I take a sip of the much-needed alcohol. “A sympathetic pussy is usually a generous pussy.”
That comment has a grin cresting his mouth. “How about a shot?”
“Sure, why the hell not?”
And since Zach ordered, in record time, a round of Washington Apples are set in front of us.
I hold up my shot. “What are we toasting?”
He clinks his glass with mine. “Let’s toast to the recording producing duo that Alistair Wallace claims will make our music sell more albums than Justin Bieber.”
We both grin, knocking back the shots. The sugary liquid slides down my throat with ease.
“So, Justin Bieber? Hmmmm…” I eye him up and down. “I'm not sure we can help you get BieberFever status without you changing up that dark and brooding persona you portray, but I'm sure we'll at least get Careless Cockups to Jonas Brothers status.”
He chuckles. “Jonas Brothers? Which brother am I?”
“Who's the old one with the skinny wife?”
“Fuck.” He runs a hand through his hair. The dark and brooding look works for Zach Turner. To be honest, he’s pretty fucking gorgeous—buzzed head, big brown eyes, and a piercing jawline that could cut glass. “I thought I was more the hot one that banged Taylor Swift. The one that grabbed his dick in that Calvin Klein add.”
“Nah, I think Dylan is more on Nick Jonas's level.” The words leave an awful taste in my mouth. I hate the fact that he’s still a top priority for my daydreams and thoughts. I wonder if I’ll ever get to a point in my life where he’s not stealing the spotlight inside my brain.
I keep a straight face until Zach’s eyes fill with humor. “Fucking, Bissette. Always raining on my parade.”
We both burst into laughter. I can’t remember the last time I laughed like this.
“Be more specific. Which Bissette?” Dylan asks, setting his beer on the bar and taking a seat beside me.
My body goes stiff, more than uncomfortable by his close proximity. I think this is the first time since Paris that he’s made a point to sit next to me.
Zach smirks, nudging my shoulder with his elbow. “See what I mean?”
I force a tight smile and busy myself with finishing off my drink.
“I could hear you two laughing across the room, figured I’d come over and see what all the fun was about.” Dylan’s eyes stay locked with mine, green gaze scrutinizing.
Clearing my throat, I glance away long enough to gain my composure. “Zach was just impressing me with his knowledge on all things Jonas Brothers,” I say, attempting to bring the conversation to friendlier territory.
“And Brooke here was telling me the inside scoop on sympathetic pussy.”
Dylan's eyebrows rise in curiosity.
“Don’t fucking tell him anything.” The words come out of my mouth before I can stop them. I obviously want to play with fire tonight. It’s like seeing how many times you can poke the bear before he wakes.
“My lips are sealed.” Zach grins, ignoring Dylan’s ice-cold expression. “Let's take a shot before I put Brooke's theory to the test.”
Yes. More alcohol. That’s exactly what I need. Maybe I can numb myself enough to not feel this tension between Dylan and me.
“You in, Bissette?” Zach motions for the bartender.
He shrugs. “Sure, why the hell not?”
A few minutes later, I’m holding my glass in the air, asking, “What are we drinking to this time?”
“Sympathy, generosity.” Zach winks in my direction.
“I'll drink to that.” Dylan follows suit, lifting up his glass.
I take my shot, slamming the glass down and sliding it towards the edge of the bar.
Zach stands, dropping some money in the tip jar. “Well, on that note, I'm out. I've got work to do. Thanks for the company, Brooke.”
“Likewise. Good luck,” I add, smiling.
He whispers something into Dylan's ear.
Dylan nods in agreement, his eyes raking over me with a hint of something I can’t decipher.
I avoid his stare, turning towards the bar, and meeting my reflection in the mirror behind the rows of liquor bottles.
“I thought you left with your fiancé,” he says, the word fiancé rolling off his tongue like it’s the most repulsive term in the English language.
I shift in my seat, more than uncomfortable. “Uh, no. I wasn't ready to leave.”
“Interesting.”
“Interesting? Why is it interesting that Jamie went home because he was tired, and I stayed because I wanted a night out?”
