Page 44 of Dirty Like Dylan

Nothing.

And yet… I couldn’t quite get that kiss out of my head.

The details made a photograph. The emotions. And I’d caught them all.

Ashley’s fingertips biting gently into Dylan’s neck. His lowered eyelashes as he focused on Dylan’s mouth.

The way Dylan’s arms hung loose at his sides, trusting. He was holding his coffee mug in his hand. He didn’t even touch Ashley, but there was something about that naked trust that was so intimate, so… sexual.

At least, my lady parts seemed to think so. Before I knew it, so much blood was thundering southward, I was helpless to resist my body’s reactions.

It was the beer. And the emotions of the day. I was emotionally exhausted. Too fucking tired to fight with myself anymore.

I just wasn’t thinking straight.

In the guest room, I stripped off my clothes and fell into bed. Then I started masturbating… wondering, as I did, if Ashley would be pissed if he found out the hippie girl had gotten herself off in his guest bed.

Probably.

But I was too far gone now to care, and my pussy quickly hijacked that fantasy, too: both of them finding me here, like this. Ashley, angry to discover I was naked on his manly guest sheets, touching myself. And Dylan, angry about that photo.

At first.

But then they slid onto the bed to join me, to punish me, to show me what a naughty girl I’d been… Pure fantasy stuff. I didn’t even like Ashley, beyond his hot bod and his gorgeous face. And the two of them were clearly more into each other than they were into me.

Didn’t seem to matter to my clit.

I thought of them both putting their hands on me—and I came, screaming and exploding, my body a one-woman fourth-of-July fireworks show.

The only thing I could conclude about that as I came down, panting, from the most explosive orgasm I’d had in months: it had been way too long since I’d been laid. That was the only explanation.

Temporary insanity, fueled by a hazardous buildup of guilt, tension, frustration… and horniness.

Chapter Nine

Ash

It was getting late. The sun was long down and I’d finished working out, but I was still lingering in Dylan’s basement, in the gym. Dylan had just finished practicing. He was covered with sweat and I was watching him at the drums. He was just sitting there, breathing hard, looking out the windows at the water as he came down, his head still somewhere in the music.

It was a slow come-down with him. The drums took him to some other place, and he was never in a hurry to get back from it.

I loved seeing him like that.

I’d stick around to enjoy it as long as I thought I could get away with, but I was overly-fucking-mindful of that kiss this morning. Of treading the line with Dylan. And he’d already busted my balls about not sleeping at my own place last night.

He’d also given me some silent warfare bullshit with his green eyes about the fact that I didn’t go next door to invite Amber to have dinner with us tonight, like he’d suggested.

I also had the image of him naked, post-swim, in my head, looking like a fucking sex god with his cock all out, fucking messing with my brain.

Not like I hadn’t seen it before.

But every time I saw him like that, it just gave me a fresh visual. Made my head go to places I knew it wasn’t supposed to—no matter how intimate shit had ever gotten between us.

Yes, we’d been naked in the same room. We’d had sex in the same bed, with the same woman—many fucking times. We’d gotten high together, drank our faces off together, thrown up with each other. We’d broken a hell of a lot of rules together. Broken laws. Broken bones. Broken hearts. When Dylan’s dad died of cancer, we’d fucking cried together.

We’d been through just about every-fucking-thing two friends could be through together. I’d seen him bleed. I’d watched him fuck.

I’d watched him come.