Of course he is—don’t you have a TV? Internet?
‘I have one of those faces,’ Dylan deadpans.
‘But you,’ Sandy says, turning fully to face me, ‘you’ve got a real pretty face. I’d remember if I’d seen it before.’
If his tone was meant to be seductive, it falls a few miles short. And looking me up and down? That’s not helping. And not creepyat all. Justallthe creepy.Doesn’t matter, I tell myself. Because this isn’t going anywhere real. Dylan wouldn’t. I know he’s just playing with me.
I have to believe.
‘Oh, thank you.’ I think. More politeness when, out on the street, I’d have told him in no uncertain terms, where to stick his compliment.
‘What part of Ireland you from, good lookin’?’
‘She’s from the Scottish part,’ Dylan grates out. ‘So we’ve established I look familiar, and my wife has a pretty face—’
‘Know what’ll make your face even lovelier?’ he says, cutting across Dylan as though he wasn’t midsentence. ‘When I have my head between your legs, and you’re crying out my name.’
Corn central. Someone pass me a sick bag. I giggle, probably still a little drunk.
‘This,’ Dylan sneers, looking the man up and down, his focus turning to me, anger and distaste radiating from him. ‘This is what you want?’
‘This is whatyouwant,’ I snap, running from mildly amused to angry immediately. ‘Apparently, what I want doesn’t matter.’
Searing. That’s what his returning glare is. I feel burned and blackened and hardened on the surface. Yet raw underneath.
‘Fine.’ That one arctic word brims with so many meanings, all of them a world away from fine. A world away from comfortable.
I almost can’t bear the weight of his stare but refuse to turn away. For the life of me, I can’t guess what his gaze is trying to convey. Is it that he hates me? That he can’t wait to see me be fucked? Fucked over? Or maybe, and this is probably more likely, he’s waiting for me to back down. And if that’s the case, he’ll be waiting for a very, very long time.
This isn’t going anywhere. He isn’t going to make me go through with this. He’ll baulk first.
‘Fine,’ I spit back, balancing my weight on one hip.
‘Let’s get it on.’
‘Literally.’
Dylan turns on his heel and strides off in the direction of glass doors, leading to some sort of patio. Of course, I follow angrily behind. At the door, he swings back and calls out, though it takes me a second to realise this message isn’t only meant for me.
‘The cottages. Number six. I’ll be waiting.’
He storms out.
Ifollowthe sound of his footsteps past a free-form pool with an actual grotto, complete with cascading waterfall. At least a dozen people are milling by the poolside; some of them in very little clothing, and some of them moments away from getting hot and heavy, it would appear.
‘It’s like the bloodyPlayboymansion,’ I grumble to myself.
I follow Dylan’s dark form through the gardens while trying to ignore the sound of Sandy’s softer footfall behind. I can’t believe he’s actually following; he must be pretty desperate for a shag to think anything good could come of taking his jeans off between two hotheads. But maybe dangerous sex is his kink.
This isn’t going anywhere real—Dylan’s not going to make me do this.
He won’t. I have to believe this.
His strong back suddenly disappears within the dense garden of greenery; bromeliads, soft gingers, and ferns. Even though the grounds have asecret gardenfeel, the pathway is very distinct. Before long, I reach a row of small bungalows—half a dozen of them or so. The kind you’d find at a resort hotel. At the structure farthest to the right, Dylan stands. The door to the bungalow is open, and he leans one shoulder against the frame. I can’t make out his expression; one side of his face cut by darkness, the other a dim light, but I suddenly find I need to remind my feet how to work.
By the time I get to the doorway, Sandy’s behind me and Dylan has turned from the door.
‘Hey, baby. What’s the rush?’ His hand trails down my bare back, and I shiver. It’s the opposite reaction to what Dylan’s fingers brought forth.
