“I want to,” he rasped. “I want to strip you bare and taste every inch of you. I want to hear you scream my name until you lose your voice.”
I shuddered, a whimper escaping my throat. “Then do it. Why are you stopping?”
Because he had stopped. His hand wasn’t moving higher. His body was tense, holding himself back by a thread.
“Because,” he said, his voice strained, like he was in physical pain. “Because you’re drunk, Winnie. And you’re vulnerable. And if I take you now… I won’t be able to stop.”
“I don’t want you to stop.”
“You might tomorrow.” He pushed himself up, hovering over me, his chest heaving. “I’m not going to be the mistake you regret in the morning. You’re worth more than a drunk hookup.”
“I’m not a hookup,” I said fiercely, grabbing his arms. “I’m choosing you.”
“Choose me when you’re sober,” he whispered. He leaned down, pressing a hard, searing kiss to my forehead. Then he pulled away, forcing himself off the bed. He stood there for a second, adjusting his jeans, looking like he wanted to punch a wall.
“Go to sleep, Winnie. Before I change my mind.”
“Beau—”
“Goodnight.”
He walked out the door without looking back, closing it softly behind him.
I lay there in the dark, my body humming, my skin burning where he’d touched me. I was frustrated. I was aching.
But under the frustration, there was something else. A warmth that had nothing to do with the tequila.
He could have had me. I would have let him. But he stopped.
And that… that was dangerous. Because that didn’t just make me want his body.
It made me want him
**
The sun was relentless, cutting through the curtains in a way that felt personally aggressive. I woke slowly, consciousness creeping in like a thick fog, my entire body heavy and wrong. My head pounded—not just throbbed, but full-on jackhammer territory—and my mouth tasted like I’d gargled with stale whiskey and bad decisions.
For a moment, I just lay there, eyes squeezed shut, trying to piece together the fragmented film reel of the night.
Cassie. Tequila. So much tequila. The dance floor spinning. Tyler’s hand on my waist… and then Beau’s hand, heavier, hotter. Those reporter calls. Elise telling me to stop letting fear run my life.
And then… home?
A flash of memory hit me so hard my breath hitched. The weight of a body settling over mine. A knee pressing between my legs. Hands in my hair.
I squeezed my eyes tighter. God, did that happen?
It felt too real to be a dream. I could almost still feel the phantom pressure of his grip on my hips, the rough scrape of stubble against my neck. But it also felt too good, too intense, to be something that actually happened in my dusty old bedroom with the guy who used to be afraid of chickens.
Did we…?
I shifted my legs, expecting to feel… something different. Soreness? Evidence? But there was just the dull ache of dancing too long in boots and the general misery of dehydration.
I checked my phone, squinting against the glare.
10:47 AM.
“Shit, shit, shit!”