He shrugs, his shoulders turning away from me as he takes a swig from his beer.
Alcohol gives me courage to ask one of the questions that’s filling my head. “Is it always going to be like this?”
It grabs his attention. He stops mid-drink, pulling the bottle away from his lips, and glancing at me out of his periphery. “Like what exactly?”
“Like this.” My hand motions back and forth between us. “You acting like…giving me…” I stutter over my words, too chicken shit to say what I really want to say. “You giving me the cold shoulder whenever we’re in the same room together.”
He turns back towards me. “Cold shoulder?”
I nod.
“You're not exactly Ms. Personality around me. I seem to be getting your best impersonation of the Ice Queen whenever we're remotely close to each other.”
Ice Queen? Really?
That pisses me off. I'd love to show him what Ice Queen really fucking looks like. His balls would freeze by the time I was done giving him my version of Ice Queen. Fuck Dylan Bissette. Fuck him and his sexy voice. Fuck his perfect eyes and his gorgeous smile. Fuck that one dimple that fills his left cheek. Fuck the way he really makes me feel. Fuck the fact that I’m still in love with him. Desperately in love with him.
Yeah, fuck you, Bright Eyes, I want to shout it at the top of my lungs.
“Say it. Please. Say whatever is rolling around in that beautiful head of yours.”
I shake my head on a humorless laugh. “Believe me, you don't want to know…” I pause, his words repeating in my brain. Wait, beautiful?
He flashes that goddamn smirk.
I sigh, probably loud enough for the bartender to hear from the other end of the bar. Not that she’d care. She’s too busy plumping her cleavage and nearly flashing her nipples to any customer with a cock. “Do you know how infuriating you are?"
“Brooke, if it's anywhere near how crazy you make me, then yeah, I do.”
“Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop saying shit that makes me want to smack you.”
He barks out a laugh. “Smack me?”
I raise an eyebrow, meeting his gaze.
His voice lowers. “Oh, Little Wing, but you know I find more enjoyment out of biting.” He brushes his hand across his chest, the very spot I sunk my teeth into when we were together in Paris.
I press my thighs together, fighting the way the intimacy of his voice and the memories of that night affect me. His gaze turns heated, watching me fidget in my seat. And his knowing smile, it infuriates me. I reach out and pinch the skin of his forearm with my fingers.
“Ow! Jesus, Brooke.”
“I warned you.”
A throaty laugh escapes him. "Bloody hell, I almost forgot how easy you are to rile.”
My jaw drops. Is he doing this on purpose? Baiting me into losing my cool? I turn in my seat, facing the bar, refusing to even glance in his direction like an insolent child.
He finishes his beer, standing up from his barstool.
We make eye contact in the mirror. I watch his reflection lean towards mine. His lips hover near my ear. The skin on my neck rises into tiny goose bumps, chills racing up my spine.
“Don't worry, Little Wing,” he whispers. “No one will find out about us. I promise your dirty Paris secrets are safe with me." His husky voice echoes inside of my ear. “But I can't promise tha
t I'll forget them. Because I don’t fucking want to.”
For a few seconds, I’m frozen in my seat, watching his reflection turn and walk away.
What in the hell just happened?
I turn in my chair, watching him stride for the doors.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I hate the way his words can control my emotions. I hate the way he can affect me with a single glance. And I especially hate, that despite my better judgment, I can’t stop my feet from hitting the ground and following him.
He walks outside towards a secret terrace covered with lush landscapes and low-hanging trees. Empty tables with lit candles fill the space, creating an ambient light that whispers sweet-nothings into the midnight air. Since the record label rented out the entire bar, this normally hopping patio is deserted. All of tonight’s partygoers reside inside, enjoying the constant supply of delicious food and free alcohol.
He leans against the brick of the building, hidden behind the shadows of the trees. Grabbing a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He slides one between his lips, lights it, and pulls a deep inhale. Smoke billows around him as it leaves his lungs.
“I’ve only seen you smoke a handful of times,” I announce, walking towards him. “It always seemed like stress or alcohol were the catalysts in those situations.”
