Dalton sits on one side of a dark purple, velvet couch, girls next to him—one perched on the furniture’s arm, three squeezed onto the cushions. A guy sitting in a throne type chair has his eyes closed with another girl on his lap who’s nodding to the music. He seems out of it by the off-beats of his rhythm. There are more drugs on the table and lots of beer cans, a few half-emptied bottles of liquor are next to toppled over cups. At least another eight people linger in the room. Only a few notice me.
I want to be mad at him. I should be, but when Dalton finishes a song he seemed to be escaping into, he looks up unaware of his audience. His gaze lazily glides across the room and lands on me as if he sensed my presence. His smile matches his gaze—lazy in ways that appear beyond alcohol induced. “Angel,” he says and everyone in the room turns to look at me. “You came for me.” His words come slowly, but his look becomes intense, set on me.
I smile, needing to coax him from this room without making a scene. My tone is soft and welcoming as I signal back down the hall. “I did. Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
“That’s my girl,” he announces proud, unmoving from his spot.
I think I gasp like everyone else in the room when he says it—so open and free about it.
“Since when do you have a girl, Johnny?” the girl on the arm next to him asks, running her hand over his shoulder.
He glares at her hand, as if the touch itself is insulting. When he looks up, he says, “Since I fell in love.”
My heart stops, skips, then races. I can’t believe he just said that in a room full of people. Overwhelmed by a gush of emotions, my mind blurs.
“Angel?”
I look up and right into his eyes, the gawkers in the room irrelevant. “Yes?”
“Come here.”
The girl next to him says, “I’m here.” She’s flirting and I watch as she moves to touch him again.
I step forward and go to him. Offering my hand over the table. “Time to go.”
He takes it and stands, moving his guitar into the air as he slides between the others to get out. “It’s been real,” he says, and walks with me into the hallway. As soon as we’re hidden in the darkness of the hall, his body pushes against mine, my back hitting a large wooden door between two bookshelves full of albums. “I want to make you come and then fuck you.”
His words are dirty, the look in his eye equally naughty, and as usual my body reacts. Wanting to get him out of here, I make a suggestion. “I’ll drive us home and then we can fuck all night.”
“I don’t wanna wait.” The door behind me falls open and I stumble backward. He quickly shuts it, then locks it. Setting the guitar down, he keeps his eyes on me as if I might escape if he doesn’t. His shirt is taken off and tossed, his muscles looking hard, tense, almost threatening.
I’m not scared, but deep, way deep down, there’s an inkling that wanes, despite my thought. Maybe I should be. He walks forward, not bothering to take off the rest of his clothes, though he does undo his belt and button fly. My legs hit the end of the bed and I take a deep breath. I exhale, and say, “Dalton—”
“Don’t you want me?”
“I do, but—”
His hands fly out to the side, the gun tattoos on display, the way he stands full of arrogance. “Everybody fucking wants me, but my own woman.”
“I want you.” I open my arms wide, the wounded rock star out tonight. “I want you. I always want you. Have I not proved that to you?”
He holds my face—firm, but not hurting—maintaining eye contact. “Let me have you.”
“You have me. I’m right here,” I say, feeling like we’ve shared this moment before.
Our lips meet and although his muscles feel ready to fight, his kisses are gentle, ready to love. With a peek over his shoulder, I verify the door is locked once again and then lay back, giving him what he needs and taking what I want—our bodies speaking the language we share together, every caress a way to express our feelings.
Needing to give him all of me, to prove that I can weather his storm. Dalton undoes my jeans and pulls them down, a roughness to the action. My shoes fall from my feet and my jeans are yanked the rest of the way. He climbs on top of me and smirks. “We never had that talk.”
“We’re not having it now. Condom or no sex,” I state firmly.
He digs out his wallet as he balances above me. With one hand, he flips it open and pulls out the packet. So cliché, but I can’t say I’m not happy he has it.
Sitting up, he slides the condom on then drops forward again, grabbing my arms and pulling them above my head. He thrusts as he kisses, my head digging into the mattress from the sudden impact. He’s lost in his own world, his body trumping mine without care. I start wondering how drunk he is as he starts to take too much, pleasure becoming pain, so I call to him again. “Dalton.” I free my hands and push against him. “Dalton!” When he doesn’t respond again, I yell, “Johnny!”