He stares, eyes narrowing.
“Is there a reason you’d be okay with kissing my shoulder but not my lips? Is it me? I know people talk a lot of shit about me, but did I do something that—”
“Bailey, don’t finish that fucking sentence,” he grinds out, back to scrubbing a hand over his mouth.
He sounds angry, and it makes emotion well up in me. In my eyes. In my voice. Fuck, I’m about to cry. I can feel it coming, but I forge ahead anyway in a thick, rasping voice. “If I’m doing something wrong, you’ll tell me, right? So I can do this for real with someone one day and not make a total fool of—”
“Fuck it!” His hand rips away from his mouth, like he tore off a piece of tape that was keeping him from talking, and with two long steps, he’s here.
In front of me.
Cupping my head.
Backing me up against the doorframe.
And kissing me.
The edge of the molding bites between my shoulder blades as Beau devours me. Firm lips, soft tongue, rough stubble, big hands.
He consumes me.
And there isn’t a soul here to see it. This is just me and him in a dark hallway. This is … I don’t know what this is.
The hickey he gave me pulses on my neck, the pads of his fingers rake down the back of my head, his thumb strokes at my jawline, all while he kisses me senseless.
A swipe of a tongue.
A moan.
The press of a body.
My hands on his abs. His chest.
For however long we kiss, I don’t feel like dirty Bailey Jansen. I feel like a woman kissing a man who wants her. Really wants her. He can’t fake this. No one could fake this. No one is that good.
Eventually, the fever between us ebbs. Hard, heavy kisses turn to slow, languid ones. He melts against me, hips on hips. My calf rubs against his, and my hands lay flat on his pecs, no longer searching and tugging. Just settling.
“Bailey,” he murmurs against my damp, swollen lips. “You are doing nothing wrong. You have done nothing wrong. Anyone who talks shit about you is cruel and small-minded and not worthy of your attention. You are fucking perfect.”
Beau presses a kiss to my cheek and then pulls away to dive into my eyes. Long, strong fingers brush through my hair and then curve as they tuck it behind my ears. His hands settle around my neck, and he stares me down so seriously that I can’t help but stare back, can’t help but listen and hear what he’s saying.
I nod, eyes fluttering shut as he rubs his thumbs over the tops of my cheekbones, wiping away tears he never let fall.
“Go to bed, Bailey.”
My eyes snap open, my body whining. This is it?
“Get some sleep.”
I don’t know what to say. I’ve never had a hot older man kiss me stupid and then tell me to go to bed.
So I just nod.
He nods back at me and steps away, hands falling from my cheeks. I want to yell at him to put them back. I want his hands on me. All over me. Inside me.
I stay slumped against the doorframe, boneless and stunned from his kiss. It wasn’t my first kiss, but it was my first kiss to feel like that.
Like the house could crumble around us and we wouldn’t notice.
Like I was safe.
He’s stepping back into his room when I finally drum up the will to form words again. “Hey, Beau?”
“Yeah?” He turns, gripping his door handle.
“Why’d you kiss me with no one here to see it?”
The subtle smirk that plays across his lips makes my stomach flip. It’s full of promise, and sensuality, and experience.
“Because I wanted to.”
And with that, he shuts the door.
24
Bailey
I worry my lip between my bottom teeth and then force myself to stop fidgeting.
Then I tug at the bottom hem of my blazer.
The woman behind the counter eyes me, but not in an appreciative way like Beau. It’s judgmental, noting my flaws with every inch her eyes roam. They catch on my oversized engagement ring.
“I can work weekends. My shifts at the bar don’t usually start until five.”
The woman still says nothing, the sheet of paper in her hand crinkling beneath her grip. Based on the name tag attached to her shirt, her name is Mary. As I would expect from someone who owns a hair salon, Mary has perfect hair. It’s a warm gold color, with shades of blonde laced throughout.
I wipe a clammy hand down my locks as she peeks at my resume. My hair may be plain dark brown, but I consider it one of my better features. Thick and falling past my shoulders—mostly because I go as long as possible before springing for a haircut. I drive to the city every time because I love my hair and I’m too paranoid to let anyone in Chestnut Springs cut it.