Page 38 of Dirty Like Dylan

And since that night, a few weeks ago, we still hadn’t sealed the deal. With anyone.

I’d never known Ash to go without sex for more than a week, before Elle.

It was getting downright freaky.

Ash had always lauded “the breakup party” as the ultimate cure for a broken heart. You got dumped or you broke up with someone, no matter what the circumstances—whether you were happy about it or totally not—you had a party. An epic party, to celebrate your newfound freedom—and, of course, to get laid.

So I just kept waiting for the breakup party on this one. Surely Elle brushing him off was worthy of a sex bender.

Meanwhile, I’d attempted to instigate a three-way—several times. Dropping the names of a few women from our shared past. Suggesting we hit up some party. Dragging his ass out to parties.

But it just never happened.

I knew Ash wasn’t hooking up with anyone on his own, either, because he was pretty much living at my place, sleeping on my couch or in one of the guest rooms every night.

A few mornings ago, I’d found him passed out on the floor next to my drum kit downstairs.

And I was starting to fucking worry about the guy.

I was definitely not gonna step in on the first chick to come along since Elle that I thought might actually have a chance at getting under his skin.

Not before he was ready.

Ash was broken, but even if he wouldn’t admit it, for whatever fucked up reason—protecting himself, punishing himself, just being a dick—I could feel the sparks between him and Amber from moment one. I could feel the sexual tension between them. I’d been down and dirty in the same room with Ash while he got his groove on with a chick enough times to recognize it. It was an angry, irritable tension, but it was there.

And I saw how she looked at him. I’d definitely seen that look before.

Amber found Ash hot—in an aggravating, annoying way, the way a lot of girls did. Which, in my experience, meant that all the two of them really needed was a fuck. A good, long, hard fuck. An angry fuck, maybe. But whatever kind of fuck it turned out to be, one night with Amber, and my guess was he’d snap right out of his bullshit funk.

Melting that girl’s misgivings and turning her to a molten puddle of yes would make his fucking month. Hell, maybe it would make his year.

Couldn’t be any worse than his year was already going.

And I meant what I’d told him last night. I’d even let him have her, solo, if that’s what it took.

For a while.

But then, of course, there was the way Amber looked at me. There was tension there, too. My dick was tuning into it like a fucking divining rod.

And fuck me, but as I finished swimming and stood up… I was hard again. The mere thought of that look in Amber’s eyes when she gazed up at me? It had me stiff.

I climbed up out of the pool and stood in front of the living room windows as I picked up my towel from the chair where I’d left it. I didn’t look to see if she was inside. But I did stand here longer than necessary with my cock up, the water dripping off of me, as I caught my breath. After the hot pool, the cold air felt good.

The idea that she might be watching felt even better.

Then I dried myself off—slowly. My dick was throbbing at the mere possibility that she’d seen me out here, naked; that maybe she could see me right now. I wasn’t exactly some pervy flasher, but shit, this was my house. I’d warned her what I was doing out here. And maybe I was just too far gone with the raging boner and all my blood flowing south, but I’d never been shy about being naked. I’d never really been shy at all.

I liked attention. I liked being looked at. Craved it, even. I was at ease onstage, performing. In front of a camera. In front of a woman.

Not just at ease…

Turned on.

I did not mind one bit if Amber Malone wanted to look at me. All of me. If she did, she could go right ahead.

She could even take photos, if she wanted to.

I was hardly gonna be the one to stop her.