I lift my chin. If he wants to dance, then it will be on my terms. “One dance.”
Challenge flares in his gaze, and my skin tingles at how the color of his irises deepens. “Two.”
I don’t break eye contact, and neither does he. In the low light, his eyes gleam like a beautiful aged whiskey.
“One,” I repeat, and I won’t say it again.
For a moment, I think he’ll argue, push me to change my mind. Instead, his chin dips in acceptance. “One it is.”
As I place my hand in his, a little zing runs up my arm. His calluses scrape along my skin as, curling his fingers around mine, he leads me to the packed dance floor.
The smell of sweat and perfume melds into something darkly intimate. He spins me around once before capturing my waist and tugging me close, his hands resting on my hips, the top of my head skimming beneath his chin.
Then we begin to move.
The bass beats through my blood, a low, thrilling pulse. My head is full of threads that I might pick up and analyze too closely, like how I should be using this time to work on my thesis or prepare for the upcoming semester, but I quickly and thoroughly shut them down. For once, I don’t dwell. I don’t think. I just feel.
He’s taller than me by a good four or five inches, even in my heels. His build reminds me of a swimmer or long-distance runner, long and lean and fluid. Tentatively, I coast my hands up his chest to grip his hard shoulders, his skin hot beneath the crisp fabric of his silk shirt.
The music picks up. The crowd cheers, pressing in.
We are body to body.
Skin to skin.
We move together, and it’s eerie how natural it feels. He’s the earth and I’m the moon. We draw near one another, helpless to resist. I don’t understand it. It’s a deeper feeling, something neither of us can see, writhing beneath our skin.
A slow flush builds, spreading through my arms and legs and face. I’m breathing harder, both from exertion and the brand of his hands as they slide from my waist to my lower back, his touch both gentle and rough. I shake my head to dispel the feeling of lightheadedness that’s overtaken me. It’s like I’m under some kind of spell. Which is crazy. I haven’t spoken more than ten words to this guy. But no one has ever looked at me with so much blatant desire, not even my ex-boyfriend of three years. Maybe that’s why my body is having such an extreme reaction. I’m just not used to the attention.
The tempo drives forward, faster and faster. Someone laughs maniacally. The crowd whoops and descends into frenzied chaos, and the dancing turns into something far more instinctive and sexual. Darker. Dirtier. The energy in the room is electric.
Our chests brush, touch, press together.
He watches me beneath half-lidded eyes, attention locked on my mouth. We don’t speak. There’s no need. We let our bodies do the talking, and the more we touch, the more my skin sings. As my fingers drift down his taut abdomen, I feel his muscles contract.
Eventually, the music winds down, drifting into something slow and intimate. I try to pull away, but he tugs me closer so our lower bodies mold together. I bite down the gasp that nearly flies out of my mouth at the hardness of him pressing into my belly, the ache of my nipples as they brush against the fabric of my blouse. His mouth touches my temple.
Heat pulses between my legs, and I squeeze my eyes shut, head swimming. I said it was only going to be a single dance, right? I thought I told him that. And yet I can’t get my hands to leave his body. And it is such a beautiful body. Lord help me, I even allow my cheek to rest against the wonderfully wide plane of his pectoral muscle, the rhythm of his heart a dimmer, softer beat than what currently pulses in the air.
His palms slide lower, the tips of his fingers just skimming the upper curve of my bottom. I’m intimately aware of every place we touch. Chest, stomach, thighs. It’s crazy, but I want more.
“What’s your name?” he murmurs, voice low. It’s warm and resonant and slides through my blood like the best of drugs.
I shake my head, trying to put a few inches of space between us, but there’s little room to breathe, much less move. Around us, couples sway side to side, though I notice a few are about two minutes away from tearing each other’s clothes off and going at it on the floor.
Peeking around his body, I spot Katie at the bar. She gives me a little wave before returning to her conversation with the man who stole my vacated stool earlier.
“Let’s just keep things simple,” I tell him, happy to hear my words don’t waver.
