I was so confused—really discombobulated was the word for it. This was like something out of a music video fantasy. (Did I forget to mention that my daydreams actually present themselves as music videos à la Paula Abdul’s Rush, Rush complete with glowing, imperfection-blurring lens filters?) I could only gaze up at him in wonder.
He leaned forward, and his forehead hit the rim of my hat. Scowling, he pulled it, the wig, and the beard from my head, dropping them to the floor.
“I like this costume,” he said in a low voice as his hands reclaimed their spot, his thumbs rubbing the area just above my hips like he was entitled to touch me and my body how he liked. The heat from his palms sent spiking shivers to my lower belly. “But I do not enjoy that hat.”
I’d known Beau for almost fifteen years, but had never imagined a moment like this, not in my wildest dreams. I hadn’t been lying when I’d told Claire my crush on Beau was complicated. My daydreams involved him and me saving people together, a team of rescuers—like the one time I watched as he saved two little boys from a rattlesnake. He’d always been patient, verging on saintly.
Basically, they were the neutered fantasies of a young girl with extreme hero worship.
But Beau didn’t look patient or saintly now, and he felt very, very real. Even in the murky dimness, his eyes sparkled like sapphires, like they possessed their own internal radiance.
His hands slid up my body then pushed my cape over my shoulders with a whisper-light touch. He removed the staff from my hand. I watched as Beau leaned it against the wall with care, his boots scuffing against the wooden floor.
“Jessica James, you’ve been giving me hot looks that are difficult to ignore.” He said this in a near growl, leaning a fraction of an inch closer.
I didn’t respond. I didn’t know what a hot look was, what it meant, or how to make it on purpose. Regardless, I surmised my inadvertent hot looks were responsible for our alone time. My heart twisted then leapt as he wet his bottom lip just before drawing the succulent flesh into his mouth, between his teeth, and biting.
That’s right, bite that lip.
I almost groaned.
I was maniacally and fiercely aroused, and I was completely ill-equipped to deal with these feelings.
A broken hymen while horseback riding at thirteen; lots of random kisses with random guys for fun and practice; a few inconsequential and forgettable gropings in high school and college; a drunken, laconic coupling in my dorm room with my physics lab TA last year. These were the pithy total of my adult sexual exploits.
In all honesty, I’d enjoyed the horse ride more than the man ride. At least the horse had been a stallion. Looking back, my lab TA was more like a Shetland pony—hairy and small.
Truly, I didn’t know what I was doing, what we were doing. This was beyond bizarre. If the Father of Calculus or Intrepid Inger had brought me backstage at the Green Valley Community Center, I doubt I would be having such divergent thoughts.
Instinct told me to tackle Beau, maul him before he discovered his error and tousled my hair like I was still a twelve-year-old. At the very least, the crazy part of my brain had made up its mind to tempt his mouth down to my chest. Nothing fantastic had ever happened to my nipples before. I was pretty sure I’d die a happy woman after Beau Winston did something fantastic to my nipples.
Speaking of nipples, I didn’t realize I’d brought Beau’s hand from my hip to my breast until hot sparks of desire radiated from where I pressed his palm against me, the only barriers between our skin, my lace bra and the thin fabric of my dress.
Beau stared at me, his mouth parted in stunned surprise. His eyebrows jumped, and his eyes widened at my forward gesture. I arched forward, again without consciously meaning to, straining to close the distance between our bodies, wanting to feel his hard against my soft.
And then I learned what a hot look was.
Because Beau Winston was giving me a hot look.
I wanted to label it as incendiary, but as it was the first hot look I’d ever been aware of receiving, I decided instead to make his hot look the baseline by which all other hot looks would be measured.
I didn’t get much time to mull over what units of measurement I would apply to hot looks—would it be Celsius? Calories? Watts? Voltage? Or lumens?—because Beau did three things, driving all thought and ability to reason from my brain.
First, his fingers at my breast worked, massaged, and caressed while his thumb brushed over the nipple. His hand felt greedy, rough, and fantastic.
