But it had.
And so had I.
Still, I couldn’t let it happen. Not like that. Not with the alcohol swimming in her system and her judgment dulled by more than just lust. I’ve seen too many guys cross that line, too many lives ruined by one bad decision. And no matter how much I want her—andGod help me, I want her—I’m not going to be that guy, not with her. I have my morals. My mother raised me better than the scums that do that to women.
My attitude gets the better of me more often than I’d like to admit—but the one thing my mother made damn sure I’d never forget was how to be a gentleman.
Growing up, that wasn’t something I saw modeled in my house. My father was a miserable bastard. Mean and cruel. Emotionally abusive to both of us from the start, and physically when he thought he could get away with it. He started with my mom first. Always her. But by the time I was old enough to stand between them, he started turning that rage on me, too.
My mother came to this country alone, crossed the border (illegally, mind you) without anything but a name and the clothes on her back. She met my dad not long after. A Mexican-American who helped immigrants once they crossed because his family had once been in their shoes. From what I understand, he wasn’t always abusive. He was the only man she trusted in the beginning, so he took it upon himself to make sure she assimilated well enough. He taught her English, showed her around, and helped her get her Green Card. Eventually, they fell in love (or at least she did). After about six months in the States, they were married, and nine months later, I was born.
The physical abuse started when I was about three, but he was emotionally abusive before that. She knew nothing else, had no one else but me and him. He didn’t like letting her out of his sight. His drinking got worse as I got older, and so did his temper.
The first time he put his hands on me, I was thirteen.
I stepped in between him and my mother during one of his drunken rages. He shattered a beer bottle against the wall, and some of the glass tore into my side when he beat me to the ground after trying to protect her. I ended up with two broken ribs and several lacerations from him and spent three days in the hospital. That was the turning point for her. The first time she truly saw how deep his anger ran. She finally found her voice and told the child safety investigator everything, and my father was arrested.
After my stint in the hospital, my mother and I wasted no time moving out of my father’s house. We didn’t have much anyway, just a few suitcases of clothing and some toys for me were all we packed. Everything else belonged to my father. She filed for citizenship and divorce, and got a restraining order as soon as we settled. Life got better.
She raised me on her own after that. She wasn’t willing to open herself up to another man. I was the only man she needed in her life, she would tell me. After graduating from college, I applied to the academy to stop abusive men like my father and make a difference in people’s lives. She taught me to be the man I am today. She taught me strength, patience, and how to respect others, especially the people you love. And, yes, I have my flaws. I may not be the nicest person some days, and I may like to get a little rough in bed (because who the fuck doesn’t), but I would never intentionally lay a hand on a woman.
But Jesus, just thetasteof Raelynn. The way she melted into me, how her nails dug into my chest, the breathy little noises she made when my hands were on her… it had short-circuited every ounce of self-control I had. I am still reeling from it. My jeans are doing a piss-poor job of hiding just how painfully hard I am, and every step through this small hallway with her beside me feels like a punishment—my own private, slow-burning hell.
I don’t move my hand from her back when we step inside and still keep it there when we emerge from the hallway. She doesn’t pull away either. If anything, she leans into it just slightly, like the contact grounds her.
The table I’d been at earlier had been claimed by a couple now, deep in conversation and oblivious to everything else. Kline, of course, is still parked on the other side of the bar with the girls. Khloe is now fully perched on his lap, giggling with her head thrown back while his hand (not subtle in the least) is cupping one of her breasts. His other arm is tucked low, hiddenbeneath the edge of the table. I didn’t want to know what it was doing.
Raelynn pauses beside me. I turn slightly, catching the way her gaze lingers on the scene. Her lip is caught between her teeth again, but this time it’s not flirtation—it’s quiet uncertainty. She doesn’t look like someone who wants to join them in another drink or two. She looks done with the night.
And honestly? So am I.
“You want me to just take you home?” I ask, my voice low as I lean in close, my lips brushing her ear so she can hear me over the music and drunken noise.
She glances at me, then at her friends, and gives a small nod. “Yeah. I’d appreciate that,” she says. “Let me just grab my bag and let them know.”
“Alright.” I nod, letting my hand fall from her back. “Go ahead. I’ll wait here.”
I watch her make her way across the room. Her stride is calm and confident, but I can tell, beneath it, something’s still working itself out. She reaches the girls’ table and leans down to speak to them, her voice low. I can’t hear what she says, but I don’t need to.
Marlena’s face lights up like it’s Christmas. Tessa does a mock gasp, one hand over her mouth. And Khloe, still firmly on Kline’s lap, lets out a little whoop, her hands shooting into the air.
Oh, yeah. They’re definitely talking about me.
Any trace of disappointment Raelynn might’ve felt seems to have faded. Whatever she just told them, it didn’t hurt her. If anything, it empowered her. And maybe that’s why she let me touch her the way she did. Maybe that’s why she trusted me enough tostopwhen I did. Maybe shegetsit. Maybe she respects me more for not letting things go too far.
The hugs start after that. Quick and affectionate. Marlena whispers something into Raelynn’s ear that makes her laugh under her breath. All three of them give me lingering glances, some curious, some smugly approving.
Then she’s back at my side, her Ghostface bag slung over one shoulder, and the smallest smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.
“All set?” I ask.
She nods. “Let’s go.”
We push back through the bar doors, side by side, the music and chatter fading into the background as we make our way down the ramp toward the lot.
I follow her to the passenger-side door of my truck and prop it open for her. The seat sits nearly level with her stomach, so climbing in is her only option. She flashes me a warm smile, grabbing the handle on the ceiling with one hand and the doorframe with the other. My hands hover just behind her, ready to help if she needs it.
As she hauls herself up, I get a clear, unfiltered view of her ass and the watercolor tattoo curling along her left hip—something I somehow missed earlier. I bite back a groan as she settles into the seat.
