Page 10 of His Big Hometown Cowboy
His laugh vibrated right through me, a physical sensation against my chest. “Maybe.” His eyes locked with mine, suddenly serious. “Or maybe for when I finally got the nerve to askyouto dance.”
The raw honesty of his admission stunned me, my feet faltering for a beat. Had he really been planning for a moment he wasn’t even sure would ever arrive?
The song ended abruptly, replaced by the unmistakable opening chords of Ke$ha’s “Take It Off.” A collective cheer went up from the crowd as people quickly began organizing themselves into rough lines.
“Line dance,” Wyatt explained, his hands still firm on my hips as he guided me into a spot near the center. “Just follow my lead. It’s easy.”
The choreography started simply enough—grapevine steps, claps, turns, a little hip shimmy. I watched Wyatt and the dancers around us, trying to keep up. He moved with an easy, practiced grace that was both impressive and slightly intimidating. This wasn’t his first rodeo.
“You know this routine by heart, don’t you?” I asked, amused despite my two left feet.
“Might’ve done it a time or two.” His grin was infectious, pulling an answering smile from me.
Then the chorus hit—Everybody take it off!—and understanding dawned with a sudden, hot rush. All around us, in perfect, uninhibited synchronicity, guys were reaching for the hems of their shirts, pulling them off overhead, swinging them briefly before tucking them into back pockets or waistbands.
Wyatt didn’t miss a beat. While still executing a smooth turn, he unfastened the pearl snaps of his shirt with practiced ease, revealing glimpses of the hard, tanned chest beneath. I faltered, mesmerized as he shrugged the shirt off, baring the expanse of defined muscle, the dusting of dark hair that arrowed down his flat stomach.
He caught my stare, his eyes glittering with challenge, a wicked grin flashing across his face. “Your turn, city boy.”
Okay then. Challenge accepted.
With a surge of adrenaline and a little exhibitionist bravado fueled by beer and desire, I grabbed the hem of my henley. I pulled it over my head in one swift motion, the heat of eyes on my bare skin. Wyatt’s gaze darkened, sweeping over my leaner frame with an appreciative intensity that made my stomach clench. I stuffed my shirt into my back pocket, my heart hammering.
The dance continued, but the energy had shifted. The air crackled, thick with playful sensuality and the friction of bare skin moving in rhythm.
Half-dressed bodies swayed and turned, the synchronized movements taking on a primal edge. Every time the choreography brought Wyatt and me close, brushing bare shoulder against bare chest, the space between us felt electric, charged with years of unspoken longing finally breaking free.
When the song ended, the DJ seamlessly transitioned into something slower. Couples around us instantly melted together, arms winding around waists and necks, bodies swaying intimately in the dim, colored light.
Wyatt didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. He simply stepped forward, closing the space between us.
One large arm circled my waist, pulling me flush against his hard body, while his other hand took mine. The significant height difference became starkly apparent. My face was level with his collarbone, my cheek resting against the solid warmth of his bare chest. I felt utterly enveloped, dwarfed by his size but still secure.
“This okay?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble against my cheek, vibrating through me.
I nodded, incapable of speech. My free hand pressed flat against his chest. His skin was furnace-hot beneath my palm. His heartbeat hammered a steady, powerful rhythm against my fingers, a counterpoint to the frantic fluttering in my chest.
We swayed together, barely moving, my body fitting against his with a surprising, instinctive rightness. His thumb traced slow, lazy circles on the bare skin of my lower back, each deliberate stroke sending shivers chasing up my spine.
“Used to dream about this.” His lips brushed my ear. “Dancing with you like this. Just... holding you.”
I tilted my head back, forcing myself to meet his intense gaze. “Why didn’t you ever say anything? Do anything?”
“You were Travis’s kid brother.” His eyes traced the lines of my face as if memorizing them. The explanation felt thin, insufficient against the weight of his confession. “Always felt like crossing a line I couldn’t uncross. And then... then you were gone. Off to California, building this whole new life, doing amazing things.”
“I wasn’tthatamazing,” I mumbled. “And I’m back now.”
His expression softened, a tenderness that made my knees weak. “Yes,” he whispered. “You are.”
The tension stretched taut between us, a fragile, shimmering thing woven from years of stolen glances, unspoken desires, and near misses. It finally snapped.
His gaze dropped to my mouth. I knew, with sudden, heart-stopping certainty, what was coming next. What I’d fantasized about for years.
I rose onto my toes, meeting him halfway as he bent down. Our lips met. The first touch was hesitant—a question asked in the space between heartbeats. But when I pressed closer, my fingers curling instinctively against the solid muscle of his chest, the question was answered with a resoundingyes.
His kiss deepened—possessive now, demanding. One large hand slid up my back to cradle the base of my skull, tilting my head just so. The other splayed across my lower back, pulling me flush against him until I could feel the imprint of his belt buckle against my stomach. He tasted of beer and want and something uniquely Wyatt. His mouth was warm and insistent, exploring mine with a hunger that matched my own.
I’d been kissed before. Passionately. Skillfully. But never like this.
