Page 15 of No Kind of Hero
Over a fictional hero. Not a real man. In fact, she hadn’t been anything but stiff and frozen for so long, she’d forgotten what it felt like to get hot and bothered. She took a final sip of her beer, which was warm, and wanted another one. Except that she’d already had two.
“Oh, I think you did,” Dakota said, and Beth struggled to remember what this was about besides Evan towering over her and staring at her with those eyes. “I’ve got a big, strong man now, remember? You don’t have to be my hero anymore.”
“Funny,” Evan said, the growl still in evidence, but fading. “I was just telling myself that.”
“That’s a fail, then,” Dakota said.
Evan actually smiled. “Could be.”
Dakota sighed. “Sit down. Join us. I’d have asked you to come with us if I’d known you were going out. Where’s Gracie?”
“My mom’s at my place. Her air conditioner’s broken, so I thought, might as well have a beer.” Evan sat down, and this table was too small. His arm didn’t brush up against Beth’s, but she felt his heat anyway. Too close, and she reached for her beer to cool off and remembered it was gone.
“Uh-huh,” Dakota said, then pulled her phone out of her bag and glanced at it. “Blake. Be back in a minute.” And she took off.
Beth looked down at her glass again, then moved it around the table, tracing figures-of-eight in the condensation in a way she’d never have tolerated in herself during a client meeting. Evan sat silent a minute longer, then said, raising his voice to be heard over the band, “I didn’t hear her phone ring.”
“Being tactful,” Beth said through a throat that had tightened.
“I never saw you dressed like that, either,” Evan said. “Guess it’s new.”
“I can dress any way I want,” Beth said, then could have bitten the words back. How childish could she get?
“No,” Evan said. “You look good.” The waitress approached, and he said, “Hi. Whatever IPA’s on tap would be good,” then looked at Beth and said, “Want another one?”
She shouldn’t. She should keep her wits about her. Instead, she said, “Yes, please,” and gave her own order.
“You know,” Evan said when they were alone, “I came here to dance.”
“Well,” she said, trying to ignore his eyes, and his hand lying on the table too close to her own, “don’t let me stop you. I came here for the same reason, and you’re cramping my style.”
This wasn’t her. She was never nasty, never even snippy. Except that she’d just been exactly that.
Evan’s hand slid over to hers, touched it, and she forced herself not to jump and tried to pretend her nipples weren’t springing to attention like they remembered that hand and they wanted it. He said, “You bought the nail polish.”
She shoved a charcoal-gray-nailed hand into her hair and threw it back over her shoulder like somebody she wasn’t. “Like a badass.”
He smiled, the waitress brought their beers, and Evan took a long swallow, then stood up. “We could drink,” he said, “or we could dance. Like badasses. Since we’re both here.”
She shouldn’t do it. Absolutely not. But she was standing up, too, putting her hand in his, and getting another sharp, hot charge right down her body. And then Evan was leading her onto the floor, his hand settling over her back, right above the low waistband of her jeans, his other hand holding hers tight. Like before. Like she was his, and he wasn’t going to let her go.
Which was crazy.
He shouldn’t have done it. He hadn’t meant to do it. He definitely wouldn’t have done it if she hadn’t been wearing those boots.
Gray lizardskin cowboy boots with pink roses, the same ones she’d worn that night when she’d swung one of those long legs out of her bedroom window, dropped down and dangled from the sill by her hands for a heart-stopping moment, then fallen into his arms.
After that, she’d turned around with the boldness of the secret woman she kept bottled up inside, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him. He’d felt the silk of her hair between his fingers, her sweet, warm body against his, and had wanted, with a ferocity he could barely control, to take her away and do everything to her.
He could say it was youth, but it wasn’t. He’d been twenty-four at the time, not that young at all. He would’ve said, by then, that all his illusions were gone, but clearly they weren’t. Not when he’d run up the driveway with her hand in his, the heels of her boots making too much noise against the concrete, and she’d let out a breathless, excited giggle that wasn’t like Beth either. Or maybe it was. Like the Beth she’d barely shown him, the one she was finally letting loose. Because she trusted him, and because he excited her.
Not when she was behind him on the motorcycle, either, her breasts pressed tight against his back, her arms around his waist, and he was already so hard he was aching. When the wind and the roar of the big engine were filling his ears and all he could feel was the eagerness in the body behind him sending the message he needed to hear. And definitely not when they were dancing at Moe’s, the little tavern at the edge of the lake, and she was pulled up tight against him once more, her gray-booted feet sliding across the scarred hardwood floor in perfect time with his while the voices on the speakers sang about longing and loss and holding on and letting go until Evan had forgotten about the time and her parents and their future and every single reason this whole reckless thing was impossible. Until her mouth was at his ear, whispering, “Let’s go,” and he put her on the bike and took her back to his place.
Fast and hot and urgent, tumbling inside the door with her and shoving her up against it, kissing her, yanking her clothes off while her inexpert hands tugged his shirt up and ran over his chest, and he couldn’t get inside her fast enough.
Except he didn’t. As eager as she was, as hard as she was breathing, it was her first time, and he didn’t want to hurt her. So he picked her up and carried her into the tiny bedroom with the view of nothing and lowered her onto the bed he’d made up clean that morning as he had four weeks in a row now, hoping this would be the night. Then he came down over her, feeling like the king of the world, and started showing her everything he felt about her the best way he knew.
He wasn’t good with words, but he was good with his body. When he was moving, his body knew how. When he’d been charging down a wide receiver, choosing his path, making his tackle, he’d been good. When he’d been back-to-back with his best friend Riley, taking on Dakota’s tormenters in the parking lot, he’d been good. And when he was kissing his way down Beth’s pale body, stroking and touching and licking into her while she drew in a startled breath and her hands went to his hair and every last bit of restraint left her body—then, he was very,verygood.
