“And I don’t count?”
“You do.”You count the most.
“Well, I want you. Fucking hell, do I want you.”
I drag my palm down the bricks at my back. None of this feels real. I’m in someone else’s body. Someone who goes out to the bar and ends up in an alleyway hearing a man confess his feelings. Whoever that someone is, I like her.
My ankles shuffle farther apart, encouraging him to stand in the space between my legs.
His breath quivers. “Fuck it.Fuck taking my time here.”
Placing a firm grip on either side of my jaw, Colt crashes his lips to mine. Our kiss is ravenous, the air between our bodies charged as we lean into the hunger. My heartbeat chases his, matching his pulse among our frenzied kisses and roaming hands. I’m so turned on by his rough hands on me that my skin feels too tight, like it might rip wide open.
The warmth of his mouth leaves mine to murmur, “You’re so beautiful. I want you so goddamn bad.”
“You do?”
My hands tiptoe down his chest, trepidation setting in as they venture farther south. Then a little farther again, to the ridge of his waistband. His work-worn palm slides over the back of my hand, securing my hold of his hard cock through thick denim.
“Doesn’t this feel like I fucking want you?”
The kiss that follows is rough and tender all at once. I lose my senses indulging in the feel of his tongue searing and sliding over mine. My hips rock into his, and I do nothing to prevent the way my dress shifts further and further up my thighs. I want to feel the hard length of him rubbing over my pussy. Iwantto be that girl who doesn’t care if anybody around is watching.
Colt notices, groaning—painful and gravelly—against my already sore lips. His fingers leave my tangled mess of hair, reaching to pull the dress down to cover my exposed ass.
“Whit,” he murmurs. “Not here. Not like this.”
He presses a chaste kiss on the tip of my nose, stepping back to smooth his hands down my sides. I lick the taste of him from my lips and blink away the sexually frustrated fog that had me moments away from begging to be fucked in an alley. Colt adjusts himself in his pants, hiding an erection by tucking it into his waistband, and rights his lopsided cowboy hat.
There’s a sudden chill in the air at the loss of his body blanketing mine, and I rub my palms up and down my goosebump-speckled arms.
“Come on. Do you want to go back in, or go home?”
My fingers comb through my hair. I know what Iwantto do, but stealing a glance toward his truck, I sigh. I made a silent promise the moment I found out I was pregnant; nothing I want or need will ever come before my child.
IwantColt to kiss me until I’m boneless and breathless. I want to feel his hands on every inch of my skin. JonasneedsColt to be in his life as a friend and role model. So that settles that.
“We should go back in. Blair will be pissed if I ditch the party early.”
“Back to the dance floor, then? The world needs your scuba diving move.”
I smack my forehead. “You’re never letting that go, are you? I can’t believe I showed you that.”
“Never seen a hotter scuba diver. I mean…I’ve never seen a scuba diver, period. But I know you’d be the hottest one.”
He takes hold of my hand, then lets me lead the way. Another reminder that it’s my call whether we move the alleyway passion to a more intimate location or return to the crowded bar. But if we let lust take over, it’ll be the end of everything as we know it. That’s a decision that shouldn’t be made when I can still feel his lips on mine.
Colt’s hand drops mine at that exact moment, as if he’s reading my mind and had the same realization that whatever—whoever—we were a minute ago ends here and now.
“You don’t want people talking, so we probably shouldn’t waltz inside like a couple.” His lips press quick and hard against my temple, and we push our way through the raucous bar doors, joining the party in the middle of “Mony Mony” by Billy Idol. Laser lights shine in every direction, frantically crossing paths and illuminating the dust and dirt floating through the air. Suddenly it smells more like stale beer and sweat than I remember.
Without thought, my lips silently form the lyrics, and Colt gives me a curious look.
“Billy Idol is—or maybewas—my mom’s favorite.” My cheek presses to his shoulder as I shout over the music. “The only time she swears is during the secret bonus lyrics.”
A burly man bumps into me as he walks by, and I feel the warmth of Colt’s hand glide against my lower back to settle on my waist. He holds me steady, tilting his head to hear me clearer.
“I met your mom, and I can’t imagine her telling anybody to ‘get laid, get fucked.’ ”
