I turn around so fast I almost faceplant. “Hey,” I say and manage to slur even that little word. For shame, Zane. “Dakota.”
She’s standing right next to one of the torches, and the light dances on the pink streaks in her dark wild hair and her elfin face. Tonight she’s dressed more goth than punk—in a super short lacy dress and black stockings up to her thighs. She’s even wearing lacy cut-off gloves. They seem one with the colorful ink swirling on her forearms—a mirror of my own ink sleeves.
My mouth goes dry. Something like electricity zaps through my body, making my nerve endings hum, and my dick rises to say hi.
Fairly predictable, aren’t you, Dick the dick?
“Having a good time?” Dakota asks, shifting her weight on one foot, and placing those black-clad hands on her hips. Dark lashes flutter over her eyes.
“Awesome,” I croak, wondering if it’s possible to pass out from getting so hard. All the blood has flowed south to a certain happy part of me.
She tilts her head to the side, slender dark brows drawing together. Damn, it’s filthy hot when she does that. My cock throbs and swells, trying to bore a hole through my jeans. It’s so hard it just might.
“Zane?” She sounds exasperated.
Have I missed something? Was she talking to me? “Yeah?”
“I asked how much you’ve had to drink.”
I shrug, lift the bottle and discover it’s empty. Damn bottles are defective. They keep running dry. “A few.”
“You’re wasted.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Wasted ain’t the same as drunk.” I drop the bottle and scrub a hand over my face. “The difference is small, but distinctive. When you’re drunk, you sing or slur your words.” Like I’m doing now.
“Uh-uh.”
“When you’re wasted, you puke your guts out, and you find yourself in strangers’ beds without knowing how you got there.” At least that’s my definition, and I’m sticking to it. “I should know. I’ve done both plenty of times.”
“You have, huh?”
Another thing typical of the drunk variety: talking without any input from the brain. The automatic mouth.
Dakota laughs, and it’s like small bells tolling. “You’re funny. You’re a funny drunk.”
Did I say that out loud? I groan. “So how is it going?”
“Good.” She steps closer, and the breeze ruffles her black hair and dress. Her eyes seem to glow. “How about you?”
I open my mouth to lie, and I have to swallow around a knot in my throat. Why can’t I lie to her, say everything is okay?
So of course I end up saying nothing. Her scent floats up at me—warm stone, warm grass, flowers and honey—and she’s so near I can touch her.
I want to touch her. Dying to.
“Erin told me you’re looking for a roommate.”
I blink. “Yeah, so…?”
“As it happens, I’m looking for a roommate, too. The girl I’m living with is moving in with her boyfriend, so...”
I blink again. She’s not asking…
“Want to be roommates?” She still isn’t looking at me. I can see her chest rising and falling rapidly.
“No.” Hell no. That would be a royal fuck-up. I don’t do relationships, don’t even bring chicks home, and to live next door to someone I want to fuck into the wall… Best recipe for disaster.
Because there can be no repeat performance once we screw. If we screw. No holding hands, and no plans for a future, or even a friendship. I’ve seen it a thousand times. It would mean I’d never see her again, and why that bothers me, I don’t know.
“Okay.” She bites her lip, and damn, I want to draw it into my mouth, taste her, make her moan.
“Okay,” I echo.
“Then the least you can do is ink me,” she whispers. “To make up for this.”
She has turned her head toward me, and her face is now in shadow. The flames illuminate her pale shoulder. The dark lines of a tattoo creep under her dress and wrap around her slim arm.
I lick my lips, my brain on pause. “Ink you?”
“The dragon tattoo I’ve been asking you for.”
Oh, that again. “I said no.”
“So you have.” She winks and I relax.
Familiar territory. Teasing. This is turning into a running joke between us. An insider thing nobody else understands but us. And it’s fine. She has no dark past, remember? She’s clean of misfortune, clear like crystal. Maybe that’s what draws me to her, this promise of pure calm and pleasure with no drama attached. No need to save her, like everyone else around me.
Call me selfish. I call it a sense of self-preservation. Give me one more fucked-up person to look after, and I’m going over the fucking deep end for good.
“Why do you always say no to me?” She’s closer all of a sudden. One more step, and she looks up at me. “Why, Zane?”
“I don’t…” It’s damn hard to think straight when she’s all but pressed against me. Even from the few inches separating us, she has to feel my hard dick making a bulge in my jeans.
“Then say yes.”
She’s so close, so damn close. But she isn’t touching me. I want her to touch me, and this hasn’t happened to me in a very long time. “Yes to what?”
“Just say yes,” she whispers and places her hands on my hips, closing the small gap, pressing on my straining erection.
I swear I see stars. “Yes. Yes.” I don’t even care what I’m agreeing to. It can’t be normal, to be so hard for so long just from staring at a girl. Something’s seriously wrong with me.
She lets out a breathless laugh. “Good.”
“So what did I just agree to?”
“Saturday night we’re performing in a bar. Come see us.”
Shit. “Us?”
“Our band, Deathmoth. Rafe’s the drummer. I’m the lead singer.”
Right, I knew this. Come to think of it, Rafe also invited me, but I forgot about it. She wants me to go see her… I imagine her on a small stage, holding the long pole of the microphone in her hands, pressing her lips to it, her hips swaying, her large eyes sparkling…
I jerk back, about to come in my pants. What the hell am I doing?
She sighs, pouts a little. I reach for her lips without much thought, trail my thumb over their softness. They part, and her tongue darts out, licking my skin.
Holy hell. My cock is leaking now, and I move forward, a hand on her arm. I can’t stop myself, I have to hold her, do her, have her—
She draws back. “See you Saturday, then,” she says, smiles and turns to go.
“Fuck,” I mutter. “Fuck.”
I think that one word covers it beautifully.
Chapter Two
Dakota
Why did I invite Zane Madden to our concert? How could I be so stupid? Why do I keep trying to get a rise out of him?
Other than a physical one, that is. Because, oh boy, his hard-on was impossible to miss.
But that’s not enough. There’s a barrier in his gaze. He won’t crack, won’t let laughter and smiles reach his eyes.