At Whit's End (Wells Ranch, #4)(58)
“You do?”
My hands tiptoe down his chest, trepidation setting in as they venture farther south. Then a little farther again, to the ridge of his waistband. His work-worn palm slides over the back of my hand, securing my hold of his hard cock through thick denim.
“Doesn’t this feel like I fucking want you?”
The kiss that follows is rough and tender all at once. I lose my senses indulging in the feel of his tongue searing and sliding over mine. My hips rock into his, and I do nothing to prevent the way my dress shifts further and further up my thighs. I want to feel the hard length of him rubbing over my pussy. I want to be that girl who doesn’t care if anybody around is watching.
Colt notices, groaning—painful and gravelly—against my already sore lips. His fingers leave my tangled mess of hair, reaching to pull the dress down to cover my exposed ass.
“Whit,” he murmurs. “Not here. Not like this.”
He presses a chaste kiss on the tip of my nose, stepping back to smooth his hands down my sides. I lick the taste of him from my lips and blink away the sexually frustrated fog that had me moments away from begging to be fucked in an alley. Colt adjusts himself in his pants, hiding an erection by tucking it into his waistband, and rights his lopsided cowboy hat.
There’s a sudden chill in the air at the loss of his body blanketing mine, and I rub my palms up and down my goosebump-speckled arms.
“Come on. Do you want to go back in, or go home?”
My fingers comb through my hair. I know what I want to do, but stealing a glance toward his truck, I sigh. I made a silent promise the moment I found out I was pregnant; nothing I want or need will ever come before my child.
I want Colt to kiss me until I’m boneless and breathless. I want to feel his hands on every inch of my skin. Jonas needs Colt to be in his life as a friend and role model. So that settles that.
“We should go back in. Blair will be pissed if I ditch the party early.”
“Back to the dance floor, then? The world needs your scuba diving move.”
I smack my forehead. “You’re never letting that go, are you? I can’t believe I showed you that.”
“Never seen a hotter scuba diver. I mean…I’ve never seen a scuba diver, period. But I know you’d be the hottest one.”
He takes hold of my hand, then lets me lead the way. Another reminder that it’s my call whether we move the alleyway passion to a more intimate location or return to the crowded bar. But if we let lust take over, it’ll be the end of everything as we know it. That’s a decision that shouldn’t be made when I can still feel his lips on mine.
Colt’s hand drops mine at that exact moment, as if he’s reading my mind and had the same realization that whatever—whoever—we were a minute ago ends here and now.
“You don’t want people talking, so we probably shouldn’t waltz inside like a couple.” His lips press quick and hard against my temple, and we push our way through the raucous bar doors, joining the party in the middle of “Mony Mony” by Billy Idol. Laser lights shine in every direction, frantically crossing paths and illuminating the dust and dirt floating through the air. Suddenly it smells more like stale beer and sweat than I remember.
Without thought, my lips silently form the lyrics, and Colt gives me a curious look.
“Billy Idol is—or maybe was—my mom’s favorite.” My cheek presses to his shoulder as I shout over the music. “The only time she swears is during the secret bonus lyrics.”
A burly man bumps into me as he walks by, and I feel the warmth of Colt’s hand glide against my lower back to settle on my waist. He holds me steady, tilting his head to hear me clearer.
“I met your mom, and I can’t imagine her telling anybody to ‘get laid, get fucked.’?”
“It’s quite the sight,” I reply through a laugh, then I squint off into space as I process the rest of what he said. “Wait, when have you met my mom?”
“Today.” His thumb slides across the thin dress fabric, and it catches on his hardened skin. “Turns out Jonas and I might’ve gone overboard picking you flowers, so we brought her a bouquet. I know it’s your birthday, but she did all the hard work thirty years ago…seems fair she gets something, too.”
I might need fresh air again.
* * *
? ? ?
If I’m not careful, I’m going to fall in love with this man. The night goes by in a blur of longing glances, discreet touches, and doing a half-ass job of pretending we’re just friends. Honestly, thank God the girls are drunk and the guys are oblivious. Something about being the girl who made out with a hot cowboy in the alley unlocks a no-fucks-given attitude. I let Kate try to teach me how to twerk, I attempt line dancing, and I drunkenly giggle with Blair in our booth while Denny keeps us well supplied with both drinks and French fries.
Eventually it’s a little after midnight, the bass radiates through my dance-weary legs, and I chug a much-needed glass of water while Colt and Kate destroy the dance floor together. By destroy, I mean Colt’s wearing my crossbody purse—he helpfully took it when I went to the bathroom and never bothered to give it back—and moving around the floor like one of those inflatable tube guys in a hurricane. Long, tanned arms flailing to some techno music, the man is a menace to all the drunk couples trying to make out under the flashing strobe lights.