Page 44 of Riding the Storm
I force a polite smile. “Appreciate the offer. But I’m good right here.”
Her smile falters a bit. “You sure? Could be fun.”
“Pretty sure.”
She studies me for a second longer, maybe waiting for me to change my mind. When I don’t, she shrugs. “Your loss, bull rider.”
She winks and saunters off, her heels clicking against the old wood floor.
I let out a breath and lean back in my chair. Maybe I should have left with them. It would be a better decision than the one I’m about to make.
My eyes drift toward the hallway that leads to the restrooms, and I find myself standing before I even think about it.
Shit.
I tell myself I just want to make sure she’s okay. That’s all. That maybe I pushed things a bit far with the flirting. Maybe I owe her an apology.
But deep down, I know that’s a lie.
The hallway’s dim, lined with old posters for past rodeos and country music shows. The noise from the main room fades the farther I go, replaced by the low hum of neon signs.
Charli steps out of the women’s room just as I make it to the door, head down, hands smoothing her hair. When she looks up and sees me standing there, she freezes.
“Bryce,” she says, her voice low. “What are you doing—”
I don’t let her finish.
Something in me snaps—maybe it’s the whiskey, maybe it’s the dance, maybe it’s just her—and before I can stop myself, I reach for her hand and tug her down the hall, away from the light spilling from the billiards area.
She lets out a startled breath, but doesn’t pull away.
We stop in a shadowy corner, where the noise from the bar barely reaches, and I turn to face her.
“What the hell are you—”
Her words cut off when I step in, one hand braced against the wall beside her head.
Her eyes flick up to mine, wide and fierce, and for a second, neither of us moves. The air between us is thick with something that makes it hard to think—charged and impulsive.
“Don’t,” she whispers.
But the word doesn’t match the way she’s looking at me.
And, God help me, I can’t stop.
I lower my head, slow enough that she could turn away if she wanted to. She doesn’t. Her breath hitches, her fingers curl into my chest … and then our mouths meet.
The kiss hits like a spark to dry grass—instant, consuming.
She tastes like tequila. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, and I press her back against the wall, my pulse pounding in my ears.
She makes a sound—half surprise, half surrender—and I swear it goes straight to my cock.
Everything else fades.
The bar. The crowd. The music. The voices.
There’s just her.
