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My chest tightens at his words. Date. With Dylan Morgan the Mysterious?
Dylan isn't content with handholding. He slides his fingers along my arm, or hugs me close, breathes the scent of my hair, as if he needs to be in constant contact with me. We enter the town and Dylan tenses, his hand gripping mine harder. Few people walk the paved streets, and fewer cars pass. Older couples weave in and out of the small shops, or sit on white plastic chairs outside cafes in the quiet, narrow streets. As we continue, his shoulders relax, although his focus remains on the ground.
"What should we do?" he whispers.
I smirk at him. "I like shopping."
Dylan wrinkles his nose. "Okay." He follows me as I tug his hand and walk through the quiet, cobbled streets.
Crammed together in an antique shop, Dylan wraps his arms around my waist with his chin on my shoulder. The tiny shop has shelves running to the back of the building on each wall, and one running centrally. If there were more than three people in this shop at once, there'd be a fire risk. With Dylan, we take up the whole width of one side.
"What are you looking for?" he asks, as I flick through a cardboard box of paperback books, hoping to find a treasure amongst the dog-eared collection.
"Is that a philosophical question?" I ask.
He jabs a finger into the sensitive spot at the side of my waist. "Snarky... I only asked a question."
The sensation of Dylan's body against mine prevents my ability to exist in the real world, and the weirdest thing is that his touch is completely natural. I can't explain to myself how being in the presence of a man who I hardly know soothes me. His hips resting against mine; the way our bodies fit together—how is this more natural than Grant ever felt?
"I like odd things," I reply.
"Odd things?"
I give up on the books and head further into the shop, Dylan still attached. "Yes. Why else would I like you?"
"I can think of a few reasons," he says in a low tone.
I'm glad I'm facing away from him, because the annoying heat fills my face again and travels backdown. Just a few words and he turns me on…
A bizarre assortment of items line the pine shelves, like a crazy person's mantelpiece. Jammed into every inch of space are colourful glass bottles, old teacups, badly painted pottery animals, spoons. Hand drawn labels with prices dangle off some items. I pick up a strangely misshapen vase, the orange glass not fused properly at the top.
"Shit, that's ugly," remarks Dylan.
I giggle. "I like it."
"Seriously?"
Setting the vase back down, I head towards the back of the shop. Dylan releases his grip on my waist but instantly slides his hand into mine.
"I'm not going anywhere, Dylan. I can't move for one thing. And I need both hands for inspecting ugly vases."
Dylan pushes my hair to one side and kisses my neck. "I like touching you and being around you."
The intense blue eyes meet mine, and I wait for a teasing comment about our antics last night and this morning. He doesn't say anything, and his relaxed happiness shines at me instead.
Pushing the arousing images from my mind, I nod. "I kind of like being around you."
I get another poke in the waist as he says, "Gee, thanks.Kind of..."
I bite the corner of my lip and Dylan's look drops to my mouth.Oh, God, please don't try making out with me in an antique shop. The confined space holds the same charge between us as yesterday outside the bathroom. Some of the 'what if?' sexual tension from that moment left, replaced by 'we could do that again and more' tension that hovers between us with every brief kiss and touch today.
I inspect my hands, closing down my senses as much as possible, but when the man who did wickedly wonderful things to my body last night is so close that's difficult. Dylan's sandalwood scent and the warmth of his body, close to mine, fog the world, and if I meet his eyes and see desire too I'll have no choice. I'll have to kiss him.
"Oh! Did you ever have one of these?" Dylan reaches over my head, not helping my attempts to disengage my senses. "Look."
In the palm of his hand, Dylan holds a figure made from seashells set on a small wooden plinth. ‘Made from’ is a loose definition—several shells are glued together and googly eyes attached to create a barely human-looking statue about fifteen centimetres tall.
"Omigod, that’s awful," I whisper, "What the hell is it?"
