Dirty Like Dylan: A Dirty Rockstar Romance (Dirty, Book 4) Read online

  Almost made me feel worse.

  Because they weren’t being generous with me to get in my pants. They were just being generous.

  Unfortunately, I’d discovered that Ashley had stocked up his fridge—for me, presumably—on his grocery run, which made me feel even worse. He’d even left some organic loose-leaf teas on his kitchen counter with a tea pot and strainer and a mug; it all looked new.

  And as the night wore on, my mood just kept plummeting.

  Neither of them came over to invite me to join them for dinner while I ate my salad, alone. I kept wondering if they were furious with me. If they were calling their lawyers.

  And I kept feeling like shit about that photo. And trying to figure out how I was gonna apologize appropriately.

  But then, as I drank another beer in front of the fireplace, I also kept thinking about that kiss…

  I stayed up as late as I could, just kinda waiting, in case either of them came over to talk.

  They didn’t.

  On my way to bed, I stood at the door to the master bedroom and looked in. Ashley’s room. The heart of his man cave, with the navy-blue, almost-black walls, all the dark wood and the giant bed… And I couldn’t help wondering, as I gazed in at that bed, if Ashley and Dylan had ever slept in there.

  Together.

  I could easily picture them in there, rolling around… maybe Dylan on top?

  Or Ashley…?

  Were they rough together? Or tender, like that kiss?

  Weird.

  I’d never really thought about two guys together before. I’d definitely never fantasized about two guys together before. Because what the hell did two gay guys in bed have to do with me?

  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.

  He’d seen me come, too.

  But there was a line. There was always a line with men like Dylan.

  Straight men.

  Of course, there was that one time…

  And all it took was one time to really fuck with things.

  “You wanna go pick up?” I threw it out there, even though he actually looked pretty exhausted. “You know, Summer’s having that thing. Should be a good crowd…”

  It had been a long while since the two of us had hooked up with anyone. While I was with—well, kinda with Elle—I wasn’t with anyone else. Trying to prove something to her. To myself, probably.

  But that meant I hadn’t had a three-way with Dylan all fucking year. Not since before I first hooked up with Elle, almost nine months ago. Seemed like it was gonna happen after the Dirty show a few weeks ago, when Seth officially reunited with Dirty—and I found out he’d knocked up Elle. She’d brushed me off long before that, but that night, I knew it was fucking official: she was his. I’d been cut loose. For good.

  I’d tried, at the afterparty that night, to hook up, but somehow it just didn’t happen. I was more screwed up over Elle than I’d admit to anyone—even Dylan.

  And since then, it still hadn’t happened.

  But tonight it could. It really should. Some sweet piece of pussy, taking my cock.

  Taking Dylan’s cock, while I watched.

  As usual, I was getting hard just entertaining the fucking thought.

  Dylan, though, looked disinterested. Bagged from playing drums all day. Practicing material for the new Dirty album; the guy was a fucking perfectionist.

  Though maybe that was why Dirty outsold the Penny Pushers fucking ten-to-one.

  Not that I was jealous or anything.

  “Nah. I’m just gonna go get some sleep,” he said. “Have fun, though. Crash over there if you’re drinking. Don’t drink and boat-drive.” He punched me gently on the shoulder and headed upstairs to bed.

  And there was no way he wanted me to follow him there without a woman between us.

  I knew that.

  I got up. Drank some water and toweled off. And headed, reluctantly, over to my house.

  Dylan had had a stone path put in, connecting his yard with mine, and a gate built into the fence, so we could cut through from his back deck to my back door, without having to go all the way up to the r
oad and around.

  The guy really was the best fucking friend in existence.

  I knew that was true even before he bought the property here—which he’d done mainly because I’d been bitching incessantly about the price tag on the land on the point, with its many acres and mountain bike trails and the killer view. The dude who’d owned it at the time, some rich prick plastic surgeon who’d given Susanna her double E’s, refused to sell me a portion of it. And no way I could afford the entire lot. When Dylan then stepped up and bought it, I knew I’d never be able to match him in the amazing-shit-friends-do-for-you department. He’d officially knocked it out of the park.

  At that point, I’d sworn a solemn oath to myself that if he ever needed a kidney, I’d hand mine over on a platter. That was pretty much the only way I’d ever get him back.

