Forget (15 page)

His eyes turn soft and tender. “This song is just so perfect, you know? It’s painfully beautiful yet painfully short. No matter how many times you hear it, this song will always leave you wanting more. It’s perfect, and then it’s gone.”

My eyes gaze into his, our faces closer now that he’s cupping my cheeks with both hands.

“That’s how you made me feel that day on the métro. A painfully beautiful woman who graced me with her presence for a painfully short amount of time. You were perfect, and then you were gone.”

I’m speechless. His words chip away at my strongest walls. I’ve never felt more beautiful or more safe than right here, right now. I know I should be scared of this, whatever the hell it is, but I’m not. I’m just in awe of him.

“Dylan,” I whisper his name, voice filled with want and eyes fixated on his mouth.

One of his hands runs through my blonde locks, gripping them gently. “Brooke, I’m not feeling very friendly right now.”

My fingers grip his shirt, pulling him closer. “Me neither,” I murmur, angling my head and offering my lips.
Please, Dylan. Kiss me.

He examines my gaze, for what I’m not sure, but he must get the answer he’s looking for. Lips meet mine, tentative and soft at first, coaxing my mouth in slow movements. The warmth of his lips spurs a lightning bolt reaction to shoot across my skin, urging me to deepen the kiss, my lips demanding more.

He responds with a throaty groan. His tongue and mouth still tender yet deliciously suggestive against mine.

Hendrix sings, encouraging
Little Wing
to fly. And good God, I agree with him because this is as close to flying as I’ve ever been.

My hand makes its way to the back of Dylan’s neck, gripping his hair, as my legs wrap around his waist. I’m lost in the sensation of his lips moving against mine. The soft stubble on his face is rough and scratchy against my skin. His hands move across my body, gripping my hips, brushing against my arms, and then making their way into my hair again.

When was the last time I felt like this?
Never. I’ve never felt like this.

The track switches and the melody of
Bold As Love
fills the room.

Subconsciously, I appreciate that the entire
Axis
album—the sensual riffs, the gorgeous vocals, the not-too-fast and not-too-slow speed—could be an aphrodisiac.

His hands slide under my shirt, long fingers tracing the skin of my back. I moan against his mouth in response. A powerful pull of longing courses inside of me.

“Christ, Brooke, I can’t get enough of you.” His lips are on my neck, sucking and kissing a hot trail across my skin.

I have no reservations or fears of feeling vulnerable. I just want him. I want him everywhere, all at once. “Please, Dylan,” I beg. I have no idea what I’m asking for, I just know I
need more.

“Fuck
,
Brooke. Tell me what you want. Tell me, and whatever it is, I’ll give it to you.”

“
More
. . . I need more . . .” I trail off. My head falls back when his mouth moves from my neck to my collarbone, his tongue licking at my skin.

From a very faraway place (like the next room), a door shuts. “Dylan!” It’s Pierre, and before Dylan can respond, the old man yells again, “Hendrix, nice choice!”

“Bloody hell,” Dylan groans, his head dropping to my chest.

My breaths are still coming out in short pants.

Thankfully, we’re not out in the open, but discreetly hidden inside this office.

The sounds of Pierre rustling about in the main room echo off the wall, giving us time to get our shit together. My wits are scattered across this room, and I’m trying my hardest to
not
look like a woman who was just grinding herself against a man and begging for more.

“Fucking terrible timing.” Dylan steps away from me, shaking his head.

I hop off the desk, fix my clothes, and catch sight of the irritation on his gorgeous face. A burst of giggles erupts from my lips. I cover my mouth, trying to regain control, but it’s a fruitless effort.

After adjusting his pants, because of his
ahem,
Dylan glances up. A slow, amused grin spreads across his mouth. He pulls me in for a tight hug—his arms wrapping around my shoulders—and softly kisses my forehead. “You’re a conundrum, Little Wing. How can one woman be so bloody adorable yet ridiculously sexy at the same time?” he whispers into my hair.

