Page 52 of Never Kiss and Tell

“I don’t dance,” I murmur, taking a drink from my tea.

“Well, you do now.” Bailey stands, holding her hand out to me. “You owe me.”

I shake my head, again, but it’s no fucking use.

“Do you want to dance, ma’am?” a kid asks, probably only eighteen, or so. His buddies are at a booth a couple rows down, snickering.

Bailey cocks her head at me, nodding to the boy.

“She’s dancing with me,” I grumble, standing from the booth. The kid tips his ball cap before taking off to his friends.

“See,” Bailey gloats. “I can get dates just as easily.”

Yeah, and if he would have touched you, he would have been a dead man.

I let her lead me into the mix of people as some sappy-ass country song comes on. The band’s singer isn’t too bad, but this song makes me think of some lovesick asshole, strumming away on his guitar after his woman leaves him.

I’ll admit, I’ve never slow danced. I didn’t go to prom. I didn’t go to homecoming dances. It just wasn’t for me. I let Bailey place my hand on her hip, exercising all my self-control not to feel the warmth of her skin through the denim of her shorts. She places her other hand on my shoulder and waits for me to move.

“I told you, I don’t dance,” I murmur, low enough that only she and I can hear.

Her gaze softens just a hair and she smiles, something about it hitting me square in the fucking chest.

“Just step back and forth to the music. Do whatever feels right and I’ll follow.”

What the fuck feels right anymore? I’m slow dancing with Bailey fucking Carpenter in a crab shack down on the bayou.

I start to move and Bailey follows along, her body moving under my hands like we’re fucking. Slow dancing — as it turns out — is like sex. Bailey sways with me, letting me lead even though I don’t have a clue what I’m fucking doing. I can’t lie to myself and say that holding her like this doesn’t make my pulse throb and my dick rock-hard in my jeans. Her scent’s everywhere, goading me and tempting me to break all my rules.

Her soft blue eyes peer up into mine and the overwhelming need to kiss her drives me insane. I pull her closer, barelymoving us, now. She licks her lips and I can feel her heart beating against her ribs.

“Charlie,” she whispers, her voice so quiet, I can barely hear it. Her eyes flick from my eyes to my lips and back. “I think this was a mistake.”

Mistake?

“I told you I don’t dance,” I repeat back, holding her palm close to my chest.

“I’m ready to go now.”

The song ends and she pulls away from me, practically sprinting back to the table to grab her things.

Dazed and confused, I follow her, throwing a couple twenties on the table and hurrying out the door.

“Bailey,” I snap. Her back’s to me as she hurries to the truck.

“I’m tired,” she mumbles as I unlock the truck and open the door for her. She won’t look at me.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I grit, walking around the back of the truck.

Bailey

It’s not until we’re on the backroads to home that Charlie asks me what’s wrong.

“So, what did I do, now?”

“I told you, I’m tired,” I grumble sinking into the warm leather seat.

Truthfully, I’m pissed at myself for asking him to dance with me. It was too intense. Too . . . intimate.

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