Before the Rain (8 page)

The further they got into the song, the more the lyrics seemed like a horny confessional. So inappropriate considering their history of discontent, and yet, somehow, the ironic cheesiness of it all seemed right.

They blasted out about having the time of their life, and she fought to keep from smiling too wide. The long musical moment without lyrics shot in, and he spun her into his embrace and pulled a
Dirty Dancing
number on her. Knees bent, hips rotating, back arching.

Oh, wow, this guy really can dance.

Yes, very much so, yes. He drew her closer still so they stood crotch to crotch and circled his hips, throwing in random thrusts. She was as turned on as she was embarrassed by the public display of full-on dry humping. Crashing her hands against his chest, she pulled her hips from his and passed him a we’re-on-stage glare.

He smirked and reeled her back in. One hand on the small of her back, he put the other on her shoulder and eased her back into a dip. They moved into a deeper, slower rhythm, and it soon became apparent by his hardness jabbing her that he, too, was turned on by the dance.

Fucking hellfire. I’m melting.

He stared, so hard and so intense, deep into her soul, and sang for her. Heat rose to her cheeks and descended to her sex. She burned for him, ached for him.

The music faded.

And, as if they’d just sung any old song about sunshine and fairies and unicorns or whatever, he ditched the microphone with her and stuck his hands in his pockets. He sauntered toward the bar, leaving her frustrated and so gosh-darn turned on.

“Guess I’m on my own for the next one,” she murmured. “Well, that’s the way I like it.”

The sound technician glanced up from a copy of
The Sun
, the British newspaper steeped in the tradition of the topless page-three girl. “Eh?”

“Never mind, just play ‘Black Velvet.’”

“Take it away,” he sang out and hit play.

The deep thrums of her chosen song blasted out. Still aching for Dylan, her innards throbbing to feel him inside of her, she found herself scanning for him in the audience. She didn’t need to look far. He was to her left, pint in hand, a perfect smile crinkling the corners of his eyes and offering a hint of the dimples hiding behind the facial hair.

The dark throngs of the guitar belted out the second-rate speakers, and the rhythm took hold. Eyes closed, hips undulating, she became one with the song dripping of the Deep South. Pulling her hair up into a tousled bun, she rasped out the words with a huskiness that surprised her, and she dragged her hands down her face, imagining Dylan’s touch. Prickles broke down her back and tingled at her toes. Enraptured in the moment, she narrowed her gaze on him and traveled her touch down to her waist, so slow and controlled. If he didn’t know the effect he’d had on her before, he did now. He had to.

The sexual undertones lingering in her every syllable were unbidden. She was possessed with the idea of Dylan thrumming deep inside of her, his strong arms holding her as he worked her toward climax.

The song ended. Hushed whispers spread throughout, and mostly everyone gawked at her.

She shifted her weight from foot to foot and side-eyed the sound technician.

He licked his lips, all slobbering and wet, and closed the paper. With the publication under his arm, he scurried to the bathroom.

Dylan tipped his head back and roared, then, still laughing, he bent and clutched his stomach.

Surely her performance hadn’t been that risqué?

Tightening her hands around the microphone, she puffed at tendrils of hair that had fallen over her face and giggled. “Wow, I guess I enjoyed that song a little too much.” Inside, she flushed with embarrassment.

David stood and whistled, and mostly everyone else cheered. Betty, she noted, sat in the corner with Thomas and did her best dragon impression with her giant nostrils.

Dylan gathered his laughter and stood straight before tipping his glass in her direction.

Lust fever had hold of her and wasn’t letting up anytime soon. Her performance made it pretty darn clear. She had to have him. Screw the man-free sabbatical.

Flo tugged the microphone from her grasp. “Where’s the sound guy gone?”

“He’ll be back in….” She tried to estimate how long it took a man to pound one out, then shrugged. “About, say, ten minutes?”

“Oh, here he comes.” Flo beamed, pointing across to the men’s restrooms.

Sure enough, the guy headed back to duty. He took his position back at the karaoke machine and sat, wiping a hand on his overalls.

Wondering what might be smeared on his clothes, she nearly gagged.

“‘Shout,’” Flo demanded. “I’m singing ‘Shout.’ Chop-chop.”

