by K. K. Allen
“I’ll keep ’em coming, then.”
I tip my head, and she starts to walk away. I watch her sway as she goes, realizing my physical attraction to her is more intense than ever. I’m taking in every detail of her movements, of her body. She’s got length made for the runway and enough curves to make a fantastic lingerie model. I’m not ashamed to admit I’ve given a proper assessment to her ass and tits, and I’ve determined they are the perfect size. I can almost imagine how they would feel in my palms. But imagining isn’t enough for the raging hard-on making an appearance in my jeans. He’s restless and hungry. Fuck that. He’s starved and triggered by the sun-kissed brunette beauty looking entirely too hot to be single.
By the time the opening act starts playing, I’m buzzing pretty well off of two drinks. I need to slow down, but Maggie brings me another one without me even requesting it. “Don’t worry, Chef, I’m counting your drinks. The first one was pretty weak, so let’s just say this is number two.”
“Uh, no.” I shake my head. “A rule is a rule.”
She narrows her lids and twists up the corner of her mouth. Adorable as fuck. “Okay, fine. But I’m more than happy to take one for the team and drive you home tonight if you have one too many.”
Her words are so innocent, and for the first time since my last shit-faced experience in high school, I’m tempted to test my limits just so I can have an excuse to let her take care of me. That would be something. Besides Coach and Zach, I feel like it’s been me taking care of the world for as long as I can remember.
But instead of saying any of that, I give Maggie a wink and lift my new drink to my mouth. “Sorry to burst your bubble, darlin’, but you’re not driving my car. In fact, I think you just gave me all the more reason to stop at number three tonight.”
She pushes away from the table with a huff and a laugh. “I’ll be back by before my shift ends, and then we can get closer to watch the show.”
I nod and watch her walk off again, but this time, I notice I’m not the only one. A group of guys a few tables away are following her movements with their beady little eyes. One of them reaches his hand out to stop her as she goes by. I sit up straight, ready to swoop in and pull his hand away if necessary, but I’m not needed.
Maggie takes an immediate step back, gives him a tight-lipped smile, says something, and walks away. The man shifts his stance, his cocky smirk dissolving into something resembling annoyance or discomfort. Maybe it’s a mixture of both since his friends are throwing jabs his way. Serves him right. And I should have known Maggie could take care of herself just fine.
The opener is on and off the stage within the hour, and just as promised, Maggie approaches me with not one, not two, but three drinks in her hands. Well, two of them are shots and the other is a vodka soda. I immediately start to reject them. “Whoa, Nelly.”
Maggie laughs. “Have one or none—I don’t care—but I’m taking a shot.” She reaches for a glass and lifts it to her lips while staring back at me, waiting. Before she can slam it back, I’m picking up the other shot and lifting it to my lips, mirroring her.
“This is number four. Who’s that drink for?”
She grins. “Me. I figure I have some catching up to do.”
“You figured right.”
We toss back our shots and set the glasses on the table. I reach my hand out to hers. She looks at it for a few seconds before finally slipping her small fingers inside of mine. I’m not surprised by how soft they are—most women’s hands are small and soft—but I’m surprised by how much I like the feel of hers inside mine, how they fit perfectly when nothing else about us in my life seems to fit.
We head into the crowd where a herd of concertgoers is pushing their way toward the front of the still-growing crowd. I start to move in their direction with the intention of getting us as close to the front as possible when I feel a tug on my hand and turn around.
Maggie is shaking her head and pointing at the side wall. “I’d be perfectly happy standing over there.”
I let her lead the way.
“Ah,” I say as I lean against the wood panel. There’s a clear view of the stage, and we’re free of shoving, sweaty bodies. “This is perfect.”
She twists and gives me a full-fledged grin. “I agree. And now I have somewhere I can put my drink.” She reaches over me and sets her glass on a tall, round table before facing the front, just as Matt Nathanson makes his way to the stage.
