Page 16 of Breaking the Cowboy's Rules

“Are you as smooth as the whiskey?”

Nailed him. And she knew it.

“You tell me.”

She hesitated.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, not tonight, not with me.” Bodhi covered her hands, cupping the glass, with one of his.

Her eyes met his. There was that unspoken question again. And doubt. He hated that. He felt instinctually that this woman should have all the confidence in the world that she was admired and cherished and could do whatever she damn well wanted. No shade. Ever.

“What if I want to do something?”

He loved her voice. Low, sultry, nothing like the table full of raucous bridesmaids behind him.

He wanted to get out of here. Far away. With her. Listen to her talk all night.

“Then sip. Savor. Tell me what you think. Tell me what you taste.” He made it sound like a dare, and by the flare in her light-colored eyes, she took it as such.

She stood up slowly, her body not quite touching his although the crowd at the bar was more than a few deep. He liked that she was tall, nearly eye level. He wouldn’t have to stoop to kiss her. If he got a chance to kiss her.

The question was not one Bodhi had to ponder about a woman except one long ago. The thought of Ash should have made him hesitate, but instead her image dissipated, mist at dawn. And instead he saw the woman before him, fire and ice, and he didn’t even know her name yet.

He waited for her next move, but really, he was already all in. He finally felt something and wanted—no, needed—to race into that burn.

Holding his gaze, she dipped her finger in her glass and traced her bottom lip. Her tongue poked out and dabbed at the spot. Bodhi had been with a lot of women in a lot of ways, but that move, innocent, exploring, and sexy all at once, yanked a chain he didn’t acknowledge he had. She closed her eyes and sighed.

“Orange with a little spice, cinnamon.” Her tongue did one more foray, and the stroll of pink on plump pink was a direct shot to his cock. Not wanting to embarrass himself, he tried to subtly adjust.

“Your turn.” She held up her glass as a toast.

“My tastes run to something sweeter.”

“Chocolate?”

“Depends where,” he drawled.

Her eyes flared with heat, and he felt that too. Direct hit. This woman was a one-two punch and being with her was finally taking him out of his head for a moment. Maybe more if he played well with others.

“I don’t drink a lot.” She changed the course of the conversation abruptly, glanced at the small dance floor where a few couples were dancing. “Tell me about the Texas two-step.”

“It’s a full-body, experiential activity, hard to define in words.”

“It’s two steps,” she objected.

“Ahhhhh, but dang, girl, it’s the way you move and take those steps that make it the best dance.”

“The best dance?” Again, one eyebrow arched. Just one.

How did she do that? It was hot as hell. Usually women threw themselves into his arms and into his bed, tossing off clothing as they went and ripping at his. But she wasn’t sure. Attracted. Intrigued. But savoring in the uncomfortable lane of dubious. She hadn’t even told him her name yet, and he liked that a lot, but it was time for him to take up some of the slack in the reins. He needed to get a week’s commitment from her and fast.

“Absolutely the best dance,” he defended his two-step. He put down his whiskey. He’d already drained a beer at the ranch for dinner a couple of hours ago and had started on his third here when she’d walked in the door. He needed to keep his wits tonight of all nights.

“I can’t do the dance verbal justice,” he fudged. “But I am happy to teach you.”

“Dance instructor just made my list,” she said, and the thrill of appreciation that shot through him was indescribable.

She was definitely filling all the numbers on his list.

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