Zoe left the stage for Flo to take over and swirled to the bar. She grabbed her beer, which seemed fuller than when she’d left it.

“Is this even mine?”

Steve nodded. “On the house, love.” He leaned over the bar and tipped his chin. “You ever thought about singing for clubs and that? We could use you in ’ere on Saturday nights. Regular gig. Interested?”

“Sorry, Steve, singing is just a hobby now, and I’m here just for a short time. But thanks for the compliment.”

He nodded with a gesture for her to glance over her shoulder. “He liked your performance, too. Look at him. All smitten.”

She turned, hoping for Dylan to be standing yonder. But alas, no. David waved in their direction from a few tables behind them with Betty and Thomas, and he mouthed, “Come join us.”

She downed the drink, pulled out a note from her pocket, and waved it at the bartender. “Another, Steve. Make it something stronger.”

“Drinks are on the house tonight, love. Keep singing like that and you can have a lifetime tab.” Steve poured her the shot and placed it on the counter. She drank it and slammed the glass on the counter. “Another.”

Steve grinned. “Sure. I’ll keep ’em coming, how’s about that?”

“Sounds good.”

Flo finished her rendition of Lulu’s “Shout,” all screech and boobs.

Dylan hopped on the stage and introduced the next singer in waiting. “Here’s the yoga king again himself, singing a totally apt song for him. So put your hands, and your tips, yes, I said TIPS not tits, together for David wondering if we think he’s sexy.”

David strutted about singing “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?” He wiggled his hips, he blew kisses, and he made it ever so obvious he was into Zoe.

Dylan stormed up to her, his mouth clenched and his stare unnerving. He stole her drink and gave it back to Steve.

“Hey, I was drinking that.”

“You be careful with that one. He’s after getting you drunk so you’ll kiss him.”

“No, he liked my singing.”

“You mean that bump and grind session? Yes, every man here enjoyed your performance.”

Steve cleared his throat and diverted his gaze to the floor. “It’s true. I was hoping for some action.”

Dylan shook his head. “See. I think you need to sober up.”

“I do not.”

“
Ia
, you do.” He entwined his fingers in hers and dragged her into the beer garden where she’d escaped to earlier for alone time.

He pushed the door open and swung her out into the cold air. The brisk night sent shudders through her, and her nipples tightened.

Freeing herself from his grip, she crossed her arms over her chest and hollered, “What do you think you’re doing?”

He perched on a nearby table and turned a patio heater on. “Come stand over here. It’s cold tonight.”

She shook her head.

“Love, don’t bite your nose off to spite your face. Come hither.”

Hesitant, she inched forward.

“I said, come here,” he growled, pulling on her hand.

“Dylan, what has gotten into you?”

“You. You and your sexy, sassy attitude and your blonde hair and pale blue eyes and your husky voice and those fucking dance moves of yours. I didn’t think I would last the song.”

“Me? You’re the one with the magic hips.”

He tightened his grip on her and pulled her between his legs, his thick thighs enveloping her. “I dunno what I’m doing, dunno what you’re doing to me.”

He smacked a kiss on her lips, fast and surprising.

She hooked her hands around his neck and parted his mouth with her tongue, daring him to kiss her good and kiss her hard. Instead, he let out a moan so deep, so guttural that his sound echoed through her and settled deep into her soul. Drenched in desire, she gave in to him with a reckless abandonment. Goose bumps rippled across her chest and tingled at her hardened nubs, and her sex swelled.

His hardness pressed against her, making her crave him all the more.

He peeled her off of him and sighed. “You wanna know why I’m so happy tonight, why I’m not the Dylan Mostyn you thought you knew? The rude farmer you love to hate?”

“It’s because you’ve had a drink or two or five. And to be honest, you’re a better man for it. And darn can you move.”

“We’re both a little drunk, but on lust not booze.”

“Perhaps.”

“I don’t even think I like you.”

“I know, right?” She squeezed her eyes tight shut. Blubbering something about her own confusion, she crumpled into him and wrapped her arms around his neck and nuzzling into him. “We really do love to hate each other, don’t we?”

“You’re upset?” He eased his fingers between her locks and combed through her hair. “Shh. You don’t need to speak, Chantilly. But know I’m here for you.” He kissed the crown of her head once and then again.