Dylan takes another drag, not at all surprised by my presence. “What do you think my reasons are for tonight?”
“Alcohol?”
He shakes his head.
“Stress over the album?”
He shakes his head again. “Tonight,” he says before taking another drag. “I’m hoping this will help numb the clawing feeling inside the pit of my stomach. Or maybe, it will fill the giant hole inside my chest?” A tight smile rests across his lips. “Who knows? A bloke can dream, yeah?”
I pull the cig from his lips, placing it between mine, and let the smoke fill my lungs. He watches me, eyes homing in on my lips. “And pray tell, why is Brooke Sawyer resorting to nicotine on this fine evening?”
Shrugging, I let the smoke slide out of my mouth. “I guess the Ice Queen figured it might help warm her up.”
He flashes a secret smirk, full of devilish intent. His long fingers brush across my lips as they wrap around the filter, staying there a beat too long before removing the cigarette from my grip. “So, what pisses you off more?” he asks, eyeing me with a cold stare. “The fact that you can’t forget how good it feels to come around my cock? Or knowing, that for the rest of your life, you’ll only be able to come when you’re alone, using your hand?”
My jaw drops, eyes going wide in shock.
He winks, flashing a knowing smirk. “Don’t worry, love. I won’t mind if you think of me when you get yourself off,” he adds, pushing the knife deeper.
Anger burrows deep, pulsing inside of me and filling nerves I didn’t even know I had. My hands clench into fists, attempting to stop the tremors vibrating through my body. I don’t waste time on feeling hurt over him blatantly throwing something so private, so intimate, in my face. No, hurt isn’t even a factor in this scenario. I’m beyond pissed. Enraged.
“Fuck you,” I hiss.
And it’s when a humorless laugh leaves his mouth that my vision blurs. Bright, flaming red—it’s all I see. My hand smacks across his cheek so hard, it knocks the cigarette from his lips.
“What the fuck, Brooke?” He stands upright, hovering over me.
My palm moves to slap him again, but he’s stops me, long fingers gripping my wrist.
“I fucking hate you. I wish I could just forget you,” I snap, attempting to smack him with my other hand. But he’s too quick, grabbing hold of my other wrist.
In the blink of an eye, my back is pressed against the brick wall. Both of my wrists are still in his hold, hands held tightly above my head. His emerald gaze morphs into darkness. “You don’t hate me, Brooke. You wish you could hate me, but you can’t.”
“How do you know how I feel?”
“Because I feel the same bloody way,” he growls. “You don’t think I wish I could hate you? Forget you? But I can’t. I can’t fucking get you out of my head.”
My lungs heave erratically, breasts brushing against his chest.
“I can’t hate you, Brooke. Not when I can remember how fucking good we were together.”
Tears burn the back of my throat. I turn my head, unable to keep my eyes locked with his; too afraid the intensity of that emerald gaze will push me over the edge.
“I know what you taste like,” he whispers against my cheek. “I know what you sound like when you come.” His voice turns husky. “I can still remember what it feels like to have your pussy wrapped around me like a bloody vice, milking my cock for every last drop.” He releases one of my hands, gripping my chin and forcing me to look at him. “Tell me, Brooke. How do I forget that?” His lips hover over mine, too close. “How. The. Fuck. Do. I. Forget. That?”
It’s when he starts to move towards my mouth, fully intent on melding our lips together, that I yank my face away. “No,” I say, whisper-soft.
His brow furrows, eyes interrogating my soul.
And for the second time, before he can kiss me, I beg, “Please, no, not on the mouth.” I know I should say more, tell him how I really feel, but the words, I can’t bear it, your kiss will break me, get stuck in my throat.
Dylan’s angered growl vibrates against the pulse of my neck, letting me know it’s the first time he’s actually hearing those words. He latches on, sucking and licking and kissing my skin. It’s as if my refusal to give him my mouth is a punishment. Like I’ve just denied him the world.
