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Damn legs.
“Someone’s a little rusty,” he murmurs, close to my lips. Has his voice always been that sexy, or is that the margarita haze?
“It’s really easy to overthink a two-step,” I retort, staring down at my treacherous feet. “And the tequila isn’t helping.”
“Then stop overthinking and follow my lead.” He lowers his hand so it rests just above the curve of my lower back, refusing to let me go. “You’re trying to take control like you always do, but you can’t control a bull, and you can’t control me. Now, listen,” he whispers, warm breath coasting the shell of my ear. I shiver, and I feel his smile against my cheek. “Close your eyes for me.”
“What?” I rear my head back, but he reels me back in. “I can’t dance with my eyes closed. I need to watch where I’m going.”
“No, you don’t. I’ve got you.” He squeezes my waist harder. “Close. Your. Eyes.”
That demanding voice is doing things to my body. My eyelids flutter closed like they can’t help but agree to his command.
“That’s it. Now, follow my lead, like this. One-two-one,” he chants. “One-two-one. There. Just like that. You’re doing so good, honey.”
My heart races. That praise shouldn’t sound so sexual.
Heat singes my core as he begins leading us in a smooth two-step around the dance floor, and I lean into him, closing my eyes. I can’t stop myself from resting my cheek over his heart, but it used to be his heart that pounded harder than mine, and now my heart’s beating at a rapid pace.
As he leads and I follow, I’m thrown back to all those times we would go two-stepping over the summer, but when we were young, we would both fumble around the dance floor. There’s no fumbling from Wyatt now—only me.
He’s smooth confidence for miles.
For the first time, I let go and stop overthinking. All my worries over my dreams, our friendship, the PBR, they drift away on the sound of the fiddle. I let myself feel and dance, and before I know it, he’s whispering in my ear.
“Look at me, honey.”
And I do.
The tip of his nose skims mine, and his hands trail higher up to brush the underside of my breast. “See, that’s what you need to do when you get out on a bull. You can’t control the ride, so just roll with it. Sometimes, the best things in life happen when you let it be.”
I close my eyes, flowing with him. I’ve been fighting so hard for control—control over the bull, over my future, my career, my love life—that I forgot what it was like to just be. When there are so many doubts buzzing through my head, I think, sometimes, I latch onto the things I can control so I have power over something.
The song fades out with a soft strum, and the fiddle player steps up to the mic. “Alright folks, unless you’re dancing with a family member, I want you all to lean in and kiss your partner good. No pecks allowed in this here bar.”
“What?” I balk up at him. “She wants us to kiss?”
He sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Yeah, looks like it.”
The fiddle player zones in on Wyatt. “I’m lookin’ at you and that partner of yours, cowboy. If your lips aren’t locked in the next five seconds, I’m coming down there to push you together myself.”
It feels like every head in the bar turns to stare at us. I’ve always liked the spotlight, but still… I can’t kiss Wyatt in front of all these people. Except, I kind of want to. And the fiddle player is still staring, and now there’s a half amused, half resigned smile playing across Wyatt’s mouth, as if to say well, what’re you gonna do?
“What do you say?” he breathes the words against my lips. “Should we give ’em what they want? Your call.”
My shrug turns to putty when his hands skate up my waist. It’s only one kiss. What harm will it do? I’ve kissed plenty of men before, and he does look damn good in those Wranglers hugging every inch of his perfect ass.
I tangle my fingers in his hair. “I guess we have to. Let’s give ’em a show.”
“I don’t care about what they want. I only care about what you want,” he says, brushing his hand beneath my hair to cradle my neck. “Do you want me, honey?”
His green gaze is right in front of mine, and his hand travels higher and higher up my ribcage, close enough that just an inch more and he’d graze the underside of my breast. He doesn’t though. He stops while his other hand cups the back of my neck. I never realized how big his hands are.
Big and warm.
He’s leaning in—closer, closer, closer—and I’m not pulling away. The tequila, the smoke, his mountain laurel scent, it’s all a heady combination, jumbling my thoughts.
When he cups my jaw in his rough hand, I stand on my toes to reach his height.