  It wasn’t like the fucker had even told me he bought the property because of me. But Susanna had eluded to it, and I wasn’t fucking dense. Dylan had never mentioned an interest in owning property on the island, even after I bought my house here—until I started ranting and raving about how badly I wanted all that property on the point.

  At least he’d really made it his own since buying it. He loved it now, had fallen in love with it just like I did. How could you not? But he also made room for me, just like he always did. Literally making room for me in his basement so we could jam. Building the workshop in the garage with me, where I could work on my Camaro, when he gave zero shits about cars.

  I’d been sleeping at his house most nights, so it was kinda sorta like I even lived there. Kept my food there. I pretty much left some toiletries and clothes at my place just to prove it was still my home.

  My condo in the city was even emptier these days.

  But I didn’t want to outwear my welcome. Crashing at my own house, or at the condo, a solid one percent of the time, at least made it official that we weren’t actually shacked up together.

  When I walked into my kitchen, first thing I noticed was the presence of a woman—some flowers she’d cut from the yard and put in a glass of water on the island. And it bugged me. Sure, I let that horny widow up the road tend the flower boxes in my yard; she had a green thumb and she just kept coming around. But I drew the line at letting her into the house. I didn’t want her getting that comfortable here.

  I definitely didn’t want Amber getting comfortable here, the way I’d gotten comfortable at Dylan’s.

  Definitely didn’t want her getting comfortable there.

  I stalked through the house, headed for my bedroom, and I could smell the faint smell of her. That hippie-dippy flower-child smell. Like incense and flowers and candy, and natural fucking essence of sweet pussy. Amber’s presence annoyed the fucking shit out of me, and yes, it was because I felt threatened.

  Because I knew how much Dylan liked the girl.

  He liked her a fucking lot.

  Enough that he wanted her to be the filling in our next sex sandwich. Enough that he wouldn’t go hook up tonight with some random because of it.

  Enough that there was a very real fear building inside of me, fucking itching at the back of my mind, that I could lose him to her.

  And any girl who’d ever made me feel like that, I’d gotten rid of—fast.

  But I just couldn’t seem to flush this one out.

  Dylan could say he didn’t feel like going out tonight because he was spent and tired all he wanted. But that was all bullshit. He just didn’t want to admit to me that he was pussying out; waiting on Amber to fall into our shared bed.

  And I knew why he was waiting.

  Because Amber Malone was so clearly different from the other chicks we usually took to bed; the kind you fucked and forgot about. There was something about this girl, you got too close to it, it stayed with you. And good luck getting it out of your system after that.

  Kinda like herpes.

  I stopped in my tracks when I heard her. I heard her voice, soft and breathy. Breathing too hard, kinda whimpering in that way a woman only did when she was getting off.

  She was fucking getting herself off in my house.

  I crept forward, suddenly hyper-tuned to the fact that the floorboards in this place creaked like fuck. She didn’t seem to hear me, though. As I reached the guest room door, I could still hear her, fucking loud.

  Clearly, she didn’t expect me to come back tonight, because she was masturbating like a horny fiend.

  And she hadn’t shut the door.

  It was standing about half a foot open, and obviously, I looked.

  I could see her there, flung on the bed in the faint moonlight coming through the window. Thank God for a full moon. But even then, I couldn’t see much. Nipples. I was pretty sure I saw nipples poking into the air as she arched her back. I definitely saw naked flesh and a hand between her legs. The other one was fisting the sheet. Her head was tossed back; I could make out her open mouth, some hair strewn on her pillow, but that was about it.

  I just stood here, staring.

  And I was getting hard, my dick fucking throbbing as I watched her.

  Then I heard her come. Those breathy, kinda half-choked-off screams… and my hand was sliding down the front of my pants. I was wearing sweats from my workout, and I had a handful of hard cock in seconds.

  I backed off as she panted, coming down. Made myself scarce before she could gather her wits and saw me or heard me.

  I went into my room and shut the door, quietly. Went straight into the bathroom and stood over the sink, shoving my sweats down. I leaned one forearm on the mirror in the dark, holding myself up as I jacked off. It was fast and fucking blinding-hot… Thinking about those sounds she made. Thinking about her coming.