Which is wrong, so completely wrong. I’m the one being denied. I’m denying myself everything. Not being able to kiss him feels like breathing under water—my lungs filling with fluid, causing this scalding burn inside my chest. My body desperate for it’s lifeline, for it’s will to live and reason to breathe.
I whimper when his teeth sink into my skin, nipping at the sensitive flesh below my ear. His mouth turns soft, kissing and licking across my skin, down my shoulder, across my collarbone. He hovers above the hint of cleavage that’s bared beneath my simple black cocktail dress. And then swoops in, raining hard, open-mouthed kisses between my breasts, moving the dress down with his chin, eventually baring my chest.
His tongue darts out, licking across his bottom lip. His hands cup my breasts, kneading the aching, heavy flesh. My eyelids flutter, head falling back against the brick. I clench my thighs, trying to relieve the throbbing between my legs. Dylan’s calloused thumbs rub across my nipples, urging them to tighten and pucker beneath his ministrations. His breath is a rough rasp across my skin as he leans forward, sucking one pert nipple into his mouth for a brief moment.
I moan, chest moving up and down in short, erratic pants as he moves south. His fingers grip my hips, sliding the material of my dress further up my thighs. I cry out, knees buckling beneath me, but he’s there, gripping one of my legs and lifting it over his shoulder.
Dylan kneels before me, one strong hand grips the thigh resting on his shoulder—simultaneously steadying and spreading me—while the other hand lifts my dress, exposing my panties. The throbbing builds, reaching my spine, and morphing into shivers rolling up my back and down my arms.
And I’m wet, so very wet. The night air feels even cooler against the damp material between my thighs.
His lashes shadow his face as they sweep down. His hooded gaze peruses my body, gliding across my exposed skin.
I’m desperate for him to touch me. There’s no way I’ll stop this—I want him too badly.
Need him.
Crave him.
Long fingers slip inside my panties, tugging them to the side. His thumb brushes through my wetness. “Fuck, Brooke. Your pussy is begging for this, for me.” He inhales a sharp breath. “Please, don’t tell me to stop. Let me taste you, love. Let me feel you against my tongue.”
“Don’t stop,
” I gasp, gripping his hair with both of my hands.
“Fuck,” he groans as his finger slips inside of me, thumb rubbing my clit.
My body shakes, practically screaming, Yes. Now. Please. But he takes his time, watching my response to his touch with a headiness that makes my world spin. I feel high, high off him, off what he can do to me. No one else has made me feel this way.
I know no one could ever make me feel this.
Even when he’s angry, taking his frustration out on my body, teeth nipping at my skin until I’m breaching the painfully pleasurable cliff, his touch still means more than anyone else’s.
His mouth sucks at the inside of my thigh, before biting down hard enough to mark me. “Tell me you want this.”
“Yes,” I moan.
“Tell me you need this.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me you feel it, Brooke.”
“God, yes,” I whimper. My grip on his hair grows tighter, hips circling towards his face. I’m desperate for his mouth. “I feel it, Dylan. I’ll always feel it.”
I feel his smile against my skin as he nuzzles my thigh. I should be mad, pissed off over the fact that he’s getting me to say things while I’m unraveling from what he’s doing to my body, but I can’t seem to find the headspace. I only have one priority, one sole focus, and it’s him.
I want to feel him, everywhere.
Between one breath and the next, his head is buried between my spread thighs. Dylan’s mouth presses against me, licking and sucking at my clit, in rhythm with the finger plunging inside. I can vaguely make out voices and laughter in the distance, reminding me of how very exposed I am.
Anyone could walk back here and find us.
What would they think if they found Dylan on his knees, my dress sitting at my waist, while his head moves between my thighs?
What would they think if they saw just how far gone I really am? My fingers gripping his hair, hips moving against his tongue. Head tilted back, eyes glazed and desperate for more.
I’m lost to this, to him.
“Yes, Brooke. Fuck my mouth, baby. Let that perfect pussy ride my tongue.”
“Oh god…” My eyelids flutter closed. I’m drunk off him. I’m so fucking close that I’m seeing stars.
Blur (Changing Colors Book 2) Page 6