Emma
“This has been a long time coming,” I say.
Dylan’s relaxed like I could never have imagined him—hands behind his head, contented eyes looking up at nothing in particular.
“For both of us.”
I’m lying on my side, facing Dylan, and still feeling the animalistic heat in my eyes. I’m willing him to look at me with that heat, to keep connecting, even though the deed is done, for now.
It totally works. Dylan turns onto his side, and I flush as he faces me.
“Does it stay this exciting?” I ask him.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about this. Us...or anyone, I guess. Making love, then just lying together. This part’s exciting, too. Is this just like, the first flush, or will it always be this good?”
Dylan lightly strokes my arm, giving me goosebumps and instilling me with warmth.
“It’s not always exciting at the start, and it’s definitely not always this good. But for us babe, it’s always going to be exciting and good. I’m fucking sure of it.”
He brings me closer to him with his arms of steel.
“And why is that?” I don’t know what I’m asking or why. I think the feeling of being cocooned in Dylan’s rugged embrace erases every care and concern in the world.
“Because there’s nobody as good or as exciting as you. I don’t think that’s going to change, so...”
“Does that mean you’re going to stick around to make sure it stays so good, so amazing, and so exciting? I think you’re part of that, too.”
He kisses me softly once but with an underlying fevered desire.
“Emma, I couldn’t imagine not sticking around for more of this, more of you…”
Dylan stops for what may be a dramatic pause, but I find myself floating off to sleep, wrapped up in those words and Dylan’s secure, devoted embrace.
I sleep like a rock, hours passing in the blink of an eye, before I reawaken and find myself still in Dylan’s arms.
His eyes have fallen shut, and he’s snoring softly, barely audible in the early morning sunlight.
Even as he sleeps, I can’t deny the real passion and warmth in his embrace.
Is this really the same Dylan I knew in New York? Sometimes, it’s hard to believe.
Physically, it’s the same man. I may not have recognized him at first, but his eyes and face had been burned into my mind, my heart, and my daydreams...even after all these years apart.
But his body...it’s better than I recall, better than I could have imagined.
Nobody else could live up to—and exceed—my expectations in that department.
No way.
But this cabin...and that feral, untamed edge.
I don’t know how much sleep I got. It couldn’t have been much, but it was high fucking quality. Feeling well-rested, I slip out of bed and walk across the cool wooden floorboards on bare feet.
I’m up now, full of energy, and it’s hardly dawn yet.
I look out the window by the bed. There’s just enough sunlight to see the man still sleeping soundly. He’s facing the spot I left, his arms hanging limply without me there to hold.
It’s unreal, like everything else these days…like this cabin.
The Dylan I know—or thought I knew—is a city boy through and through.
I don’t mean that as an insult—that can be something to brag about. I know plenty of city boy-wannabes, desperately trying keep up with and cling to the latest fashions and trends.
The Dylan Westmont who still lives in my mind, floating gracefully though the cutthroat world of Manhattan real estate, didn’t have a drop of desperation in him. That Dylan has a thorough appreciation for the upscale, the fashionable, and the refined.
That Dylan Westmont understands those things intuitively; they’re in his bones, in his soul.
The last place you’d expect to find someone like that is a cabin in the middle of nowhere, unshaven, with closets full of flannel.
I watch this present version of Dylan, slumbering like a grizzly bear in his bare, rustic bedroom, and it makes me doubt whether he was really the one who took my virginity with wild abandon.
I know it was him, but I don’t know if Dylan is still Dylan Westmont. Is this just an image he’s presenting to me, or is it something else entirely?
All those options seem hard to believe. I start wandering around the cabin as the morning grows brighter.
Dylan’s going to wake up sooner or later, and before that, I want to get some idea of who he really is now.
I just don’t know how the fuck I’m supposed to do that, so I go to the bathroom.
The first thing I see, before I turn on the light, is the blade of a straight razor reflecting the tiny beam of sunlight coming through the door. Apparently, Dylan does some shaving—but where?
I had just spent the last few hours exploring every nook and cranny of his body, and I didn’t see any sign that a razor blade had even touched his skin.
The razor’s sitting by the sink next to a wooden bowl of shaving cream. Hell, Cabin Dylan can use that to transform himself back into the Old Dylan Westmont if he wants.
That would be something. If only I can see him like that, in the flesh, maybe this will all make more sense.
Fuck, if only I can just catch a glimpse of the tattoo on his chest—clearly, I mean. Not covered in a forest of hair like it is now.
I can’t take my eyes off that razor and small wooden shaving bowl. That’s all it will take, just a quick couple minutes of shaving.
I wonder what Dylan will think if the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is me standing at the edge of the bed, holding up the straight razor with a big, eager grin.
Hmm... It might be better to ask him, but how will I even start to explain why I’m asking? It’d be easier to explain why it happened...after I shave him myself.
It’ll just take a minute, and I could probably get it done while he sleeps. How long will it take him to even notice?
It doesn’t matter. I want to see that tattoo; I want to see some of the Dylan I remember. I scoop up the razor and shaving bowl before I can talk myself out of it.
Dylan’s sleeping like a large, masculine log when I walk into the bedroom. He’s in the same position, on his side, which means I’ll be able to get to his chest easily.
So, this should be a breeze.
I scuttle around to my side of the bed, realizing I need to fucking get started. I look at the glob of shaving cream in the bowl. It’s undoubtedly homemade, and it’s sitting in a bowl meant for shaving soap, and I don’t have a brush...
But I need to do this now; there’s no time to run back to the bathroom to check.
I spot the set of numbers on Dylan’s chest easily. I use my fingers to lather some of the cream gently over the tattoo.
There’s a pleasant peppermint scent as I lather, and I picture Dylan growing the peppermint plants himself and distilling the leaves into essential oil for shaving cream and other purposes.
That seems to be who he is now.
The cream is no match for Dylan’s chest hair, and I’m not able to get much of a lather going. I open the straight razor, which looks sharp enough to quickly remove just a few inches of chest hair without much trouble or much shaving cream.
I gingerly angle the blade right at the top of the tattoo, and it just rests on the daunting blanket of Dylan’s chest hair. I try putting just a tiny bit of pressure on the blade, and it breaks right off the razor handle, falling onto the mattress.
Dylan’s chest hair and his awe-inspiring pecs glow in the brightening morning sunshine. That freaking razor never stood a chance.
I carry the broken razor and shaving bowl back to the bathroom, trying fruitlessly to get the blade back on its handle. I switch on the bathroom light when I get there, and the first thing I see is someone in the mirror, staring back at me.
Some...person. Her hair is a mess, her complexion looks so lifeless, and her features look so plain.
She has a gloomy look on her face, like she knows how ugly she looks without makeup.
The mirror doesn’t lie—that’s me. That’s what I look like right now, without my usual routine.
Holly crap. It really is me without makeup.
It’s like I’ve been hiding myself, and now I see why. I snap the blade back onto the handle with tears in my eyes.
I’m so ugly, and I didn’t even realize it.
I tearfully put Dylan’s shaving stuff back and bury my head in my hands, hoping never to have to look at myself again.