  Wondering what she was thinking about.

  Dylan?

  But it was all mixed up with that kiss this morning… With images of Dylan on his back deck. And when I blew… they were both in my head.

  Amber, with her pouty lips and the perky mouthful of her tits, her soft cries as she came…

  And Dylan, with the red-gold scruff on his jaw and his cock all out, standing naked in the sun.

  I was up before dawn, scanning through the images on Amber’s memory cards, unable to go back to sleep. I was still naked, still in bed, when I found something.

  I managed to drag myself out of bed, shower and get dressed, before Amber emerged. She found me in my kitchen, perched at the small island, drinking a breakfast beer. It was the first time I didn’t head over to make sure I could cook Dylan breakfast before he got up, in what, months?

  Her camera, the one she’d given me to view the images on, sat on the island between us like Exhibit A.

  “Good… morning?” She stopped abruptly on her way to the fridge when she saw the look on my face.

  I turned the back of the camera toward her, so she could see the image on the display. The photo of me and Dylan that she’d taken yesterday morning. The photo of me kissing Dylan.

  The one that was totally fucking with my head.

  “What’s this?”

  Amber looked from the camera to me and back again, several times. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.

  “The other day, when Dylan asked you about your photography,” I said evenly, “you said you always tell people when you photograph them. You tell them what you’re gonna do with the photo. You didn’t tell us about this.”

  “I know. I’m so sorry,” she gushed. Her face was flushing pink. “It’s just… instinct, you know? I didn’t mean anything by it. I only took one…”

  She only needed one. The photo was perfect. The way we were kinda backlit against the light coming in the windows, but you could still see all the detail you needed. Dylan with no shirt on, the light hitting the curves of his muscled body. Me in my Kiss T-shirt—seriously, I had to wear that T-shirt yesterday?—and fucking frilly apron.

  And that fucking look on my face…

  Girl had some serious talent with a camera.

  But the photo said a lot more
than I wanted it to say. The way our faces were so close together, the way I was holding Dylan’s neck, my thumb on his jaw… It looked like two people in love.

  Or at least, one person in love.

  “What were you planning to do with it?”

  “Nothing,” she said.

  I stood up to my full height, crossing my arms over my chest as I looked down at her. I wasn’t above trying to intimidate her, if needed. Hell, I’d call Con over here, or Jude himself, if I thought Dylan needed the protection. “You weren’t gonna post it online? Sell it?”

  “No! I didn’t even think about it. I just took it.”

  “Why?” I pressed.

  “I don’t know.” Her cheeks beneath her dusting of freckles were growing crimson. “I was just… interested.”

  “In what?”

  Her light-green eyes flashed to mine. “You.”

  I almost recoiled; I was that surprised. I actually put a hand on the island to steady myself.

  Amber glanced away. “I mean… both of you,” she said softly.

  Je-sus.

  Both of us?

  I thought the chick couldn’t fucking stand me.

  What the fuck…?

  I stared at her in her little jean cut-offs and peach-colored blouse. Then I looked down at myself, confused.

  Weren’t my Black Sabbath shirt with the devil on it and my non-organic beer and my Fuck Bitches tattoo against her flower-child religion or something?

  When I looked at her again, she bit her naturally-pink bottom lip… and the imagery flashed in my head: her, getting herself off last night. And a wave of heat crashed through me at the familiar sensations: a woman’s naked body smashed between Dylan’s and mine.

  Amber’s body.

  “I eat meat,” were the first words that came out of me. The first words I could think of to repel her.

  Her brow rippled a bit, but she didn’t say anything.

  “I eat every fucking kind of meat you can think of,” I said. “If it had a face, I’ll eat it. I smoke sometimes even though I say I quit years ago. I drink too much when I’m pissed off, and I’m pissed off a lot. I’ve lied to every person I’ve ever been involved with. I’ve cheated on most of them, too. I fuck guys even when I say I won’t anymore.” I told her every shitty thing about myself that I could think of; everything that would make her think I was a piece of shit. “And I don’t always recycle. See that bin?” I pointed at the plastic blue box for recyclables sitting by the back door. “Haven’t filled it in months. I threw a whole case of beer bottles into the trash just the other day.”