She wasn’t interested in talking, however. I may not exactly be sober, but it took me about two seconds to realize that Liz was completely hammered, and she seemed intent on getting even more hammered. I tried to caution her, but she reacted about as well as I would, and, instead, I found myself downing shot after shot just to keep up, still hoping to get some answers.
I got nothing, and when Liz insisted on dancing, I led her over to the slightly quieter lounge area, in hopes of getting a few words in while she did. But she wasn’t hearing a damned word.
And she wasn’t really dancing, either; at least not in any way I’ve seen her dance before. Or in a way I’ve seen anybody dance without a metal pole between their legs, for that fucking matter. Instead Liz took teasing and seduction to a whole other level, and I started to wonder if she was going to try and fuck me right there on one of the empty booths. It was damned uncomfortable for me, but as she relaxed and loosened up, I tried one more time to get her to talk.
All I got back was her barely covered ass grinding against my uninterested dick, which was still semi-hard from watching Beth dance. When Liz grabbed for it right through my jeans, I finally lost my shit.
I pushed her hand away and put some distance between us. But just as I was about to snap at her, a strobe light flashed on her unfocused eyes, betraying a fresh coat of moisture she obviously didn’t want me to see.
Tears. Nothing makes me more uncomfortable than a girl crying. It would have been enough to back me off, but Liz turned on her heel and stomped away before I even had the chance, and I stood there gaping after her, wondering what the fuck had just happened. But it was clear I wasn’t getting through to Liz tonight, and I realized I probably wasn’t in the best state to keep trying, anyway, since I’ve been told I’m not the most patient drunk. So I sent a text to one of the bouncers working tonight, a BEG alum, to make sure she gets home safely, offering him my car if necessary—not much of a sacrifice considering I was already planning to Uber it home.
That was when I noticed the text from Reeve from a few minutes earlier, directing my attention to the dance floor.
I drop my hands a little lower on Beth’s waist, to where I found Steven’s hands on her body, and I rub my open palms just a little, as if they can wipe away his touch. The sight of her in his arms set me into immediate action, too consumed with rage and alcohol to pause for rational thought.
And Bogart is lucky for that. Rational thought wouldn’t have let me stop at just shoving him away from her.
He’s lucky I let it end where it did. He’s lucky he’s a brother. But that doesn’t mean this is over. He crossed a line, which he knows full-well—knew even as he was fucking doing it. My fingers tighten without conscious thought, gently digging into Beth’s skin, and I blow out a harsh breath, trying to release some of my aggravation along with it. I run my hands down to her hips, careful not to go out of bounds as I guide her to the music. Not that she needs any help—this is her element, and she owns it with a confidence that makes me grin with pride. That inch is still there between our hips, and the more we move, the more desperate I am to close it.
Vaguely I know this is fucked up. That I’m doing exactly what Steven just did, and thinking about worse.
But, God, her body was fucking made for this.
Tension coils in my belly and my dick desperately needs adjusting in my jeans, but I’m not sure there’s any hiding the situation she’s caused. If Beth has noticed, she doesn’t seem to care. She must be drunk. I’m fucking drunk.
She moves her hands to my biceps and slides them up toward my shoulders. It sends a shiver of heat through my whole body, and makes my jeans feel even tighter.
I suck in another deep breath, the tension coiling tighter and tighter…and then something inside me—something that’s been hanging on by a thread for years—finally breaks.
Fuck it.
If any man is going to get his hands on Beth, why shouldn’t it be me? Just because I’m—as one ex fuck-buddy once put it—not boyfriend material, doesn’t mean I’m some kind of fucking scumbag. I’m straight with girls. They know what—and what not—to expect from me. I may not be the kind of guy to look for a commitment, at least not at twenty-fucking-one, but I’m not like some of these other guys, who play girls and spit lies. I may have been accused of breaking a heart or two, but no one can say I break promises.
The pads of Beth’s fingers brush my chest, and I think she means to control the distance between us, but after the briefest hesitation, like she tried and failed to resist an impulse, they bunch into my T-shirt and draw me even closer.
I lean down on instinct, wanting not only our bodies closer, but our faces, too. I want to feel the heat of her breath, the smoothness of her soft cheek. Fuck, she smells good.
My hands slide back to her waist and around to her lower back, my palms spreading until my thumbs can feel her racing heartbeat through her rib cage. My pinky fingers are so close to her ass that, if they wanted to, they could easily cop a small feel. And fuck how they want to.
My cock is so hard I think it forgot it can’t have her, and she gasps when she inadvertently presses up against it. Part of me remembers why this isn’t okay, but most of me can’t help my satisfaction when she flushes from her cheeks down to her perfect cleavage.
My pulse is off the charts and every inch of me pangs with hunger—with a lifetime of starvation for this one fucking girl. My palm slides up her back until my fingers thread through the blond locks at her nape, my thumb stroking her delicate jaw.
I don’t know who stops dancing first, but neither of us does anything to unlock our bodies from each other as the mass of faceless strangers continues to grind and sway around us. I tug her hair gently and angle her face up to mine, my body losing a long-fought battle of restraint as I stare down at deep blue eyes that are fucking screaming with desire.
Fuck. That look.
My eyes drop to her mouth, and all I can think about is strawberry lava cake. Suddenly I think I’ll die if I don’t have at least one taste.
Beth swallows hard, her eyes reflecting a mixture of need and fear as I slowly lean down, unable to stop myself even if I wanted to. But I don’t fucking want to.
“So this is the reason you’re blowing me off?” A familiar, slimy voice rips me from my trance—and my mouth from its trajectory.
Beth flinches, her eyes going wide as they fix on a spot right over my shoulder, and I turn, careful to keep her shielded behind me.
“’The fuck are you doing here, Falco?” I growl at the last fucking person I want in my face right now. I’m drunk, and irritable, and horny, and confused as fuck.
But Falco looks right through me to Beth. “Not interested in dating anyone, huh?” he spits.