Second, his other hand reached around, gripped my bottom, and squeezed as he brought me against him.
Third, he kissed me. Beau Winston was a helluva good kisser.
And, oh God, parts of me tensed, clenched, braced in a completely new way, a way that made no sense at all, but sent all the amorous flutters diving straight to my pelvis and heat to my lungs. I was abruptly starring in the music video for Beyonce’s Naughty Girl and desperately trying to figure out how to get Beau’s clothes off.
He dominated, pushing me against the wall, his hands under my dress, on the bare skin of my hips then into my lace underwear, grabbing my bare ass. Nothing about him was soft. He was hard edges, solid granite everywhere I touched. And I touched him. I touched him in a fevered frenzy because I didn’t know what the hell was going on or when it would stop. I hoped never. Peripherally, I heard my wizard’s staff clatter to the ground.
I’d always thought of Beau as a really, really nice guy. But he didn’t kiss like a nice guy. Not saintly in the least.
He kissed with dangerous and punishing hunger, his mouth greedy and demanding. He bit me—my bottom lip—then soothed and tasted the abused flesh with his tongue while grinding his hips against mine, his hard length growing against my belly.
“Fuck, Jess…,” he growled, then pulled his mouth from mine, his breathing labored. He bent to bite my jaw, lick my ear, suck the soft skin into his hot mouth while one hand pushed my little gray dress up to expose my lace-clad breasts. The fingers of his other hand danced around the hem of my panties but moved no farther. I felt his hesitation and I clawed him. I dug my nails into his shoulders and bucked instinctively, wanting him to touch me.
The non-crazy part of my brain told me I was going to be seriously mortified by my behavior at some point in the future, but crazy was now the overwhelming majority. Sanity had lost the popular vote.
In response to my crazy, he tugged the cup of my bra down. Then his wet mouth was on the center of my breast. Then his tongue swirled over my nipple as a tortured-sounding moan rumbled in the back of his throat. Then I panted because it was fantastic.
I reached for his white shirt, drawing him closer, and tried to roughly pull it off. He acquiesced, helping me remove the material, as my fingertips fumbled for the hem of his boxers then delved inside. This was easily accomplished since the coveralls were only loosely held up by the long sleeves tied around his waist. My hand closed around his hard length, and he sucked in a startled-sounding breath, releasing it raggedly as I stroked him.
“Oh, God..,” he breathed, his eyes moving back to mine. I’d expected to find them dazed with desire, instead he looked a little shocked, panicked even. “Wait, wait a minute.”
He reached for my wrist, and I saw his intentions clear as day. We were moving too fast. He was going to put on the brakes.
But the thing was, crazy didn’t want brakes. Crazy wanted acceleration. Crazy wanted velocity. Crazy wanted reckless, heedless, crazy, passionate sex with Beau Winston. And crazy wanted it right now, against this wall, at the Green Valley Community Center, while children trick-or-treated and Mrs. Sylvester traded recipes for blueberry muffins, ignorant to the fervent and erotic moment on the other side.
I stroked him again, pressing my chest to his and lifting on my tiptoes to bite his neck. He shuddered, moaned, his hips instinctively jutting forward and into my palm even as his fingers tightened around my wrist and gently tried to force my withdrawal.
Instead
, with my dress bunched up under my armpits, I rubbed my body against his; my thumb circled the head of his erection. With my other hand I brought his fingers back to my panties, pressing them over the fabric and against my center, and I nipped at his parted lips.
His breathing was labored, and he moaned again, cursing. Beau’s eyes were squeezed shut like he was trying to separate himself from what was happening, like he was trying to strengthen his resolve…like he was losing control.
Abruptly, and with an audible growl, he yanked my hand out of his boxers and turned, walking ten steps farther backstage and away from me.
I felt the loss of his heat first, then the loss of his touch. I didn’t try to pursue him because I felt dizzy, disoriented, and out of breath. Instead I leaned against the wall at my back, closing my eyes. My body hummed and protested the loss of promised fulfillment. I don’t know how long I stood there, gulping air and trying to figure out what had just happened and why it ended.
