Chapter 20 #2
Lacey continues. “Never been more shocked than to learn Felicity slept with him.” She nods in the direction of Romero. She also sounds disappointed.
“Is she your friend?”
“Had been.” Her eyes narrow on a woman seated across the way, then those blue eyes shift back to me.
“But one thing I can’t stand is a cheatin’ man.
And I don’t hold a double standard, so it goes for women as well.
” Her gaze flicks from me to Cyrus, and there’s a story I’m not certain I want to hear.
The waitress returns with a tray of drinks, handing me a margarita and Bolan a beer.
“Anyway,” Lacey draws out, lifting her glass again. “Here’s to the wives.”
I lift my glass and tap against hers before taking my first sip. My eyes lift and I find Bolan watching me as the salt on the rim hits my tongue and my mouth gets a burst of lime and tequila. He doesn’t take his eyes off me, even while someone speaks to him.
“He’s got it bad,” Lacey mutters beside me. “Must be nice.”
“What?” I turn toward her.
“Your man looking at you like he wants to be that margarita.”
I laugh. She has no idea, but then I think back to his comments earlier. How seeing me in white, he felt like he could breathe for the first time. Staring back at him a second, I recognize the feeling.
Being here, tonight; being with Bolan, in general, has felt freeing. He’s the fresh breath I’ve been longing for.
“You’re ridiculous,” I state, taking another sip of my drink and winking at her.
“And you’re my new best friend.” She clinks her glass against mine again. “Lacey and Ruthie. We have a nice ring to us.”
As I haven’t had a best girlfriend in . . . ever, I wasn’t certain what to say, but I could use someone in my corner.
Wives for the win.
Within minutes, the song “A Bar Song: Tipsy” by Shaboozey is sung. Bolan sets down his beer and starts clapping in rhythm to the beat.
“This is my song.” His hips sway and he stomps a foot. He’s walking backward toward the dance floor and pointing at me with finger guns that he shifts to beckoning fingers. “Come on, flower.”
Lacey snorts beside me. “You better go, flower. He looks like he wants to pluck your garden.”
I laugh, setting down my drink and shaking my head. “I don’t dance,” I say to Lacey while watching Bolan. I want to dance, I’m just not comfortable enough in my own skin.
“If your man wants to dance, girl, I’d dance. Before he finds someone else to be his partner.”
While I wouldn’t mind being Lacey’s new friend, her negative energy is making me itchy. Still, her speech motivates me to stand and skirt the low table to approach Bolan, who is still clapping his hands and stomping his foot more than dancing in the space closest to our area.
As I approach, he reaches out for my belt loop and tugs me closer to him, lining up our mid-sections. My hands crash on his chest, firm beneath a lightweight cotton shirt. Then he’s guiding me side-to-side with his hips and his finger in that loop.
“I’m not much of a dancer,” I shout over the music.
Bolan glances down between us, where there isn’t much space. “Yeah, you are, flower.”
I recall that slow dance in the dark ballroom again. Another moment with Bolan. How many moments will I get?
The question makes me realize I need to make the most of the ones I have with him, so I let Bolan lead me in his chaotic rhythm, laughing as he exaggerates our movements like he’s Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing.
Three songs later, the band slows down. I’m thirsty and breathless from laughing so hard.
As the first strum of the next song suggests it’s a slow one, people begin to exit the dance floor, and I turn for our section, but Bolan catches my wrist.
“Where you goin’, flower?” He gently pulls me to him, circling his arms around my lower back. My hands land on his broad shoulders. We haven’t been this close, this often, since that first dance, since that night.
Slowly, I lift my lids. “What are we doing?”
“Dancing.” His eyes widen like it’s obvious.
But I’m aflame from the heat of his body, and the rise and fall of his chest as his heart settles down from the previous gyrating.
I can also sense the width of his hips and the expanse of his abs, solid and tight.
As if my hands have their own will, they smooth down his biceps, enjoying the strength in them.
“Flower?” Bolan groans.
When I look up at him, he tugs me closer. Our hips move in sync with each other, like a lazy wave brushes the beach.
And I’m wet and hot and needy.
He lowers his head and runs his nose along the side of mine. His breath kisses my lips and my mouth waters for a connection.
Kiss me.
We came so close about a week ago. As much as I’m certain it isn’t a good idea, I also can’t promise I won’t kiss him back.
I want another shot of him. Make it a double.
Bolan continues to torture me, brushing his cheek against mine. The trimmed stubble on his face tickling my tender skin. His mouth comes near my ear, his breath another invisible kiss there.
Then he turns his head, his lips so close to my flesh, yet hovering over it. He inhales and I shiver, hitching my shoulder to my jaw.
“Something wrong, flower.” His voice is all-knowing.
“Tickles,” I admit.
“I seem to remember you have a sensitive spot.” He pulls back, pressing two fingers to his lips before placing them near my pulse point. “Right here.”
How can something so seemingly innocent have such an effect on me?
