Page 117 of Colt

He shrugs, looking so adorably delicious that I have to resist the very strong urge to go up on my toes and kiss him.

I’m not gonna be the girl who breaks all her rules for a cowboy she’ll never see again. So instead, I lean in and bite his neck.

Naturally.

His hand finds my nape. “You’re playin’ dirty.”

“We never set any rules”—I gasp when he digs his thumb into the tender spot where my neck slopes into my shoulder—“other than to detest each other.”

The band breaks out in the first notes of a song I immediately recognize—“Boot Scootin’ Boogie.”

“Wanna go detest each other on the dance floor?” he asks.

I grab his hand. “Sure. But only because I love Brooks & Dunn.”

“Aw, now that ain’t fair. No one can hold a candle to Kix and Ronnie.” He twines our fingers.

He’s always doing that—always making me feel breathless. “You’re a fan too, huh?”

“What kinda cowboy would I be if I weren’t?”

“Not one I’d dance with.” I give his hand a tug, and this time he’s the one following me.

I start to move my hips as we walk, adjusting my grip on Colton’s hand so I can hold his arm over my shoulder. We step onto the floor.

I’m about to pull him closer when he’s suddenly pressing his front to my back. He’s moving his hips too, and then he drops my hand to reach around so he can flatten his own hand against my belly to pull me even closer.

My body pounds at his nearness. At the confident, easy way he moves with me, touches me. The way he takes the lead, ducking his head so he can scrape his lips against my neck. At the same time, he rolls his shoulder, using his bulk to get me to roll mine too in time to the beat.

“Fuck.”

I don’t realize I’ve said the word out loud until Colton chuckles in my ear. “What, Dallas?” He has to shout over the sound of the band.

I turn my head to find his face half an inch from mine. My eyes immediately flick to his mouth, which looks very full and very inviting from this angle.

Just do it. But I can’t.

I won’t. I learned the hard way how kissing is the most dangerous game of all.

“You’re not supposed to be a good dancer.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re—you were—a block of freaking stone.”

“I can make a joke about being hard if that’d make you feel better.”

You make me feel better just by being you.

I’m laughing and so is he, and then he’s spinning me around in his arms. He’s curling his arm around my waist, his beer pressing into my side as he grabs my free hand.

Then he’s somehow moving us around the packed dance floor without bumping into a single person. People watch as we pass. Some stare. Several women—and a few men—check out Colton.

I get it.

I can’t stop smiling. He holds up our joined arms, encouraging me to twirl, and I go for it. Because why not?

Because this man seems to find anything and everything I do a serious turn-on.