Eventually I heard him say, “Goddammit…” Again, like a restrained roar, his voice closer than I’d expected.
I opened my eyes and found him standing a few feet away, shirtless, hands on his hips. His chest visibly rose and fell as he breathed. His gaze flickered over my body then to the floor of the stage. Numbly, I adjusted my bra to conceal my breasts and tugged my tiny dress down to my thighs, allowing myself to devour his muscled torso, the ridges of his stomach, the plane of his hard chest.
I wanted to touch him again.
“Jessica, you have got to stop looking at me like that.” He sounded irritated, desperate, catching me by surprise and pulling my eyes back to his.
I was startled to find that his teeth were clenched, his eyes were flashing; however, despite that he’d just reprimanded me for how I was looking at him, Beau was giving me an extremely hot look. Regardless of his words and the fact he’d been the one to end our frantic grope-fest, he appeared torn. He appeared to be struggling.
He appeared to want me very, very badly.
I stared at him, mystified. The realization of his want paired with the reality of the last several minutes caught up with the here and now. He was watching me as I was watching him. My stare was undoubtedly one of inviting and anxious expectation; whereas his glare oscillated between blatant desire peppered heavily with longing, and then fierce frustration.
I waited silently, witnessed his resolve waver, watching his eyes lose focus as they moved beseechingly between mine. He was still breathing hard.
He took a step forward as though pulled, stumbling in a daze, had no choice; words tumbled from his lips in a rush, “Jessica, I’m not who you think I am and—fuck it all—but I want you, I’ve always wanted you, and I can’t do this without you knowing—”
“Duane, you dummy. Are you back here?” a man called from my left, and I heard the telltale sound of boots on steps.
My eyes bulged.
My jaw dropped.
My breath caught in my throat.
And my head whipped to the side and toward the newcomer.
It wasn’t that I feared getting caught in a heated moment, not at all. The cause of my intense shock was the sound of the approaching voice. It was Beau’s voice.
“Are you back there?” The steps slowed, then stopped. Beau once more called out to Duane, “Should I… uh, do you need some privacy?”
My body jolted as understanding punched me in the stomach. The ice bucket of reality quelled any hot looks or hot feelings and I was left cold. So very, very cold. I turned my attention back to the man of my dreams.
Except he wasn’t.
My companion was most definitely not Beau Winston—hero, world’s nicest guy. No, no, no. This man was not Beau. This man was Duane.
And this man had just done fantastic things to my nipples.
Chapter 2
“The road that is built in hope is more pleasant to the traveler than the road built in despair, even though they both lead to the same destination.”
Marion Zimmer Bradley, The Fall of Atlantis
~Jessica~
As soon as our eyes tangled, Duane winced—almost like I’d sucker-punched him—and he turned away. I watched his muscled torso and chest rise and fall with an expansive breath just before he plucked his shirt from the floor and pulled it on.
He cleared his throat then called out, “Yeah, a little privacy would be nice.”
“Who’s back there with you? Is it Tina?” Beau’s deep, velvety chuckle met my ears, and my stomach twisted painfully.
I felt like I was going to be sick. My eyes drifted shut; the back of my head hit the wall behind me. My chest seized. I was so stupid. I wished for a black hole to open up under my feet and swallow me, send me to the other side of the universe.
Tina was, of course, Tina Patterson. Duane’s girlfriend. Or ex-girlfriend. Really, keeping up with their on-again, off-again relationship was inviting whiplash. She was also my first cousin on my daddy’s side as well as my best friend in elementary and middle school; but we’d gone in different directions since.
“None of your business, dummy. Go away,” Duane answered his twin; his voice sounded thick, gravelly, and I felt his eyes on me though mine remained firmly closed.
“All right, all right. Fine. Tell Tina I say hi, but we’re leaving for Bandit Lake in twenty minutes.” Beau's response was paired with the sound of boots descending the stairs.
The first notes of a new song played between my ears: Radiohead’s Creep. Ice entered my veins even as a mortified flush spread up my neck, over my cheeks to the top of my head. Gritting my teeth, I opened my eyes and glared at Duane Winston.