I feel his disappointment as if it’s a tangible thing. I expect him to argue, but all he says is, “If that’s what you want.”
Something flutters in my stomach, and I fight the urge to give in to it, to wrap my arms fully around his body. That’s the problem. I don’t know what I want. The longer we remain plastered together, the more my body convinces me that what I want is standing right in front of me. It’s ridiculous. This guy’s a stranger. I don’t know why I’m feeling so much when it’s nothing more than a dance in a shitty bar.
Thank God the song finally ends. I pull away without looking at him, saying, “Thanks for the dance,” then bolt for the bathroom, needing a minute to gather myself. Only when the door swings closed do I release a shaky exhale. The air is cooler here, drying the sweat on my skin.
Standing at one of the sinks, I stare into the mirror, at this girl who looks nothing like me. A flush colors my cheeks, my eyes bright and feverish. Six months ago, when I got dumped by my sleazebag of an ex, I locked my heart up tight with no interest in feeling anything for a good long while. Sure, I went on dates, but I never felt that deeper level of attraction, the way it feels for two halves to lock into place, like pieces of a puzzle.
But something about that dance—I don’t know how to explain it, but I’ve never felt that level of attraction toward anyone before.
I don’t want this. I don’t need this, to feel. It complicates things. School starts in two weeks. My last semester of university. Right now, my plate is so full it’s overflowing. Completing my thesis, getting my shit together. And let me tell you, I have a lot of shit to get together.
A minute later, the door opens. Katie reaches my side, touching my shoulder in concern. With the heels I’m wearing, the top of her head grazes my chin.
“Everything all right?”
“Yes,” I murmur, bending down to splash some water on my face. Too late, I remember the eye makeup. Great. Now I look like a raccoon.
Smiling, Katie helps clean me up. “That’s why I always buy the water-resistant stuff. You just never know.”
We manage to clean up my face enough so that it doesn’t look like I got into a fist fight with a lumberjack. My blue blouse sparkles and drapes in all the right places, the dark wash of my jeans making my legs appear longer and slimmer.
“Seemed like you were having a good time on the dance floor,” Katie mentions casually as she wipes the last bit of smudged eyeliner from my eyelids. “Did you get his name?”
“No, but he was nice.”
“Nice?” Katie laughs and shakes her head, tossing the tissue into the trash can. “Becca, that man was beautiful.”
No doubt about it, he was absolutely beautiful. I don’t think I’m being crazy when I say there was a definite spark there.
A look of concern appears on Katie’s face at my lack of response. “What are you thinking about? Are you worried about your thesis?”
Taking a deep breath, I meet Katie’s gaze in the mirror. She’s been my best friend since high school, when we were literally the only two people in book club—before, you know, reading was cool—and it’s been that way ever since.
I manage a nod, except it’s a lie. My thesis, which should be the first thing on my mind, is currently far down the list, hidden behind the image of Amber Eyes’ broad shoulders.
“Hey.” She rubs my back comfortingly. “Everything’s going to work out. You, Rebecca Peterson, are one of the smartest, most hard-working people I
know. Dr. Stevens wouldn’t have agreed to be your advisor if that wasn’t the case.”
The compliment warms me, and I smile.
Last semester, after taking a class on human sexuality, I became really interested in how physical appearance correlates with sexual attraction. I decided over the summer to focus my thesis on that concept. For example, tonight I dressed up and went to a bar, where many young, single twenty-somethings are looking to hook up. But what if I had dressed more conservatively? Would I have attracted the same attention by the same men, or different attention by different men? Or would I have attracted any attention at all?
I collected most of the data over the spring and summer, but I plan on using the first two months of school to collect the last of my data, mainly to observe the reactions men have around me in various attire. So far, I’ve written the abstract, introduction, methods, acknowledgements, and works cited page. What’s left is the results and discussion. If the research goes well, I’ll even have a chance to submit it to a few scientific journals. Publications will increase my chances of being accepted into a graduate program.