“Glass houses, Bright Eyes.
Glass houses.
”

He chuckles lightly and steps back, resting against the bookshelf behind him.

Moments later, Pierre strides into the small office, whistling like he hasn’t got a problem in the world. He’s the most clueless cock-blocker in the history of forever.

“How’s it coming?” Pierre asks.

“Oh, it’s coming. Brooke was practically begging for
Slide It In
by Whitesnake, but I convinced her that Hendrix’s
Axis
vinyl was the one record she couldn’t leave here without.” I choke on a shocked laugh and try to play it off—covering my mouth and coughing into my hand.

Dylan steps close to me, patting my back gently.

“I’ll never understand Americans and their love for ’80s Hair Bands,” Pierre teases.

Clearing my throat, I butt in with a hand on my hip. “Excuse me, but Whitesnake is an
English
’80s Hair Band. They hit the UK charts
countless
times, so obviously, it’s not just Americans that appreciate long-haired men rocking metal.”

Both men chuckle.

“
I
Can’t Get No Satisfaction.
” I pause, watching Dylan’s eyes go wide for a beat. “Pierre, do you happen to have a vinyl with that song? Single or full album will work. You can never have too many Rolling Stones records.”

“Of course, let me grab something and I’ll find it for you in the main shop.” Pierre grabs a file off his desk—a desk we almost christened.

Dylan smiles, laughter in his eyes. “Touché, love.”

“You should probably remember that I’m really good at the whole sexual innuendo bit, I can make anything sound dirty,” I whisper. And it’s one-hundred-percent true. When I’m in the mood for being ridiculous, Lindsay and I can have fifteen-minute conversations consisting only of sexual innuendo questions and answers. This usually only occurs when alcohol is involved, but I can make an exception for Dylan.

He wraps his arm around my shoulder. “I’ll hold you to that, Lilah Belle.”

Cheeky bastard.

Dear ???

It’s not even midnight and Lindsay is passed out beside me.

We spent the evening watching old French movies in our hotel room and gorging ourselves on French desserts—little cakes, crèmes, and something called Flan, which is bloody delicious.

Jesus, I’m spending too much time with Dylan. It’s apparently turning me British.

Dylan kissed me.

Or maybe I kissed him?

Whoever started that kiss, it ended with me shamelessly grinding myself all over him. It was the kind of kiss that would have brought me to my knees had I not be sitting down.

I know I’m treading into dangerous territory.

But the nickname, that song, his words . . .

No one has ever made me feel more beautiful, more, I don’t know, just more.

Normally, I’d call bullshit and convince myself it’s all an act—a game he plays with every girl he meets—but I get the sense that’s not it. He’s not the guy at the bar, who will say or do anything to seal the deal. Dylan doesn’t need to toss out one-liners and lead women on for an easy fuck.

Maybe I sound naïve, but deep down, I feel like Dylan wasn’t telling me things he thought I wanted to hear, he was telling me how he felt.

And if he really, truly feels that way about me . . .

I think he just became impossible to resist.

His actions spoke louder than words when we ended our day together. He walked me back to my hotel and showed no expectation of being invited in.

Dylan simply kissed me. His lips were soft and warm, more sweet and tender than the suggestive, hot-as-fuck kissing we had done on Pierre’s desk.

He hugged me tightly, kissed my forehead, and said he’d text after his shift at Au Fait tonight. “I’m going to see you again, Little Wing. It’s as simple as that,” he said before leaving.

Considering the sexual tension that has been building between us, the whole goodbye felt rather anti-climactic. I’m left wanting more from him, way more than I should. And I’m starting to wonder if that’s the game he’s playing with me. I insisted on friendly, and he seems insistent on tossing friendly right out the fucking window.

But how much more should I give? Can I give?

More Later,

-B

P.S. I feel guilty for thinking this, but since I promised I wouldn’t be a coward in these journal entries I need to admit . . . it’s nice not having to pretend.

