Make It Known

DELETED SCENE #1 - Gala

That is, until I feel something hard straining against my stomach. Oh hell...

"Detective Rowley," I whisper near his face, slightly mortified, "Please tell me that you're carrying a gun in your trousers."

He chuckles softly, leaning closer to mumble into my ear, his breath a gentle tickle against my skin. "Sorry. Ignore him, love. He just can't control himself with you looking so stunning in that dress."

But unfortunately, my deprived, hormonal body is incapable of ignoring the, yes, very generous proof of Dylan's attraction as it presses stiffly against me.

My skin heats up and my heart beats faster, his hand travels down from the curve of my waist to rest against my hip, the tips of his fingers burning through the material of my dress.

"Dylan," I breathe, because we're swaying together to the soft, jazzy music and there's definitely an unbidden, inescapable tingling between my legs, because he's rakishly, ruggedly, rougishly handsome and he's here and he wants me and his lips are brushing like a whisper against the top of my head, because after everything humans are animals and it's wrong and this is wrong but neither of us pulls away.

"Don't look now, love, but someone is trying to murder me with his eyes." His voice rumbles through my forehead, and just that single sentence carries enough behind it that my heart starts doing somersaults, and that mushy feeling in the pit of my stomach that I associate with one person alone creeps back to haunt me.

I press my face gently into his shoulder, because thinking about Gavin is like a knife through the gut. "My heart hurts, Dylan," I confess, barely audible.

A small hum of acknowledgement. I feel the vibration down to the tips of my toes. "He told me what happened between you, darling." His words are soft, low and rough. "And I told him he's a fucking idiot."

More painful, aching emotion ripping through my poor, fragile psyche.

Both of Dylan's hands rest on my hips now, pulling those parts of us closer.

My mind and my body and my hormones and my heart are all so, so damn confused.

"Melanie," he says, gruff and ragged, leaning in so his soft lips brush against my ear. "If he can't see exactly what he's missing out on, love, he sure as hell doesn't deserve you."

More relentless heartache. "It's not so simple, Dylan."

A humorless chuckle. "You two have told yourself that so many times that you actually believe it's true."

I know what he's saying, what he's implying, but my stubborn mind doesn't want to agree, doesn't want to admit that he's right.

A large palm skates teasingly from my hip around to my lower back, and the sweeping, open neckline of my dress leaves me exposed, and his bare skin touches my bare skin, sending blood rushing everywhere except to my brain. His lips are a flutter beside my ear, he moves them to my earlobe, just the subtlest touch, and shit, he's so close to me, our bodies are so close together.

I tilt my head to the side, away, and his mouth finds the space beneath my ear, he places the chastest kiss there that is somehow the most suggestive, taunting sliver of contact ever. His hand on my back splays to support me better, he probably knows my knees are going weak, the edges of his fingers tease near the top of my ass, and they could easy travel lower but they don't.

His scent and his warmth and his touch are everywhere but nowhere, he knows exactly what he's doing to me.

He speaks in the huskiest, deepest, quietest whisper that reaches right into the hot space between my legs. "It's not right, the way he's hurting you, love." My breath catches, my eyes press shut. "I could make you feel so good, Mel."