All eyes in the building are on him as he sits down at his piano. He doesn’t take a beat of a pause before he’s playing the opening melody of “Giants.” It’s an upbeat number with a chill vibe that gets the crowd moving. Arms are in the air, lips are mouthing the lyrics, and hips are swaying.
By the end of the first song, more people have made their way down to the main floor, filling all the empty spaces around us. Maggie doesn’t seem to notice at all. She’s still twisting her shoulders to the rhythm and singing every word to that song, and the next one, and the next.
My eyes keep flicking between her and the stage. She’s kind of adorable when she lets loose like this, oblivious to everything and everyone around her, including the prick from the bar who starts to inch his way closer. She didn’t seem to appreciate his advances earlier, so I don’t know what the hell he thinks he’s doing now.
The dude has the nerve to sidle right up beside Maggie, appearing drunk as fuck. I don’t even think Maggie has noticed him yet, but she scoots closer to me anyway. For the second time tonight, the guy doesn’t get the hint. He leans in, presses his lips right up to her ear, and starts to say something, causing her to jump.
I do what I should have done earlier tonight and place a hand on the guy’s chest to hold him back. Then I wrap my hand around Maggie’s arm and tug her closer until she’s standing directly in front of me instead of on the side. “Time for you to find another place to stand, dude.” My voice is calm, but there’s no misplacing my warning.
He gives me a look like I just threatened his life and cocks his head to the side. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” I give him a little push with my palm, and he stumbles back as if I socked him. Yup. Definitely drunk off his ass.
When his friends help steady him, he starts to charge toward me. His friends are smart enough to hold him back. Then they pull him away completely, earning me an unreadable glance from Maggie.
“What?” I ask with an upward tick of my jaw.
She bats those long, pretty lashes at me, feigning innocence, and shrugs before turning back around. I take note that she makes no move to stand beside me again. Instead, she wiggles her ass mere inches from my front. I try my damnedest not to inhale her sweet scent as I watch her move, but it’s impossible. She really needs to stop moving like that.
In a desperate attempt to distract her from dancing, I reach beside me to the table, grab her drink, and hand it to her over her shoulder. She sips on it, but her ass fails to stop moving, and I swear if it doesn’t, I will not survive this night.
The next song, “Faster,” is another upbeat one about the singer’s heart beating faster, and how his woman tastes like sunlight and strawberry bubblegum. The words might as well have been written by me about Maggie. The words speak directly to the pulsing between my legs, and my problem only seems to worsen.
Suddenly, I’m all kinds of curious about how Maggie would taste on my tongue. Just a sampler would do. But just like I do with my alcohol, I know I would have to limit it to just that one taste. Any more, and the drunk would be too much. I’m good at setting rules and at sticking to them. Maybe I could do that with Maggie too.
Her hips slow their sway slightly in front of me, but this time, she moves her hair over her shoulder, revealing a naked spot of skin at her neck, which my eyes fixate on. The way I imagine sinking my teeth into that tender spot while she gasps her pleasure into the air has me feeling like some kind of fucking vampire. But my thoughts are swinging like a pendulum, threatening. The weight is so heavy, th
ere’s no chance of stopping it on my own.
Not a chance in hell.
23
Run
Maggie
I can’t remember the last time I went to a concert and felt like this—free, floating, intoxicated from the music and the audience’s energy. There’s simply something magical about live music. It’s like the surrounding sound streams into my pores with a direct line straight into my soul. Six songs in, and I feel like I’m floating on the puffiest cloud.
I don’t stop moving. I can’t stop. It doesn’t matter if it’s a fast song or a slow one. My hips move with each beat as I down my drink then turn around to pass it back to Desmond so he can put it back on the round table. When my eyes connect with his, I realize he’s just as into the music as I am. He may not be dancing to every beat like me, but his eyes have been glued to the stage like it’s the most fascinating sight, and I can’t help but smile at him. “Having fun?” I shout.