A little after eleven, my phone pings with a message from Dylan.

‘I bet you’re disappointed that your hotel room doesn’t have a turntable. You’re probably dying to listen to the Whitesnake album.’

Since Lindsay is snoring next to me, I fight the urge to laugh, teeth snagging my bottom lip.

‘You have no idea. The only thing that would make it better is if Here I Go Again was on that album.’

Not only did Dylan insist on buying the two albums I had set aside, he also managed to throw in
Axis: Bold As Love,
Slide It In,
and a single of The Rolling Stone’s
I Can’t Get No Satisfaction.

‘Here I Go Again? I’m disappointed, Little Wing.’

I grin, typing out a sarcastic response.

‘You wouldn’t understand. Only a true Whitesnake fan could understand my mad love for that song.’

‘Bloody hell, I refuse to take the piss on this one, Brooke. Without thinking too much about it, if you had to listen to one song from the eighties on endless loop what would it be?’

‘Any song? Any genre?’

‘Yes.’

And then another text comes seconds later.

‘Excluding Come On Eileen. Even my stomach knows your appreciation for that song. In fact, it still does.’

Damn, I wish I could admire my drunken handiwork up close and personal. Run my fingers along his skin, across his abs, and dip lower until they reach that perfect V of his hips . . .

I shake off the thought, refusing to feel randy with my best friend lying beside me. Our friendship crosses many lines on a daily basis, but that is one line I’m refusing to cross.

I quickly type out a response, grinning like a loon.

‘That’s so easy. Jessie’s Girl- Rick Springfield.’

‘Now, I’m really refusing to take the piss. My baby brother would love that response btw.’

‘It was either that or Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go. I’ll forever be a Wham! fan.’

‘Christ, I’m laughing . . . hard.’

‘Or Hello by Lionel Richie, but the music video creeps me out.’

‘HA! You’re so right. Lionel needed a restraining order in that video.’

I’m laughing right along with him, not even trying to muffle my obnoxious giggles for Lindsay’s benefit.

‘Hahaha! Exactly! And don’t even get me started on the giant cheese mold the blind chick creates of his head.’

‘Cheese mold??? Now, I need to watch it again.’

‘Do it. I think it’s supposed to be clay, but it’s more cheddar cheese than anything else.’

Lindsay groans into her pillow. “Holy fuck, what has you cackling so loud?”

“Nothing.” I can’t remove the grin plastered onto my face.

She blinks sleep from her eyes, staring at me with a questioning edge, and then notices the phone glued to my hands. “Busy night? Am I interrupting the after-phone-sex-canoodling?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, like I’d rub one out with you lying right next to me.”

“Oh come on, Brookie. Don’t be a prude. I wouldn’t have minded.”

“
A prude?
Are you crazy? Me refusing to masturbate while you’re sleeping next to me isn’t prudish, it’s a
normal
reaction for a
normal
person to have.”

She sits up, her head cocks to the side. “It is?”

“Of course it is!”

“Hmmm . . . well, shit. I didn’t realize.”

“
Didn’t realize?
Are you telling me that you’ve?” I stop, thinking better of it and hold up my hand. “Wait, you know what? Never mind. I don’t want to know.” Because I don’t. We were roommates for four years. I’d like to keep the memories of our co-habitation free of visions of her masturbating next to me.

Her smile is wide as she takes in my baffled expression. “
Soooo,
what are you guys chattin’ about?”

I shrug. “Nothing important, just small talk.”

“Small talk meaning his
huge
cock?” she asks, twirling a lock of hair around her finger.

I smack her arm. “Get your whorish mind out of the gutter.”

She laughs, but, of course, continues unfazed. “I’m not saying his dick is huge, but I’m not saying it’s merely average-sized either. I got a look at his feet, and his long-as-fuck fingers, and all I’m gonna say is a man with feet
that
big, and fingers
that
long is most likely hung like a horse.
A Goddamn stallion.
”