It’s about more than the memories. Red Dahlia holds our love story within its walls, halls, and dance floor.
Carlos had given me my first kiss inside Red Dahlia. The kiss started innocently before quickly turning into something hot and forbidden with our ten-year age gap. Red Dahlia had meant more to me the longer our relationship lasted. Then he was murdered, and I never looked at the place the same way. I stayed away because stepping inside Red Dahlia would make our secret relationship tangible.
I couldn’t touch Carlos’s laughter, tears, and passion, but I could dance across the dance floor and skim my fingers along the walls and floor of the building. I would smell the sweat that stuck to the walls when he pressed my body against it, my legs wrapped around his waist and my fingers threaded in his silky strands while our mouths fused in a never-ending kiss and heat coiled low in my belly.
I would feel the hard floor beneath me from when he kissed me breathless before he worshipped my body from head to toe in the darkness when we stayed behind after everyone had left at closing.
Carlos was my ride home, so of course I’d wait for him. That was what I told anyone who asked.
I will never give up our secret. My brother and the crew will be mad at Carlos, and I never want him to be on the receiving end of their anger. His memory deserves only their respect and loyalty. I’m not ready to dance at Red Dahlia, but being here is different. I’ve never set foot inside Crimson. No man has made memories here with me.
No man has made memories here with me. The words echo in my head, and suddenly it’s like I have permission to do something about the heat between me and the man who has me firmly in his hold.
4
EVER
I glance down at the man’s arms crisscrossed over my stomach. The muscles lining his arms bulge and strain against his black long-sleeved shirt.
Having a man hold me like this only happens in my dreams or my fantasies, so to experience the scent, feel, and strength of a man in real life . . . The sound of my heartbeat in my ears overrides the music.
I should fight the heat burning through me with the stranger’s nearness and touch, but I miss being wrapped up in a man’s arms. I’m tired of being numbed by my grief and keeping the memory of my first love alive by refusing to acknowledge that the opposite sex exists.
What if, for one night, I can fantasize about another man, then go back to holding Carlos’s memory close to my heart and continuing to keep other men out?
My mind made up, I lean back, curve my arm around the stranger’s neck, and give in to living again. He takes the cue and tucks me into his large body. With his chest against my back and his chin resting on top of my head, he cocoons my lower half to him, and we move from side to side.
The heat from his core seeps into mine, and oh God, the flush overtaking my already hyperaware body is like soaking in the sunshine, poolside, after days of huddling indoors from the endless rain.
I need more. More touching. More heat.
The panty-melting, I-can’t-speak-a-coherent-sentence, mind-blowing kind. I take one of his arms from across my stomach and set his palm on my bare midriff. Flesh on flesh. Warm on hot. A tremor of need washes over me.
Does he feel my desire? I know he does when he cups my hip with his other hand and caresses my flesh above my waistband, sending another wave of heat crashing over my body. I miss this—attraction, interest, lust.
I reach up and tangle my fingers in his silky strands. He groans, and the deep rumble reverberates against my back, sending a thrill through me that settles in the junction between my thighs. My head tips back, my mouth parts, and a lusty moan slips out.
The stranger tightens his hold on my hip. I grind my backside against his crotch. His fingers dig into my skin. I bruise easily, and there will be marks. Gage will see them, go ballistic, and demand I tell him how I got them.
I should put my hand over the stranger’s and tell him to ease up, but I’m past the point of caring. I sway my hips, and we move as one with his hand on my hip and his palm flat on my belly.
With my fingers still tangled in his hair, I arch my back and cover his large hand on my belly with my small one. The cool metal of his belt buckle presses deliciously into my back, cooling my hot flesh, while his shirt is soft on my bare shoulders.
Needing more of this stranger, I palm the back of his head, bring him down to me until his face is near mine, and turn into him. The arch of my cheek rubs against his stubble. Coarse but soft. And he smells divine—spicy and masculine with a hint of citrus. Eyes closed, I inhale a deeper breath.
Strong fingers grasp my jaw and tilt my face to the side. A soft mouth touches the corner of mine. Anticipation weakens my knees, but a small voice in my head whispers I’m not ready to be kissed and tasted by another man.
Before he can explore the heat between us with his mouth fully on mine, I turn my head and free my jaw from his grasp. If the stranger is put off, he doesn’t show it. We sway to the upbeat song.
At the beginning of the next song, I open my eyes and face him, taking advantage of standing below one of the bigger disco balls.
Tall. Tousled dark hair. Eyes that are an unusual sea-glass blue, framed by thick eyebrows. A scar transects one brow. Sexy. Dangerous. My brother’s voice is in my head. I ignore his warning. I’ve been around dangerous men, and this man does not give off scary vibes.
How did he get the scar? Some of Ty’s friends shave off a sliver of hair to look cool, but this cut is different. I reach up and trace the jagged line. Puckered skin surrounded by soft, dark hair. What happened to isolate a scar to a spot near his eye? Any lower and he could’ve injured his eye, possibly going blind.
It takes every ounce of my control not to linger on a scar that might have significance to this stranger. Or maybe it’s a symbol of vanity, and rather than using a sharp blade, he used a jagged one to look distinguished?
The scar on my leg holds great significance, and I wouldn’t want a stranger to touch it or ask about it. It’s a part of me I cover up, even when it’s scorching hot outside and I would rather be in shorts.
