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“Are you?”
He shrugs and sits next to me, leaning across to kiss me properly. His heat from his time on stage warms me and he pulls me close, gripping my hair as he shares the passion still coursing through him from his performance. His heart thumping against mine and the situation fires the burn that never extinguishes. If he held me down and completed his night by screwing me on the sofa like the rock star I lusted after on stage, he’d get no complaints. I run an arm up the biceps I love and dig my nails in.
“Where did your shirt go, Dylan?” I tease.
He pulls an apologetic face. “Yeah, that. Um…”
“I bet there are girls fighting over it.” I poke him in case he thinks I’m pissed off about him stripping on stage.
“Hey, I get hot when I perform.” He pokes me back.
“I’m teasing,” I say and kiss his nose.
Dylan locates a new T-shirt and pulls it on. “You hanging around tonight?”
“Hanging around where?”
“Here. Because it’s first night of the tour, I have to stay.”
I thought he hated this? “Oh.” Images of groupies and debauchery jump into my mind.
“Seriously, this’ll be the only night I do. If I snub the guys, I doubt they’ll support me in what I want.”
He’s right. I inhale. “I don’t want to go to a party.”
“I can take you back to the hotel first?” he offers.
Maybe if he took me back there, I could seduce him into staying with me. However, I know he needs to do this—play his part until he finds the strength to move on. “I can ask someone from the entourage to take me back, don’t worry.”
Attempting to hide my disappointment and aware our worlds collided and don’t co-exist, I run my nails across his stubbled cheek.
“Everything is better with you here,” he says quietly.
“I’m only here for half the tour,” I remind him.
He pouts. “Yeah.”
“I have to encourage you to let go somehow.”
“Yeah,” he repeats, “I don’t want to think about being without you. Knowing you were waiting for me, channelling the passion you fill me with, that’s what made our performance fucking awesome tonight.” He tips his head and looks at me. “You liked?”
“I liked seeing you.”
He gives a short laugh. “You didn’t like?”
“You know I don’t like your music, Dylan,” I reply then hastily add. “I mean your genre. You guys are talented.”
Dylan strokes his finger along my nose and grins. “Ah, Sky Davis and her brutal honesty. I know you’ll always put me in my place if I ever believe my own hype again.”
“Will there be many girls at this… ‘after party’?” Memories of Danni-K flash across my mind.
“People know I’m with you now.”
The fact he doesn’t deny the place will be crawling with groupies almost sways me to stay. “I doubt that’d stop them trying.”
“And they’d be wasting their time. Trust me.”
In the early days after Dylan left, I tortured myself by watching the internet daily waiting to see him with a new girl. I never did. I don’t know what Dylan did on tour last year and I don’t want to. I keep telling him to leave the past where it is so I need to do the same. There’s a niggling insecurity remaining from the summer, of course, but I believe Dylan when I see the truth in his eyes. No relationship will work where trust is missing.
I wind my fingers into his hair and draw his face back to mine. “I do trust you,” I say against his lips.
