Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 114068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Duke starts to dance. It’s the kind of dancing I’d hoped to do that night we met at the Rattler: flirty, easy, fun.
He’s a good dancer, confident as he moves to the beat. His grip on my hips is firm, and he urges me to follow his lead by guiding my body one way, then the other.
The need between my legs flares hotter. Blares louder.
I glance up and see him looking down at me intently. The lenses of his glasses make his eyes look especially large.
Especially blue.
Our lips are inches apart. How does that keep happening?
My own lips throb with the desire to be kissed. He tilts his head—or maybe I’m imagining he does—giving him the perfect angle to go in for the kill.
How good would it feel to let him sink me into the sofa, the weight of his body making me deliciously short of breath as he kissed the shit out of me?
I look away. Look down at my feet, heart pumping.
“We’re gonna be just fine,” Duke murmurs, his breath warm on my cheek.
I nod. “You know, I’m still not over the fact that these guys were fakes. Milli Vanilli.” I glance at the screen.
“The nineties were apparently a wild time.”
I move and he moves, and I start to feel slightly better.
Better and so turned on it literally hurts. The more we move, the more adventurous his dancing becomes. I know he’s just trying to make me laugh with his exaggerated hip gyrations, and I do. I laugh so hard it leaves me breathless.
I throw up my arms and close my eyes and lose myself to the music, because why the hell not? It really does make me forget everything except the beat and the feel of Duke’s body pressed against mine.
It grounds me in the present, time moving heartbeat by wild heartbeat.
Duke must’ve used YouTube to put on this music video, because another one comes on right after.
I toss back my head and laugh, hard, when I recognize the opening notes of Salt-N-Pepa’s “Push It.” “I love this song.”
Duke bites his bottom lip and knits his brows, really going for a hip thrust. “It’s a classic for a reason.”
I hip thrust right back, and he bursts out laughing. I do that thing where I put my fists in the center of my chest and pump my arms. I’m sure I look like a lopsided butterfly, but I don’t care. What do I have to lose? It’s not like anything’s going to happen between Duke and me. Since I don’t need to play it cool, I can do whatever the hell I want without worrying what he thinks.
Duke turns around and sticks out his butt, shaking it. I pretend to give it several solid whacks, and he pretends to be into it, covering his mouth with his hand.
I do the Bugs Bunny. Or I try to anyway and end up backing into the sofa and falling over.
I don’t know who’s laughing harder, me or Duke, who once again is pulling me to my feet. Pulling me into his arms.
My sides ache, and so does my face from smiling. I put my hands on his chest.
“You win the dancing competition,” I manage.
He grips the backs of my upper arms. “You’re terrible at this.”
“I know.”
“It’s cute.”
“No, it’s not.”
His eyes bore into mine. “Yes, Wheeler, it is. You gotta know how cute you are.” He licks his bottom lip. “How pretty.”
My stomach takes a violent nosedive.
“Thanks?” I manage. The look in his eyes—it’s hot and hungry and so very tender.
Blinking, I look away and drop my hands from his chest. I step back, everything inside me rioting.
My blood riots at the loss of his touch.
My gut riots at the very real warning coming from my head: danger.
“I should probably hit the hay.” I bend down to swipe my phone off the sofa. “Just in case the trunk show happens at any point tomorrow.”
“Aw, really?” His voice is deep with disappointment. “But you’re such a terrible dancer!”
I don’t want to laugh, but I do. “Show’s over, cowboy. Sorry.”
“You’re really bumming me out here, Blue.” His eyes are earnest now.
He really does want me to stay.
He really is enjoying my company.
A whisper of something new moves through my head. Maybe I’m not as awful or nasty as I thought.
Maybe I’m still a bitch, but that doesn’t preclude me from also being warm and carefree and a damn good time too. Don’t we all contain multitudes?
Don’t be stupid. That’s another voice, one I recognize. My therapist told me it’s my miswired brain being mean—that it’s an echo of my dad’s voice and my brother’s.
“I’ll see you in the morning.” I grab my water and start heading for my room. “If, of course, we don’t get crushed by falling trees tonight.”
But truth be told, I’d rather the trees fell than I do.