Page 32 of My Cowboy Salvation
Logan
The lights flickerin the concert hall, letting the audience know the show is going to begin soon, giving me a reason to keep my attention on the musicians on the stage and not the sultry beauty to my right, my son on her other side.
Why did I think, even for a minute, that tagging along to this thing was a good idea? Seeing the two of them, so young and gorgeous, with their whole futures ahead of them, sitting and laughing over some story that only they seem to know while we wait for the concert to begin has been complete and utter hell.
It’s hard to deny the truth sitting in front of me. This is what Dylan needs—whoDylan needs. Someone like Parker, who can give her the time, attention, and devotion she deserves. Someone who has the luxury of youth to plan a future together, a future with kids and a family and maybe a dog or two. Not someone twice her age who is past the prime of his life and devoted to his job and protecting the people of this town. A man who is looking at retirement plans, not family plans.
But good God. Dylan Harper is so fucking incredible and beautiful that for a minute it’s easy to forget all the reasons she’s off-limits. Especially when she’s wearing that long silky gray dress that glides gracefully over her slender form, and the dangerously high slits along the side that tease me with glimpses of those same legs that wrapped around me just a few nights before. Her fiery hair is tucked into a twist with a few strategic strands left to frame her delicate face and to emphasize those full, red stained lips.
Something draws Parker’s attention to his pocket, and he pulls his phone out, staring at the flashing screen. “Hey,” he says, glancing over at us. “I need to take this. I won’t be long.” He slides past us both to the aisle where he heads toward the lobby.
Dylan and I don’t speak for a good minute or two as I pretend to be reading the program I was handed when we came in.
“Is there something wrong?” she asks softly.
“Everything’s fine,” I say, keeping my tone even.
“If it’s so fine, then why have you spent the entire night either ignoring me or scowling at me?” she asks, her voice ringing with confusion. “Why did you even want to come if being here is so taxing for you?”
“The hell if I know,” I mutter. It’s hard to miss the pain in her eyes as she hears my comment.
Fuck. I’m such a prick. It’s not her fault for how I feel.
“I’m sorry, Dylan. That’s not fair. I want to be here, to share this with you, but I guess seeing you and Parker together, so in tune with each other, has made it harder than I expected. But that’s my issue, not yours.”
“What you saw at dinner was two old friends sharing memories of better times. Nothing more. At least where I’m concerned. It’syouwho I’ve been hoping to share this night with.Youwhose conversation I’ve been yearning for. Would it kill you to throw a smile my way? Or maybe even tell me you think I look nice? Would any sort of kindness be that much to ask for?”
“You look more than nice tonight, Dylan. You look fucking beautiful. Graceful. Poised. Perfect. And it’s been killing me all night not to tell you or show you just how sexy you are and how much I want to make love to you.”
She blinks, stunned by my speech, then her lips curve into a tenuous smile. “That-that’s better.”
And immediately I’m contrite. Hell, I might be forty-one, but being around this woman has me acting like a jealous and surly seventeen-year-old punk.Get over yourself, old man. This night is for Dylan and Dylan only. “Hell. I’m sorry for acting like a jealous asshole.”
Her eyes light up. “Jealous? You’re not really saying you were jealous of your own son, are you?”
“Guess I am. I’m over it. Promise.” I place my hand over her leg, squeezing gently. “It’s your birthday, and I want you to feel as special as you are.”
Her eyes flare with sudden heat at my touch, and for a moment I keep my hand there, enjoying the play of emotions on her face. Thanks to the close seating, Dylan’s lips are a simple stretch of the neck muscles away, and I’m struck with the overwhelming desire to taste them, right here and now, something I can sense she knows as her eyes dilate, and she licks her lips.
“Sorry about that,” Parker says suddenly as he sits next to Dylan, and I whisk my hand from her leg.
Shit. That was close. “It’s okay. Is everything all right?”
“I think so. Just my landlord telling me about some emergency maintenance they’re doing near my apartment that requires I vacate the place for a couple days, something I assured him wouldn’t be a problem seeing as how I’m out of town, anyway.”
The lights above us dim, and the strums of the string section hum, telling us the show is about to begin. I never would have pegged myself as a man who would enjoy a night at the symphony, but since spending time with Dylan, hearing her love for music—not to mention the earnest and glorious way she played for us the other night—I’ve developed an appreciation for it. Especially as I sneak glances at Dylan, who is on the edge of her seat in anticipation of every note that’s played. Her excitement is infectious, confirming this was the right move.
She shivers suddenly, bringing her hands to rub her arms as the music increases its tempo, and I’m not sure if it’s her reaction to the fervor of the music or because she’s cold, so I shrug off my sport coat and place it around her. She glances over in surprise, but she doesn’t decline the offering, instead pulling it tightly around her. Parker doesn’t seem to notice, and I return my attention to the stage again.
The music quiets just as the string section, notably the cellos, takes over the song, and I sense that Dylan is breathless as the rich notes swim over the audience. She’s so caught up, I don’t know if she realizes she’s placed her hand over mine, squeezing it with excitement.
I squeeze back, expecting her to withdraw, but instead, she interlaces her fingers in mine, holding it there as the music plays on around us. Everyone is riveted by what’s happening on stage. Everyone but me.
I’m overwhelmed with the absolute need to touch her. Not just by holding her hand. To touch her and give her as much pleasure as she deserves. Now.
Gently, I bring my hand to her leg, careful not to disturb the fold of my jacket that obscure the position of my hand from view, should Parker happen to glance over. Slowly, I slide my fingers down the length of Dylan’s leg until I find the opening of her dress, enjoying the soft gasp that slips from her lips as she realizes what I’m doing. But other than that slight giveaway, she keeps her eyes on the stage in front of us. Brazenly, I slip my hand under the silky fabric and glide my fingertips up her inner thighs until I reach the apex between her legs. I can already feel her wet heat even as she spreads her thighs farther apart for me.
I fight to control my raging hard-on as I push aside her panties and run my fingers through the soft, velvety folds until I find the pressure point I’m seeking, already swollen and receptive to my touch.