I frown at myself in the mirror. Music thuds through the walls. I wonder if Amber Eyes is still on the dance floor. I wonder if his hands are on another girl.
Pasting on a tired smile, I turn and adjust a few of Katie’s curls so they fall softly over her bare shoulders. I wish the thought of that guy dancing with other girls didn’t bother me, but it does. It’s for the best that nothing goes beyond this night. Graduation is only four months away. I can’t afford any distractions.
“Do you want to go home?” she asks softly.
I do. I really do.
After exiting the bathroom, we struggle through the horde of people blocking the hallway when someone grabs my arm. I turn and find Amber Eyes looking at me, his gaze serious. “You’re leaving.” It’s not a question.
“I am.” My face warms from his touch. “Long day tomorrow.”
His disappointment is unmistakable. I don’t understand why. I mean, I know why I’m disappointed. Look at him. As for me, well, there are plenty of beautiful women here. Honestly, I’m surprised he hasn’t yet burst into flames from the sheer number of heated looks he’s received. He probably has no idea that the only thing better than a naked man is one wearing a crisp button down with the arm sleeves rolled up.
“Well, here.” He presses a piece of paper into my sweaty hand. “That’s my number, in case you ever want to get coffee or, you know, you have a flat and don’t have anyone to call.” His teeth flash, straight and even and white. My stomach clenches in response.
I tuck the number into my small cross-body purse. “Thank you.” I clear my throat and back away with a half-hearted wave. “Have a good night.”
Katie and I exit Ray’s as more students pour into the bar. We walk a few blocks down the street to where we parked, the air still holding that insufferable summer humidity. The drive back to our apartment is quiet, and I rest my head against the passenger window, remembering the searing heat of Amber Eyes’ hands against my spine, the low husk of his voice as it ghosted across the shell of my ear. Even that small memory causes chill bumps to roll across my skin.
Digging the piece of paper out of my purse, I study the number he gave me. The handwriting is neat, clean. I brush a fingertip over his name. Mitchell Burns. Why does that sound so familiar?
Before I change my mind or convince myself it’s a bad idea, I insert his contact information into my phone, then shove it into my purse.
Katie’s voice startles me. “You got his number?”
“I didn’t ask. He gave it to me.”
“Are you going to call him?”
I shrug and think about all the work that still awaits me at home.
“You never know,” she says in a sing-song voice.
“Maybe,” I tell her.
But we both know I won’t.
Chapter 3
mitchell
The sun is brutal, beating down in scorching waves. The sky is perfectly clear, no clouds to give reprieve. With the temperature in the low nineties and nearly one hundred percent humidity, I’m about five seconds away from either vomiting or passing out.
Today’s torture?
Suicides.
The team is lined up at one end of the field, all thirty-two of us, and there’s not a single player who isn’t dripping sweat or heaving for air. Hands braced on my knees, I hunch over, strands of damp hair falling forward, my skin tight and itchy with perspiration. My legs tremble like wet noodles. Still five more of these drills to go. We already did ten, possibly twelve. I lost count after three.
Down the line, one of the players moans. It sounds like Antonio, our left mid-fielder.
“If you’re going to be sick, do it off the field,” Coach Michael booms, whistle half-hanging out of his mouth. The humidity must be making me delirious, because I swear he sounds smug. Which is bullshit. The man hasn’t smiled in probably ten years. He’s somewhere between ages forty-five and sixty, his chestnut hair shot through with gray. Despite his middle age, he’s fitter than most younger men, with a rangy build and deeply tanned skin from years spent on the field. He was drafted for the US Men’s National Team right out of high school. He not only helped the US Olympic Team win gold for three consecutive Olympics, but he led the US to a World Cup win. After retiring in his late thirties, he supposedly applied for coaching positions to stave off boredom, and has been yelling at us ever since.
Antonio apparently decides that, yeah, he’s going to vomit, and lurches toward a nearby trashcan, his retching making my stomach churn. Why the hell did I eat those chicken wings before practice?
