Dylan makes a soft scoffing noise in his throat but masks the sound with a mouthful of crisps.
As the movie progresses, Dylan’s behaviour confuses. I thought ‘snuggling’ might be secret code for ‘I’m going to make out with you’, but looks like I was wrong. I have my body buried as far into him as I can without sitting astride him and begging him to touch me (which becomes more of a possibility as the minutes pass) but all he does is rest his head against mine and drive me mad with gentle touches on my arm. Under this duvet, I’m getting hot and bothered; I’ll be a gasping heap of hormones by the end of this.
Halfway through the movie, Dylan shifts around to face me. “How am I doing?”
“Doing?”
“At snuggling.”
“I don’t think snuggling is an art form.” Now he’s locked me in his sights again, my pulse rate goes haywire.
“But this is how it’s done?”
I rub loose hair from my face. Sometimes, I feel like I’m sharing the place with an alien. You know, ‘teach me how to love, earth girl’. The thought plasters a smirk on my face.
Summer Sky: A Blue Phoenix Book Page 6
