His kiss—oh, his kiss. It’s all the things: all of them, all at once. Gentle, tender, demanding, fierce. It’s curious and knowing, haunting and my salvation. But it’s his hands, his body, his leg between mine, that easily skittle every single ounce of intelligence I possess, making it impossible to do or want anything beyond this. To even remember my own name, let alone the reasons I’ve been fighting to keep him at arm’s length.
Because Beau Donovan is, quite frankly, just way too much. Too much beauty, too much strength, too much charm and charisma, too much masculine energy, too much of that perceptive gaze, that knowing look, too much all round. Beau Donovan isdangerous, just because of who he is, and who I am, but I still don’t pull back.
A voice floods the air between us and at first I don’t recognise it as mine. It sounds so unlike me. So rent with passion, so flooded with need, that I sober for a moment, tilting my head up, my eyes finding his, no doubt shock in my face. ‘What the hell are you doing to me?’ I demand, but inwardly I pray that he doesn’t stop.
For once he doesn’t make a joke of it. The air that had tightened with tension before, when we were arguing over something stupid, is thick with it still. Only now it’s tension and need, a white-hot ache that throbs from my belly to his. As if to prove me right, he grinds his hips against me, so I feel his hard cock, the proof of his desperation, and bite back a groan.
‘Whatever it is, you’re doing it right back,’ he mutters, and pleasure bursts through me.
Until another voice reaches us, and then another.
‘Yeah, Beau, baby!’ someone shouts from the other side of the parking lot, followed by laughter and then a curse, as one of the guys across the asphalt stumbles on his own feet. It’s like being ripped by your hair out of a dream.
I put my hands to his chest and push hard. At the same time I spin around, shielding myself from view. Hey, it’s not like anyone here knows who I am. Outside of the world of journalism, I’m a nobody—and even in newspaper circles, the only reason my face is recognisable is because I happen to be the daughter of a world-famous reporter. Still, the voices are like a burst of sanity, finally reminding me of all the reasons that Iknowthis is a bad idea.
I can’t catch my breath.
I can’t think straight.
I’m still burning with a twisty, desperate hunger; heat slicks between my legs and my breasts ache for his touch. But I’m starting to feel like myself again. To remember not just why I have to avoid Beau like the plague, but why I need to avoid all goddamn men. Kirk taught me a lesson the hard way, and I suppose I should thank him for that. It’s one I’ll never forget.
Men like Kirk—and maybe even Beau—only care about getting what they want. They look after themselves, first and foremost.
Even as the thought comes into my mind, I know it’s not fair. Beau’s not like that. You don’t have to be a genius to see the way he looks after others on the tour; the way they all speak so highly of him is further proof of that. In fact, doing my research I couldn’t find anyone who had a bad thing to say about him.
But he does have a reputation as a ladies’ man. The kind of guy who hooks up in his spare time, fucking around like it’s a championship sport in its own right.
And? What’s the problem with that? It’s not like I want more from him. I was the one who said this didn’t mean anything—and it doesn’t. Beau Donovan is some bull-riding cowboy, and I’m destined for Washington, DC, no matter what. My future is covering the politics of the nation, his is … well, frankly, I don’t know. That’s probably the kind of thing I should be focusing on, not how quickly he can undress me in a freaking public parking lot.
‘Bailey.’ His voice is a deep, rumbling caress from just behind me. I don’t realise until I catch sight of us in the reflection in the window that he’s moved his body to shield mine fully. Protecting me. Which doesn’t surprise me at all, come to think of it.
I let my eyes drift further along the window, looking for the group who’d surprised us, but they’re nowhere to be seen now. I spin around, wishing I didn’t want to pick up right where we left off. Wishing I didn’t want to say something to placate and reassure him. To tell him that it’s fine, not his fault.
Holding onto my anger is a way better defence, even when I know that anger is aimed more at Kirk—and all the men like him—than Beau.
He looks at me—no, he looks through me—those intelligent, assessing eyes flitting across my face, his expression shifting to one of contemplation, and then acceptance. ‘Let’s get you back to the hotel, Bailey James.’
And that’s that.
Disappointment is a fast-rising tide. I nod swiftly, lips pressed together, but say nothing. I don’t need to. Instead, I slip into the passenger seat of Beau’s pick-up and buckle my belt with a sudden, jerky movement. The leather creaks beneath me, a quiet protest. A moment later, I’m joined by Beau, all big and broad, hot and impossible to ignore now that I know what his mouth and hands feel like. My own mouth goes dry as memories of what we just did slam into me, ricocheting through my body, tormenting me with their fullness.
We drive in silence, and the air seems to crackle; it’s charged by what we’ve just done, by what I think we both wish we were still doing. Because even as sanity is reasserting itself, there’s a drugging sense of need, and it’s making me want to reach out and put my hand on his knee, to feel his strength through the fabric of his well-worn jeans.
He drives as though the car is an extension of himself, and there’s something so sexy about his contained power. He doesn’t need to break the speed limit to show off, despite the power of this huge truck. He’s confident and understated, and it makes me feel … safe. He slows down at an intersection, moves his hand to the side of the wheel and flicks on the indicator. The ticking noise seems unnaturally loud in the silence of the car.
I force myself to stare out of the window. If I don’t, temptation will get the better of me. And that would be really stupid. Just like the kiss was stupid. I can’t keep lying to myself, and pretending I don’t feel what I feel. For the first time in a long time, parts of me are stirring to life, demanding indulgence. Parts of me that are feminine and sensual, that want, more than anything, to succumb to the persuasive pull of lust. I genuinely thought that side of me died the day I learned of Kirk’s betrayal. How could I ever trust another man enough to want him? To want to make love to him, and surrender to his touch? To surrender parts of myself to the madness of passion?
Maybe enough time has passed for me to finally accept that I can be with a man without it taking me over, as it did with Kirk.
Or maybe it’s just Beau …
I worry at the cuticle of a nail, nervously fidgeting, as the city passes in a blur of lights and advertising billboards. This is the third night I’ve seen Beau, and I’ve spent pretty much zero time interviewing him for the article, and every minute obsessing over how much I want him. Which means I could currently write a great article about how well he kisses and fills out a pair of jeans, but not a lot on anything else.
The article is why I’m here. The article that will go in the weekend magazine, for god’s sake, and might even be my ticket out of sports reporting.
He pulls the car up out the front of the hotel and cuts the engine. Silence stretches between us. I open my mouth to say something, but what? I close it again, reach for the door handle. I hear him do the same, his door opening, closing, the steady thud of his boots on the drive, then the arrival of a hotel valet. Beau hands the keys over before putting his hand on the top of my door, so when I step out he’s right there.
I look around, wondering if there’s anyone here who knows him, or me. Who might know what we just did in a parking lot across town. Lights from the hotel’s sign streak across the bonnet of his truck; the night air smells of summer and magnolia.
