Page 93 of Fixing to Be Mine

I laugh into his shoulder and wrap my arm around him, breathing in the scent of cedar and skin.

London starts another song, slower this time.

He pulls me close, his hands steady on my hips, and leans in and kisses me. London’s voice swells as she hits the chorus again, and the whole crowd sings with her now.

When we pull away, he whispers, “I’m happy.”

“And I’m the reason?”

“Sweetheart,” he says as I take a sip of my martini, “you’ve been the reason for a while now.”

The gin goes hot in my throat, and it buzzes through my bloodstream, settling somewhere in my belly.

We talk for a little while—about nothing, about everything. I catch him watching me instead of listening. When I lift my glass again, his eyes follow the movement like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

“You’re staring,” I say.

“Can’t help it,” he replies. “You’re mesmerizing.”

We don’t make it through the second drink before I’m ready for him to throw me over his shoulder and take me home.

I shift slightly, and his thumb drags a slow circle across my skin.

“Colt,” I whisper, more warning than protest.

His gaze flicks to mine. “I need you to stop looking at me like that.”

I lift a brow. “Like what?”

“Like you want me to lose my damn mind in this bar.”

I take a sip, not smiling. Not denying it either.

Then I lean in and whisper, just loud enough for him to hear, “Then maybe stop looking at me like you already have.”

That’s all it takes.

He stands, reaches for my hand, and pulls me away from the bar without saying a damn word.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

STORMY

My heart hammers against my ribs, but I follow him past the pool tables, past the dartboard, down a dim hallway lined with scuffed walls and posters for events that already happened.

He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t have to. We slip into the single-occupancy restroom at the end of the hall, and the door slams shut behind us. The lock clicks into place with a finality that sends a shiver down my spine.

“Oh, was this on your list?”

“Yes,” he says. His hands are already on me, rough and desperate, as he pushes me against the countertop.

All I can smell is his cologne, his need, his fucking hunger. My ass presses into the edge, but I don’t care.

I want this. I want him. I want to help him cross things off his sex list, including that damn church bell.

Our kisses aren’t sweet or the kind that asks for permission because it’s already been given. The lines between us have been erased, and there are no more boundaries. There is no reversing last night.

His hands find my waist, then slide lower, gripping just tight enough to make me gasp against his lips. I fist the collar of hisshirt, dragging him closer, until there’s nowhere left to go but into me.

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