How sweet he was, which didn’t help clear her head a darn diddly bit.

Thunder sounded ahead, and the lights flickered.

She quivered. “We should go inside.”

“
Ia
, we should.” He swept a finger across her cheek, wiping away her tears and trailing his touch down to her lips, lingering. Wanton.

“I want to kiss you again, so bad,” she whispered.

He tugged at his collar and undid a button, revealing a hint of dark chest hair. “Damned if I don’t wanna kiss you, too. There’s something drawing me to you, pulling me in and making me wanna touch you, to imagine what it’d be like to be inside you.”

“Dyl.” She dragged a finger over the top button and flipped through the opening, exposing more of his manliness. Maybe to torture herself or to prolong their twisted game of foreplay, she twirled her touch into his curls and moved to the next button, toying with the plastic closure. “The sexual tension between us has been palpable since the get-go.”

He grabbed her hand and stilled her finger, his grasp tight, commanding. “We should shag,” he declared and used his free arm to pull her in closer so his chest pressed against hers. His heartbeat thrummed hard and vibrated against her palm. “I need to think straight again.”

“Best. Idea. Ever,” she said, her voice breathy and her hands shaking.

He pressed his mouth against her forehead and cupped her face. “So we’re doing this?”

Lust raced through her and caused her to tremble. She tried to speak, but instead she stammered, “Y-y-yes.”

He curled his hand around hers and stood. “Not here, though.”

Head whirling with hope, she leaned into him. “Dyl, I’ll burst if you’re not inside me soon.”

The door opened and the din of the pub spilled into their private moment. Dylan stepped back and released his hold, slipping his hands into his pockets.

Zoe zoomed her gaze in on who had caught them.

Betty.

She stood in the doorway, hands on hips and nostrils flaring. “Hey, Sandy and Danny, the people are waiting.” Her pitch rose with every word. “Time to sing.” The woman glance from Zoe to Dylan and back again. “This won’t do. This won’t do at all.”

Thunder boomed overhead, and a crack of lightning split open the sky.

Another clap of thunder echoed through the pub. Everyone gasped then cheered about a lock-in and carried on drinking.

“What’s a lock-in?” she whispered to Dylan.

He grinned. “It’s when they lock the doors, and the pub stays open well after closing hours.”

“Is that legal?”

“Sure, the bar just can’t ‘charge’ for drinks.”

“Ah.”

“We have one more song to sing, then we can go make use of the free bar. Are you ready for the closing act?”

She nodded. “Yes. Ready.”

Getting all cutesy with the man she had almost “shagged” outside in the beer garden before his aunt had walked in on them, well, it all seemed a bit high school-esque. But there they were, singing “You’re The One That I Want” with fake smiles and daft dance moves.

And, boy, could that man move, and he crack-a-lacked it Danny style with a coolness she admired.

A crack of lightning hit nearby, so close it vibrated through the floor of the pub. Zoe glanced at Dylan, who shrugged and carried on singing. Yeah, he was having a hella time and funning it up too hard to be bothered by the beginnings of a thunderstorm.

A tree branch smashed against a window, and it pounded again and again until it fell through and sent tiny shards of glass everywhere.

He stilled.

Women screamed, and men howled with laughter and pointed their fingers.

Zoe yelped and bounced into Dylan’s arms.

“Don’t worry, Chantilly. Just a bit of noise, be over in a tick.” He put the microphone to his mouth and asked, “Anyone hurt?”

He was met with a resounding no, and requests for him to carry on singing.

“Screw that. It’s time for me to leave,” Zoe announced.

“You’re not driving anywhere, Miss America.”

“And why’s that?”

“Had one too many for the road, love.”

“Nuh-uh,” she quipped. “I’ve only had two beers.”

“And the couple of shots you knocked back earlier.”

“Oh, yeah.”

He snickered.

“You, it’s your fault, Dylan Mostyn. I was meant to stay sober to drive Betty home.”

“She’s already left, pissed off she was.”

“Left? Without me?”

“Yup, she left with the Rev.” He whispered, “I think she’s mad at us.”

“Yes, she is, and it turns me on to think we’re forbidden.”

He raised a brow. “Oh?”

“I feel like a kid in high school sneaking out at night to see my forbidden boyfriend.”