Page 78 of Every Beautiful Mile

He puffs out a soft laugh. “For the mountains.” His gaze holds mine, and the only sound is the music playing. “You know, Nel,” he finally says, playfulness returning to his voice. “It really isn’t a date without dancing.”

He sighs like he has absolutely no choice in the matter as my stomach plummets to the ground like a broken elevator.

Dance?

The thought of all that full-body contact with him is enough to make me self-combust.

“Are you kidding me? Here? No.” I face my palms toward him. “No dancing. That’s… that’s…” My voice is a high-pitched stuttery sound and the music that’s playing has turned to something upbeat, which makes me add, “and who dances to this kind of music?”

“We do,” he takes my hand. “Marin was adamant you have fun, and this be a date,” his pause is sly—methodical—and accompanied with a smug look. “Maybe even a walk of shame.”

I try to argue but my mouth doesn’t comply. I stay silent, and he pulls me close.

There, behind Ethan’s bar, I don’t resist. When the full line of his body presses up against mine, warmth shoots a path down the length of me.

What is wrong with me?

One of his hands finds the small of my back while the other takes my hand in his. I slide my other hand up his chest, around his neck and into his hair. Our hips sway and against every smart thing I should do, I lean into him.

Chest to chest, stomach to stomach, hips to hips.

The beat of the music is fast but the way we sway is slow—somehow it feels like it’s the only way to dance to this song even though it makes zero rhythmic sense.

The deep voice of a man croons into the quiet space over the speaker, and I’m not sure if I’m even breathing. I need to leave, but as if he can hear my skittish thoughts, Ethan pulls me closer.

I feel every hard line of his body.

Especially the one against my low belly that shoots a wanting panic firing through me.

His breath skims across my ear and shivers ripple down my spine. He’s so warm. The slight scruff of his jaw scrapes against me again, and all I can think about is touching his face with my fingers. It’s as though my fingertips have no use because they haven’t traced the lines of him.

I lift my chin with a shallow breath and search his face. His eyes drop to my lips, and on instinct, I lick them. The way my body physically reacts to this man is abnormal.

I need a doctor, a diagnosis, and more drugs than one pharmacy can legally provide.

I move a hand and place it on his chest—his heart galloping like a racehorse.

Thank God.

“Your heart is pounding.”

It’s a grateful whisper and laugh.

He mirrors my position. The only thing between his palm and my skin is the wedding band that suddenly weighs three hundred pounds.

“So is yours.”

His voice is as deep as the bottom of the ocean. The heated tension suffocating.

We stop moving and just stand in the low light.

He leans closer.

My breath hitches.

His parted lips skim mine, and I have to grip my hand around his neck to keep from physically collapsing.

His lips hover over mine, not in a kiss, but in something that’s so much more intimate I might die from the severity of it.

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