If he thought I’d been giving him hot looks before, then my look now was the polar opposite. I was aiming for the equivalent of midnight at the arctic pole during the winter solstice.
His hands were on his hips, and I watched him slowly nibble on his bottom lip, like he was tasting it, like he was tasting me. His eyes were on the floor of the stage, his breath beginning to even, though not yet completely normalized.
A weird thought occurred to me, making me feel hot with guilt and shame: I’d cheated on Beau, betrayed him in some way. Really, this was just more of my crazy thinking because my infatuation with Beau had always been extremely one-sided. I may have been ridiculous, but I was not deluded.
Regardless, the guilt, shame, and anger I was feeling meant I’d never wanted to stab and/or maim someone as much as I wanted to stab and/or maim Duane Winston in that moment. Therefore I was not surprised when I said the words I was thinking.
“You are such a bastard.”
His eyes lifted then, glittering sapphires that held just a whisper of bitter amusement buried under another hot look.
“Now she speaks,” he said flatly.
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Now you speak,” he accused, sounding so different to my ears.
Instead of the friendly and adorable Beau, I heard Duane. Sarcastic, sullen, snappish Duane.
“This whole time, since I walked over to you and Claire, you haven’t said a single word. Not when I took you away from your friend, not when I pulled you through the cafeteria, not when I brought you here, not when I had my hand in your panties and your tits in my mouth. But now, miraculously you find your voice.”
God, how I loathed him.
“You are such a bastard!” I repeated, louder and a little more violently this time as I pointedly tried to ignore the confusing, swirling, humming desire that still twisted in my belly. I used the lingering passion to fuel my anger.
“Nice to see you again, Jess. I admit, you’ve filled out very nicely,” his eyes blazed a path from my strappy sandals to my breasts, “but you’re just as bratty as ever.”
I charged forward and pushed against his chest. “You lying asshat! I thought you were Beau.”
Before I could claw his eyes out, Duane caught my wrists and walked me backward, against the wall, holding my arms hostage over my head; his body trapped m
e, keeping me in place. I tried to knee him in the groin, but he deftly sidestepped and pressed his legs against mine to keep them immobile.
“Ah, there now, Princess, we’ll have none of that.”
This unfortunate position meant that his impressive erection was digging into my abdomen and my breasts were flattened against his chest. Again, confusing, swirling, humming desire ignited, and I clenched my jaw to keep from rubbing my torso along his. Our eyes locked. His look was still hot but now tempered with something else, something that felt like contempt flavored with bitterness.
“I hope you wander into a hornet’s nest and die of an acetylcholine overdose,” I spat.
“You say the prettiest things.”
“Let me go!”
“Not until you calm down.” These words sounded exceedingly reasonable.
“Calm down? Calm down!?” I bellowed because I’d never been so angry in my entire life. I didn’t know how I was going to calm down. I might never calm down. I might spend the rest of my life as the five-foot-six, blonde, female version of the Incredible Hulk (so, She-Hulk, but not a lawyer). I wanted to smash everything, starting with Duane Winston.
“Yes. Calm down.”
“I AM NEVER GOING TO CALM DOWN,” I shouted in his face.
“THEN WE’LL STAND HERE FOREVER,” he shouted in my face.
I glared at him. He glared back. A storm of feelings whirled around and between us. I despised him, yet some nonsensical—obviously mentally ill—part of myself felt relief at the discovery of his duplicitousness.
Duane had never made me dreamy-eyed because he was definitely not heroic. Duane had made me tongue-tied, but only because he’d always made me mad. He wasn’t perfect, he was real. And he was an arrogant ass. Yeah, he was sinfully good-looking, but he was also argumentative and aggravating.
Nevertheless, and because crazy-brain was obviously still in charge, I desperately wanted him to kiss me again. Kiss me and touch me and pull my hair and bite the softest parts of my body. I wanted his hungry mouth and greedy fingers.
Fall in Love Book Bundle: Small Town Romance Box Set Page 3
