‘I know it’s not the Ritz,’ he says, with that grin I love so much.
‘I don’t need the Ritz.’ I swallow but there’s a constriction in my throat. The air between us feels heavy and thick.
I take a step toward the bed, run my fingers over the crisply substantial linen. ‘It’s clean,’ I point out.
‘A good consideration.’ His smile suggests it’s not something he really cares about. My fingers trail over the foot of the bed, then drop off, dangling at my side. My limbs feel heavy, my brain woollen.
‘Where’s your room?’
I think he might be one of those people who has more developed facial muscles than is usual, because he barely moves and yet I feel like he’s conveying something with the smallest shift in his lips, eyes, nose.
‘Three doors down.’
I nod, like it’s significant.
He doesn’t move. ‘There’s a diner in town. The woman at reception says they do a good burger.’
‘I like burgers.’ It’s so inane I almost cringe.
He starts to walk toward the door and every cell in my body shouts at me to say something, to stop him. To jump on him, now that we’re alone. But no matter how much I want that, Kirk’s betrayal has a long shadow, and it leaves me reluctant to put myself too far out there. To show how much I want him, even when it’s true.
‘Great. So, dinner?’
No,I want to cry, but instead I nod. He smiles slowly as he turns to look at me then winks, and my blood turns to lava.
‘Beau?’ In the end, despite my intentions, his name emerges from me as a plea.
His expression is relaxed. Only the sharp rise and fall of his chest makes me wonder if maybe he’s feeling what I am too. Maybe he’s just better at fighting it. My fingers trail to the bed again, and this time his eyes follow the gesture, so his Adam’s apple shifts with how hard he swallows. I can’t look away from him, from the strength of his body, the lines that radiate command and power, the crispness of his shirt, the worn softness of his jeans, the leather of his belt, the bulge just beneath it.
I bite into my lower lip, to stop myself from shouting what’s going through my mind, to stop myself from begging for him. But it doesn’t matter. The air throbs with what I’m not saying; my need is a visceral pulse, filling the space. He moves then, stalking back toward me, and I stand there, as though held captive by what I want and he can give, by what I need.
A second later, his hands are on my hips, pulling me against his body and I let out a soft, low moan, a throaty sound of gratitude, because this feels so damn good. His hands are so large they seem to cover half my torso, his fingers pressing into me with just the right pressure, and then his head is dropping, his breath warm against my cheek before his mouth claims mine and I arch my back in a silent yet total surrender, grateful that we both know this is meaningless, even when, in the back of my mind, I’m starting to wonder if maybe it’s not.
Beau
Late afternoon light filters in from the high, narrow window across the room, creating a distorted diamond of gold on the dark brown carpet. I push up onto one elbow, looking down at Bailey James. Her strawberry-blonde hair is a streak across the white pillow, her cheeks flushed a pink that’s almost the same shade, her lips parted, eyes closed. But she’s not asleep. She’s trying to blot me out, I think, trying to blot out how good this feels. Or perhaps trying to wrangle it back under control.
Good for her.
If we let it, this could get way out of hand. I’m not talking from experience. Not really. All my life, I’ve found it easy to keep people—especially women—at a distance. Most like the fact I’m carefree and easygoing, no one expects things with me toget deep. Even with Ash, who’s always been one of my closest friends, I keep the real me partly locked away. The parts I don’t want anyone to see: the anger and resentment that simmers just beneath the surface, the grief. The grief that has shaped me in more ways than I really want to think about, especially now, with my body still humming from the pleasure of making love to Bailey all afternoon.
But the companion to pleasure looms like a warning: attachment, and I really can’t get attached. I can’t let her get under my skin. I can’t want more than what we’ve agreed this is. I won’t love, like my dad loved my mom, like we all loved our mom. I can’t get hurt again.
So I push the sheet off my naked body and glance about for my boxers. They’re on the carpet across the room, where I vaguely remember Bailey pitching them earlier. I smile to myself as I draw them on.
‘I’m starving,’ I say into the room, before turning. I should have taken a beat longer to prepare for the sight of her. The same sheet I was under a minute ago is draped over Bailey from the waist down, so her beautiful breasts are calling to me, all honey gold and full, the nipples peaked, with patches of pink from my stubble and where my mouth has sucked hard enough to leave a mark.
It stirs me up all over again, my cock hardening inside my boxers. She shifts a little in the bed as I watch, almost like she’s remembering what it was like to be together. Reliving it. I stand there, hands by my side, just staring at her, so I notice the second her eyes open and latch to mine, her lips parted on a silent, desperate challenge.
‘How starving?’ she asks huskily.
‘Bailey James,’ I mutter, striding back toward the bed, kicking out of my boxers as I go, bringing my weight over her. ‘You’re insatiable.’
Her eyes crinkle at the corners as she smiles. ‘You say that like it’s a bad thing,’ she teases, running her nails over my back as I prop myself up on my elbows either side of her head.
‘Definitely not a bad thing,’ I promise. Hell, I don’t know if I’d ever get sick of doing this with her. Of hearing her scream my name into the room, like she doesn’t give a shit who hears. Making her whimper and plead, beg for me, like I’m the only man on earth who can do this to her.
‘Kiss me, cowboy,’ she says, digging those nails into my ass, staring up at me imploringly.