He gives me an expressionless nod, but I can see a glimmer in his eyes that expresses something more than total indifference. I consider it a win.
“You?” he shouts back with an uptick of his brows.
My smile widens, and I swivel around to answer his question with a shake of my hips while raising my arms above my head. “Can’t you tell?”
Something dark yet endearing flashes in his eyes, something that halts my next breath. I should turn around. I know I should turn around. Focus on the music, Maggie. But my body doesn’t listen to the screaming voice in my head. My arms start to fall, and the sway of my hips slows, just as one fast song transitions into a slower one.
Timing is everything.
If I hadn’t turned around at that exact moment, then I wouldn’t be standing here now, locked in a dangerous gaze with a man I should find repulsive. This is the same man who refused to give me a cooking certificate that I worked for for three months. And the man who gives zero fucks about the history I share with my father because he idolizes the man.
The first verse of the song “Run” doesn’t help either because Matt Nathanson is singing about watching some woman undress. All I can think about is how Desmond is looking at me in that exact same way. His sharp blue eyes are burning so brightly, and I can’t seem to tear my eyes from him.
Then a body chooses that moment to slam into me from behind, pushing me into the man I’ve managed to keep inches of distance from since the night started. My palms find his chest to break my fall. “I’m sorry,” I say, feeling my face flush with my words.
What is wrong with me? Desmond is not someone I get hot and bothered over. He’s a jerk. A careless flirt. A cocky chef. And my beating heart only quickens because of it.
I tear my eyes away and start to take a step back, but he’s pulling me back toward him faster than I have time to think. I gasp and fall against his chest. My gaze slams into his and holy shit if his cold blue eyes don’t electrify every fiber of my being. It’s like shock therapy, reviving me from a sleeping spell I’ve been cast in for months.
I swallow and look down at my midsection, where I felt the pull, and find Desmond’s pointer finger hooked into the belt loop of my black jeans. His forefinger has a firm grip on it, so I look back up just as he’s leaning down and sliding his scruffy beard along my cheek. Chills shoot over my skin, and I inhale sharply. I don’t even trust myself to breathe right now.
“You didn’t answer my question.” He pulls back slightly and tilts his head, waiting for my response.
My brain feels foggy. “Huh? What question?”
His lips tip up at the corner, and there’s another gentle pull on my waistband. “Are you having fun?”
My heart won’t stop beating like it’s in a freaking track race. How am I supposed to answer that? I was having fun, unquestionably. But now… I have no clue how to make sense of my feelings. Why don’t I want him to unhook his finger? Why do I want to find a way to get closer?
“I am,” I shout back.
His brows crinkle in confusion, and he leans down again until I can feel that familiar scratchy feeling against my cheek. Then his next breath hits me in the ear, sending a wave of chills over me. Shit.
“What?” he asks, like he didn’t hear my answer the first time.
I swallow and turn my head so I can speak closer to his ear just as he tugs me closer. Our bodies are practically one now, every inch of space gone between us. I know I should hate it, but I don’t, not at all.
“I said I am,” I say, this time gripping his shoulders to help steady my position against him. “I can’t stop dancing.” I pull back, catching the smile that slowly spreads across Desmond’s face.
“I can tell.”
Heat spreads like wildfire through my chest, to my neck, then to my face. “I haven’t been to a concert in years.” I don’t know why I tell him this. It’s not like he needs justification for the fact that I can’t stop moving my body.
I don’t miss the way his gaze slides down my front and then back up. It’s so fast, I almost think I imagine it, but the way his eyes flash on mine again tell me this isn’t the first time tonight that he’s checked me out. He’s been watching me all night?
My cheeks heat again at my wishful thoughts. The fact that I’m even considering whether Desmond has been checking me out all night is preposterous. Of course he isn’t. But even if he was, I shouldn’t care.