Coach rolls his eyes. “Bunch of pansies,” he mutters. Then he blows his whistle. “Five-minute water break.”
Thank fucking God.
Stumbling over to the long, metal bench, I snag my water bottle and down half of it in one long gulp. The remainder I dump over my head, my skin sizzling in relief.
My right knee aches dully, but it’s been weeks since I’ve experienced any sharp, searing pain. My days spent in the weight room at the gym have strengthened the muscles surrounding my knee, and I can now run five miles without stopping before I start to overdo it. At practice, I only push myself to seventy percent. I’m still not where I was before the injury, but I’m getting there. Being unable to kick a soccer ball for six months has done wonders for my motivation. My drive has never been stronger.
Both Austin and Casey drop onto the bench beside me. They’re sweating so heavily it looks as if they’re melting. “Damned suicides,” Casey huffs, staring at his neon yellow cleats. He has a new color every semester. The brighter, more obnoxious-looking, the better. If they had a polka dot pattern, no doubt he’d be first in line to buy them.
“Someone’s been slacking off.” This comes from Phil, our general manager/water boy/cheerleader/part-time mother. He carries around a big black bag that could give Mary Poppins a run for her money. Seriously, anything you need, he has it. Once, I jokingly asked if he had a rubber chicken in there.
He did.
Casey slinks him a glare but doesn’t deny the barb. Usually he wakes up at the crack of dawn to jog a few miles before class, but for the past week he’s been sleeping through his alarm because he stays up all night watching Grey’s Anatomy.
Marshall, who’s about as short as Danny Devito, saunters over, a Gatorade in one hand. “The question is, did McDreamy propose yet, or was he chicken shit?”
“Dude, don’t spoil it!” This from Powell, a scrappy freshman with a mean left foot.
As the guys bicker like old ladies about the latest episode, I reach into my gym bag for my phone. No new messages or calls. My heart falls in disappointment, which is ridiculous. Just because I gave Blue Girl my number doesn’t mean she’d actually use it. She probably threw it away as soon as she got home. I haven’t seen her at Ray’s since.
Grimacing, I shove the phone back into my bag. Get it together. Sum
mer break was heavy on the physical therapy, but now that the season has started, the real test begins. I’ll need all of my focus and strength these next few months. They’ll either make or break my soccer career.
Behind me, Austin swishes water around in his mouth and spits it out. “No word yet?”
My teammates have now devolved into smack-talking one another. Coach is busy speaking on his phone, a fat vein throbbing in his temple. Austin watches me in that quiet way of his, the one that always makes my hair stand on end. The thing about Austin is I never really know how much he truly knows and how much he keeps to himself. He doesn’t speak much, but I’m sure he hears more that way. “What are you talking about?”
He blinks, looking at me like I’m an idiot. He’s probably right.
“I saw you talking to that girl, Mitch. I only ask because I’ve never seen you give out your number before.”
It’s true. I never give out my number. When I pick up women, I always ask for theirs, and they have no problem giving it to me. It puts me in control. I don’t know what I saw in Blue Girl that made her an exception.
A few minutes later, Coach orders us back onto the field. No one dares protest, because that might result in extra circuits after practice.
As Austin and I take our places near the goal post, I say, “I don’t know, man. She didn’t know who I was. She wouldn’t even give me her name.” Most girls usually recognize me, as men’s soccer is a pretty big deal at Duke. It’s not something I boast about. It just is. The fact that this girl wasn’t throwing herself at me, asking for an autograph or tickets to a game or a picture to post on social media was rather refreshing.
Coach bellows, “On three!”
“How are you going to find her again?” Austin asks, settling into position. A sweatband pulls his curly blond hair from his eyes. He squints his green eyes against the boiling sun.
“One!”
“I don’t know.” My cleats dig into the soft, green turf. “There’s a chance she might go back to Ray’s. Maybe for lady’s night.” Doubtful, but I haven’t lost hope.
Playing the Field ebook final draft Page 2
