But being a fucking masochist, here he was, in the same hotel hosting the senior prom for Bree’s school. Thinking about Bree in the arms of a boy from her class – some fresh-faced jerk who would do his best to take her virginity in his backseat – made him clench his teeth hard.
With a muttered curse, he swung away from the one-way window of his VIP suite which overlooked the entire lobby of the hotel.
He lowered himself to the couch and grabbed the pen and paper from the coffee table. Closing his eyes, he tried to concentrate on making more music, but nothing came to him.
He heard the door open. “You went to Bree, didn’t you?” He had known just by looking at Ariadne’s face earlier that she had planned to plead his case with her. He had also known it wouldn’t make a fucking difference.
No girl would willingly take someone back when that same person couldn’t even say sorry—-
“Yes, she did.” The voice, shaky but beautiful and familiar, made Dylan suck his breath in. He twisted around in his seat, wondering if missing Bree so much had made him start hearing things.
But it really was her.
She looked like a goddess of seduction in her red silk and lace dress. It had a full skirt at the back and an extremely short layered skirt in front. Combined with her lipstick-red stilettos, it looked like she had her entire legs on display.
Bree looked exquisite, but what made him feel like someone had sucker-punched him was her eyes.
She looked like she still loved him.
When Dylan’s face whitened, Bree knew that he understood what she was unable to say. Terror – the paralyzing fear of rejection – had negated her ability to speak and all she could do was look at him and plead with her eyes.
After what she had learned from Ariadne, she didn’t care about what she had seen – what millions of people had seen. They thought they knew and understood what was going on, but they didn’t. Even she didn’t – hadn’t – known the truth. And now that she did, Bree no longer cared that he still hadn’t said sorry or that - if it was up to Dylan – he would never ask her to take him back.
When he didn’t speak, tension apparent in his profile, Bree knew it was up to her to take the next step. There was no guarantee that he wouldn’t say no. Now that she understood where he was coming from, she knew that all these years he had been trying his hardest to distance himself from her.
Swallowing, she whispered, “Dylan, could you please—-”
When he swore, it was like a knife in her heart and she was unable to speak. He was going to rebuff her. He didn’t want her. She lowered her head, not wanting him to see how his refusal was killing her.
She struggled to breathe, struggled to be strong and figure out how to survive.
“Bree?”
Oh God, he was standing right in front of her!
What did he want now? To twist the knife in deeper? Wanted her to see up close how unwilling he was to take a risk on her—-
“Bree, please.”
She shook her head without raising her gaze to meet his. “No.”
“Bree—-” His voice broke.
It undid her, the way he sounded like he needed her more than she needed him. Slowly, she lifted her gaze—-
In the next second, he was kissing her.
Dylan was kissing her.
The rock star she had loved so long was kissing her.
With a shaky sob, Bree wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back.
Chapter Four
Her first kiss.
It seemed ironic that in the four years she had been in the company of the world’s most promiscuous rock star, Bree was only having her first kiss now.
But she wasn’t complaining – not when it was Dylan giving Bree her first kiss.
His hands cupped her face like she was the most precious thing he had ever held. His lips were warm as they covered hers again and again, each kiss deeper and lovelier than the rest.
Dylan was still shaking, a part of him still reeling from the reality of having Bree in his arms. After everything he had done, she was still here. After everything, she had come to him—-
He lifted his head to look down at her. “Bree...”
She looked up at him like he was everything she had wished for, and it made Dylan want to curse again – wanted to curse himself because, goddammit, he wanted that to be true.
But it wasn’t.
“I love you.”
She started to cry.
He wanted to wipe the tears from her eyes, wanted to kiss them away, wanted to promise that everything was going to be all right again. But he did not. Because he was a bastard, would always be a bastard, and he needed her to understand that.