Page 67 of Dirty Like Dylan

I stilled, my heart beating weirdly hard, and just tried to keep my voice normal when I asked, “What does that mean?”

“It means Dylan likes being looked at.”

I turned to look at him.

“Why do you think he walks around with his shirt off in October?” he said. “Why do you think he plays drums in a kilt, and models those fucking see-through tighty-whities?” He took a long swig of his juice, his throat working. Then he walked over to me, joining me in the dining room.

“So… what are you trying to say? He’s an exhibitionist or something?” I noticed that he hadn’t actually said that Dylan liked being looked at by women, and in truth, pathetic or not, I was still waiting for some kind of proof that Dylan might actually be into females.

That he might be into me.

“I’m not much for putting labels on people, sweetheart.” He was staring at the photo of Dylan, examining it, and I wondered what the hell he was thinking about it. The guy was a broody, bitchy mystery, impossible to figure out. “Dylan just likes being looked at. He likes being watched. People like what they like.” He looked me over, slowly. “Take me, for example.”

Okay. I’ll bite.

“You?” I asked.

His blue eyes met mine, all serious and smoldering. “I like it all,” he said. Then he took a sip of juice, very nonchalant, even as he totally eye-fucked me to hell and back with his blue, blue eyes.

I swallowed, hard.

“So,” he said, setting his glass on the table. “How about you?”

“Me?” I swallowed again. I was suddenly salivating weirdly much.

“What do you like, Amber Malone?”

When I didn’t answer right away, he glanced at the photo of Dylan again. “You like to be watched? Or… to watch?”

“I…”

He took a couple more steps toward me, getting all in my space. His eyes were kinda hooded and locked onto my mouth when he said, “Admit it… You’re a photographer. You’re probably more of a voyeur than I am.”

“I thought… you don’t like labels…?”

“Or maybe you’re more of an exhibitionist?” He was looking me over, slowly, from head to toe. Then his eyes narrowed. “You and Johnny O got a sex tape floating around out there?”

“Uh, no. Definitely not—”

“Or are you inexperienced?” His hooded gaze lingered on my chest, where my sundress dipped a little between my breasts. I wasn’t wearing a bra, but the cardigan was covering my nipples, which were rapidly hardening. Either way, I felt exposed by that look of his. “Is that what he liked about you…? That combination of sass and innocence…”

“I have no idea what he liked about me.” I really didn’t want to think about it, either. Because whatever Johnny had liked, it wasn’t enough to make him treat me right, and that had just plain hurt my self-esteem. Sad, but true.

Ashley leaned in and whispered in my ear, “That’s what Dylan likes about you.”

Then his hand went up my dress.

He skimmed his fingertips up my thigh, just lightly, and fingered the edge of my panties.

Um…

I shifted, gripping the table behind me for support as all the strength seemed to leave my legs. Ashley’s eyes finished their lazy journey back up my body, then met mine. And as they did, I felt that thrill you only feel when a really hot dude looks into your eyes up close… and you want him to kiss you. It didn’t exactly help that his fingers were now drifting up over my panties. I was trying to remember which ones I’d put on after my shower. Were they sexy? The cute pink ones with the lace? Or the boring gray ones?

Was Ashley Player about to see them?

Shit. Why didn’t I put on my sexy underpants? I was pretty sure I was wearing the boring gray cotton ones. The comfiest ones. Because I wasn’t exactly expecting to have a rock star up my dress tonight.

“Breathe,” he said softly, his gaze drifting to my lips again, and I realized I’d been holding my breath, hard, in my chest.