“Maybe you should go more often. Where’d you learn those dance moves?”
I make a face and laugh. “I wouldn’t call those dance moves.”
“Well, whatever it is, I like it.”
He’s definitely flirting, my subconscious screams. He has been watching you. Yup, my face is burning. It’s probably as red as the Exit sign at the over Desmond’s shoulder. But when I feel the tug on my belt loop slack and I look up to see his focus has returned to the band, I’m filled with instant disappointment. It’s like a balloon just deflated in my chest, and I’m left with no choice than to turn back around in the middle of the most romantic song.
I swivel to face the stage only to feel Desmond’s hand snake around my body and slide over my belly. His palm flattens against me, and I feel another pull, this one less subtle than the one on my belt loop, almost possessive.
He leans into my neck and growls so intensely, I’m almost expecting him to swing me back around. But that’s not what he does. Instead, his voice penetrates my insides like a rush of adrenaline. “That asshole keeps staring at you.”
I look up and immediately spot the douchebag from the bar who thought he could put his hands on me and call me “sweet thing” as I walked by.
“Stay close to me, and he’ll get the hint.” Desmond pauses a moment. “Or I can let you go. Just say the word.”
His voice blows like a fire through me, and I push myself into him further, my back crushed to his hard front. His palm presses against me in response. This isn’t one of those moments in my life where I need to read between the lines to know if a guy is actually flirting with me or not. His touch, his deep gravelly tone, and his burning gaze—it’s all perfectly clear. There is absolutely zero question whether Desmond wants me as much as I want him. And if he’s not hiding it, then why should I?
“Feel free to move those hips again if you want,” he rasps in my ear.
My entire body quivers so violently, there’s no way he missed it. I’m not one to disappoint. I do exactly as he suggested. The song is slower, so my hips follow suit in a slow grind against him. I’m fully aware of the hardening of his body and the intense grip he has on my waist. I’m aware of the blur of faces and bodies around us that seem to belong to a totally different world now that I’m in Desmond’s arms. I’m aware of the song and how every lyric only seems to bring us closer together, if that is even possible. I don’t think it is, but it feels like we’re completely in sync, maybe for the very first time, fused together in a moment of passion that I couldn’t shake if I tried.
Meanwhile, his mouth is trailing from my ear, down my neck
, and into that sensitive place between my throat and my shoulder. His lips part slightly, just enough so that his warm tongue can snake out to taste my skin. Soon enough, his lips, tongue, and teeth are running a line back up my neck, and the moment I feel like he’s hardened completely, his teeth sink down into my skin, creating a wave of need and pleasure that pulse deep inside me. And then his hands start to roam. They find the edge of my tank, and his thick fingers slip beneath it.
I realize this is Desmond behind me and that there’s nothing between us more than whatever this physical, pulsing chemistry is. But damn, it has been a long time since I’ve been kissed. It’s been so long that I can’t even remember what it feels like to have a man’s lips on mine. And I would be a liar if I say I haven’t imagined the taste of Desmond’s lips in particular. In fact, it might have been the initial thought I had of him when my eyes found his for the first time.
When I met him, I remember seeing him as this tall, wild-haired, bearded man wearing an apron at the front of class. My pulse sped, my veins throbbed, and my entire being lit with an excitement I had to taper with a hard bite down on my bottom lip. “Now there’s a man who I’d let ruin my lipstick.” Those were my exact words to my sister, Monica, after spotting the hottie in an apron.
Unfortunately, the fantasy didn’t last long. All it took was a little background knowledge to sway my attraction, knowledge I’m forcibly pushing from my brain as he searches my neck with his teeth, lips, and tongue. It’s one swipe of gentle and sharp that causes me to inhale quickly as I twist to look at the man who has me completely lifted into a fog of sex and music.
Is it bad to want someone so badly that all sanity gets tossed out the window? Because I know, without pause, that I would give myself to Desmond right this very moment.
