And holds out his hand.
No words, no line, no “Can I have this dance?” Just his big, calloused palm, open and steady, offered to me like a question he already knows the answer to. I can see the lines in his palm. The rough skin. The thick fingers that were inside me hours ago. My body remembers before my brain can catch up…a rush of heat between my legs, my nipples tightening, my breath catching.
Tanya kicks me under the table.
And like an idiot…or a woman with absolutely no self-preservation left…I take it.
His fingers close around mine. Warm. Rough. Sure. The same grip from the fair. The same heat. But different now because I know what these hands can do. I know how they feel on my skin, inside my body, cupping the back of my neck while he kisses me stupid. And the memory of all of it slams through me the second his skin touches mine.
He leads me to the dance floor as the music shifts to something slower. Richer. All fiddle and guitar, the kind of rhythm that gets under your skin and makes you do things you’ll think about for weeks.
He pulls me close. One hand slides to my waist…wide and heavy, fingers curving around my side, his thumb finding the dip above my hip. The other holds my hand against his chest. I can feel his heartbeat under my palm. Steady. Strong. His body heat wraps around me. The cotton of his shirt is soft against my cheek. He smells like warm nights and worn leather and the clean warmth of his skin under.
My body knows him now. Knows his scent, his heat, the size of his hands, the width of his chest. And the traitor melts into him before my brain can file a single objection.
I try to hold myself upright. Keep a little space. Maintain some shred of dignity. But his thumb is stroking my hip in slow, deliberate circles that send pulses of heat straight to my clit. Hisheartbeat is steady under my palm. And he’s holding me like I fit here. Like I was always supposed to be right here, pressed against his chest, breathing him in.
I give up. I relax into him.
We don’t speak for a long time. Just move. Swaying slow. Pressed together. The bar blurs around us. The noise fades. It’s just the music and his body and the slow drag of his thumb on my waist.
Then, just above the sound, I hear his voice. Low and steady. His lips brushing my hair. His breath, warm on my scalp.
“Didn’t know my night could get better.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. Too busy memorizing the feel of him. His thumb on my hip. His chest rising and falling against mine. The hard plane of his stomach against my belly. The way his hand on my back keeps me close …his palm spread wide between my shoulder blades, fingertips pressing gently into my spine. Like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he loosens his grip.
One song turns into another. I lift my head long enough to glance at Tanya. She’s sitting at our table with her chin in her hand, grinning like she’s watching the season finale of her favorite show.
I drop my head back against Beau’s chest. And I think,just for one more song. Then I’ll pull away. Then I’ll be rational.
But his arm tightens around me. His mouth brushes my temple …his full lips soft and warm against my skin, lingering. And he murmurs, so low only I can hear, “No. Not yet. Let me feel you a little longer. Let me smell you.” His voice drops. A rumble that I feel more than hear…vibrating through his chest into mine. “Fucking love having you in my arms.”
The heat of his voice spreads through my whole body. Resonates in my chest. Tightens my nipples. Pulses between my legs, making my clit throb. And the way he says it…likeI’m already his. Like I’ve already said yes to something I don’t remember being asked.
I don’t pull away. I press my face into his shirt. Breathe him in …leather, cedar, warm skin, the faintest trace of sweat. Close my eyes and stop pretending I want to be anywhere else.
Seven
Ina
The song changes. Something with more bass. More heat. And Beau’s hand slides lower on my back.
I feel him shift against me and…oh. Oh.
That’s not his belt buckle. That is a thick, hard, unmistakable problem pressing against my belly. And not just pressing…pulsing. I can feel the heat of him through two layers of denim. The length. The thickness. My brain short-circuits and my body takes over; my pussy pulses, my clit tingles, my nipples drag tight against my bra. Every inch of me goes hot and wet and aware.
We’re still moving. Slow. Close. But it’s different now. His thigh…hard, heavy with muscle…brushes between mine with every step, his hand grips my hip, fingers digging into my flesh, his thumb pressing into the soft curve above my ass, his breathing has changed …deeper, rougher, his chest expanding against mine with every inhale. I can feel his heartbeat now. Faster than before. Not so steady anymore.
And mine? I’m practically panting against his shirt. I can smell him with every breath …leather and cedar and warm, clean skin and something under that’s just him. Just Beau. The scent that’s been living in my head since the fair and is now soaking into my clothes, my hair, my skin.
This isn’t dancing anymore. This is foreplay with a two-step.
And we’re in public, in a bar full of people I’ve known since high school. With his brothers twenty feet away. And my best friend watching from a high-top like she’s livestreaming this.
I need to stop. I need to pull back and sit down and drink my lemonade and act like a grown woman with grown children and a shred of self-respect.
Instead, my hips roll against him. Tiny. Involuntary. A slow grind that drags his cock right against my belly and sends a bolt of heat straight through my clit. Beau’s hand tightens on my waist. His breath catches against my hair…a sharp exhale through his nose that I feel on my scalp. And he presses back. Firm. Deliberate. Letting me feel every thick, hard inch of what’s waiting for me.