“Bolan,” I whisper, our eyes locked on one another.
“Want to drag you to a corner of this bar and just have my way with you, Ruthie.”
God, I think I want that as well.
“But I’m not tucking us in a corner again.” A tender reminder of that storm-lit ballroom.
“Or hiding us in the dark.” A gentle prompt about the balcony.
Bolan cups my jaw. “Stop me now or forever hold your peace.”
“My peace?” Something tells me I’ve been peaceful too long. Complacent really, and I need the chaos Bolan might bring me.
He pulls his head back. “That mean you’re choosing stop?” His brow twitches upward. His eyes questioning me.
Breathlessly, I beg, “Kiss me.”
With his lips suddenly on mine, I cling to him like I did in that darkened ballroom, clutching his shirt in my fists while his hands stay on my jaw.
Our mouths move with their own practiced dance.
Down to the corners. Sip at the lower one.
Lick through the seam. Tongues meet in a frenzy of connection, swirling, twirling, like a full-body skirt spinning out of control. Or a flower opening up, blossoming.
Too quickly, the kiss is over. Bolan pulls back, but his forehead comes to mine.
“Still want to take you to that corner, beautiful. But I’m promising to behave myself.”
Don’t behave, I want to scream. Don’t hold back. But my responsible side supersedes the desire to drag him to a dark part of this bar.
Instead, we hang out for another round of drinks and another hour of dancing before I’m not certain I can feel my legs. Whether that’s from the exercise, or the alcohol, is to be determined.
When we get back to the apartment, Bolan sets his hand on my lower back again, holding me steady as we climb the stairs to the second floor. Once we near the door of the apartment, I stop just outside it.
“This is my place,” I tease, pointing at the number like I live separately from him. Like this is a date and he’s dropping me off.
“Funny that. This is my place, too.” He smiles at me, eyes sparkling that green-gold combination. He’s the one who is breathtaking. Or is it breath-giving, as I’m reminded how much I’ve laughed tonight. How free I’ve felt.
“I had fun tonight,” I say.
Bolan leans on the wall, just outside the door. “Yeah? Me too.”
“Well, good night.” I stick out my hand like I intend to shake his.
Bolan laughs, pressing off the wall, and taking my hand. Then he tugs me to him, pulling me into his chest, and hugging me.
We stand like this a moment, his arms around my shoulder and neck, and mine looped around his back.
Slowly, he releases me and cups my jaw like he did earlier. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t want me to kiss you.”
Just look me in the eyes. Breathe.
Déjà vu, but I don’t have time to answer, my body doing the responding, as I cling to his shirt again and bring him to me. Or maybe he leans forward and takes what he sees in my eyes.
Yes. Kiss me.
One of his hands scoops around the back of my neck while the other finds the middle of my back, slipping his fingers just under the hem of my cropped shirt. I arch toward him, pressing my breasts to his chest and sliding my hand to his neck as well, fingers brushing over his short hair.
As our lips meet with urgency, a rush to connect, he tightens his hold on me, allowing me to feel what I’m doing to him. The bulge in his jeans presses into my lower belly, where I’m fluttering with my own arousal.
Bolan bends his knees a bit, like he intends to line us up and I hitch up my leg. He catches the back of my thigh in his hand and pulls me tighter against him.
Our lips move. Teeth nip. Tongues collide and crash.
Everything in this moment brings back memories of another one and Bolan abruptly pulls back.
His gaze pings back and forth at my eyes before his brows severely pinch. “Ruthie?”
Without asking, I know the question and I open my mouth to answer just as the apartment door flings open.
Bolan and I both turn our heads although we don’t shift from our position with my raised knee at his hip and his hand on the back of my raised thigh. I’m still holding onto his neck, and he still has a hand on my lower ass.
Ruby clears her throat. “My apologies. Thought I heard a noise in the hallway.”
An awkward few seconds passes where I’m hoping she’ll close the door and forget what she sees, or rather, shuts the door and lets us continue where we left off.
Where I was about to reveal myself to Bolan.
Instead, Bolan releases my leg, and I stand on my own two feet, smoothing my hand over my belly which still flutters like a flock of birds are in there.
He shifts to stand behind me, certain to be hiding his reaction to me.
He slips an arm around my waist and kisses the top of my head from behind me.
“Can’t keep my hands off my wife,” he admits to the babysitter.
Ruby smiles. “I remember those days.” She sighs, swooning a bit. “And I hate to interrupt but you did promise by eleven and it’s eleven-fifteen.”
Bolan releases me and places a hand on the door to open it wider, allowing me to enter the apartment first. Quickly, he’s on his phone sending Ruby money through an app.
She gives us a brief overview of the night, praising Tulane as an angel, before closing the door behind her exit.
The moment outside that door is suddenly lost.
Bolan scratches at the back of his neck, lowers his gaze, and mutters to me. “Well, good night.”
And we both break into laughter as we’d just been caught making out by the babysitter.