Page 60 of Dirty Like Dylan

“You’ll be alone with Dylan,” he said.

“Okay.”

“He’ll probably play his drums, work out, swim. Make some phone calls. You know the routine by now.”

“Uh-huh.” I knew the routine. The naked routine.

If Dylan was swimming, his clothes were coming off. And I was gonna get hand cramps masturbating to the afterburn—the image of him that was gonna get permanently imprinted on my eyeballs from all the staring.

Ashley turned around. I tried not to look down at his briefs, at the bulge of his dick. Which meant I looked into his eyes instead. They didn’t look as cold as usual, or as filled with contempt.

But I really couldn’t say what he was thinking when he said, “You should take some photos of him today. It should be gorgeous out.”

Chapter Twelve

Dylan

Late in the afternoon, I stepped out onto the back deck. Amber was there, photographing the deck and the view, by the stairs that led down to the ground level. I paused. She saw me and nodded, as if to say, Go about your business. So I did.

I did exactly what I would’ve done if she wasn’t there. I ignored the camera. I stripped down. I didn’t even look at her to see what she thought of that, if her jaw was on the floor. Then I slid into the pool and started swimming.

When I was done, I hauled myself out and stood for a minute, enjoying the feeling as the cool air chilled my skin. Then I wrapped a towel loosely around my hips. The heaters were on, chasing off the October chill, and I settled back onto a lounge chair.

All the while I could feel her there, taking photos. I could hear the familiar, barely-audible click of the shutter… and it was turning me on.

It was getting me hard.

Fuck.

I was so fucking predictable.

Or at least, my dick was.

Amber was off to my right side, and I tried to ignore her as I made a couple of calls. Brody. Jesse. We were meeting at the old church where Dirty rehearsed in a few days, to start rehearsing the newest songs for the album, massaging the material Seth and Elle had written into the mix. We were still trying to figure out which songs were making it onto the album before we hit the studio in a few weeks.

All the while, I kept hearing the soft click of Amber’s shutter and wondering if she was taking photos of me.

Finally, I looked over at her. She was sitting at the top of the stairs next to her camera, which was on a tripod. The lens seemed to be looking off, toward the water, but I couldn’t tell if I was in her shot.

Our eyes met.

My cock was way up. I shifted, trying to bunch the towel up a bit on my lap, to hide it. I really didn’t mind if Amber saw my cock, hard or not. Just didn’t want to be rude or anything. Wasn’t sure if the towel did much good, though. Maybe just made it more obvious?

“It’s really gorgeous today,” she said, awkwardly. “I think it’s supposed to rain…” She glanced up at the mottled sky. “Makes for amazing lighting though. The clouds, diffusing the sun like that…”

“What are you gonna do with the photos?” I asked her.

She looked at me. “I’ll back them up, then I can put them all on a drive for you, if you like. I’ll retouch the best ones for you, though. There should be a few dozen.”

“Not the photos of the house,” I said, holding her gaze. “The other ones.”

I was taking a gamble, maybe, accusing her of taking other ones, but after catching her snapping a photo of Ash kissing me—or appearing to—and never saying a thing about it, I wouldn’t doubt she’d taken more.

“I told you,” she said, breaking eye contact. “I’m not a paparazzo.”

“No?”

“No. And I’m not a groupie, either.”