That, of course, made flying back to Australia a bit tricky. Add to that fact Thanksgiving was in two days and Hunter hadn’t bothered to call him back, and Dylan was a tiny bit frustrated. If nothing else, he would have expected Annie to call. Dylan pulled at the collar of the shirt he was wearing, staring at his reflection in the full-length mirror before him. He should be angry. The troubling thing was, he wasn’t. Not at all. After their night of…discovery, they’d curled on the sofa together and watched the sun rise over the New York skyline. The silence had drawn out between them, each lost to their thoughts. Dylan could tell Monet wanted him to make love to her. She didn’t have to ask; he could see it in her eyes, feel it in her body, in the way she touched him, moved beneath him. He wanted that too, so bloody much, but both held back, an unspoken name between them. Annie. Until he spoke to Annie, he couldn’t make love to Monet. Not the way he wanted to. Couldn’t completely take possession of her body.
