Chapter 32
JADE
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THE COWBOY STALKS toward me slowly, hips rolling with the beat, one hand dragging down the front of his chest.
He stops just in front of me, and I force my eyes away from the man I want to look at.
Why does it always have to be him?
The crowd goes wild again.
“Touch him!” I hear Josie’s voice loudest.
“Do it!” Hope’s shriek follows.
All we’ve been doing is touching each other.
The dancer crouches low and locks eyes with me. His smile is wicked and knowing, and maybe it’s the lights or the thrill, but he looks just enough like my cowboy to knock the breath out of me.
I’m reeling.
My mind is a mess.
I was having a great time—more than I’d ever admit to my sisters. Hell, I didn’t even mind getting called up center stage.
Although I’m certain Josie’s “Uh-oh” and Harper’s “cowboy time” were clear indications that they had something to do with the light landing on me.
Then the song started, and my stomach dropped.
Our song.
The song we used to play parked on one of his uncle’s properties in his pickup truck, windows fogged, my legs across his lap, his thumb tracing circles on my knee.
Lord, I haven’t heard it in years. And now three times in as many days. But this time is different. Different when it’s wrapped in smoke, spotlights, and a man who looks too much like him.
The cowboy wanna-be grabs his hat with a wink and tosses it into the crowd like a grenade.
“Daaaamn, girl!” Celi shouts.
“Touch him again!” Daisy shrieks.
“Grab that belt!” Josie wails.
I should do all of them, and if any of them are up here, they’d do it.
I’m single.
I’m turned on.
But it’s this damn song, throwing me back into memories I’ve secreted away for the safety and security of my heart.
He leans closer, one hand braced beside my chair, the other running over his abs. He’s so close I feel the heat off his skin.
Then he takes my hand and presses it to his chest.
Solid. Warm. Real.
“Get him, cowgirl!” someone yells.
I shake my head, half-laughing, half-fighting the lump in my throat.
His hips start moving again, slower this time, rolling like waves, perfectly in sync with a song that used to mean something tender and sacred.
He drops to his knees in front of me, runs his hands down his thighs, then up mine, only to stop at the edge of decency.
Just enough to make me ache, but not for him.
For Hart.
I don’t even want to think of his name, but I see him, my cowboy, my once-upon-a-time. The boy with dirt under his nails and fire in his smile. The one who sang this song to me once while we danced barefoot on the grassy hill under the sunset.
The crowd screams, dragging me back to the present. Back to the cowboy now on my lap.
The edge of his hat is tipped onto my head as he grinds his hips in the most obscene way imaginable.
Where did he get another Stetson?
But I’m not here anymore.
I’m back under the stars with Hart’s flannel wrapped around my shoulders, and this song playing on the radio.
His voice is in my ear whispering, “Ohh, lover with a slow hand.”
“Girl, you’d better take him home!” Daisy cries.
I smile, but it trembles.
I tremble.
Because I didn’t want to take this cowboy home.
I want mine.
I blink hard, fighting tears. The room snaps back into focus. The lights, the music, the shouting—it all feels too loud now.
Too fake.
The glitter and smoke, and a stranger pretending to be something he could never really be.
The song ends on a long, low note, and the cowboy—the performer, not mine—stands, giving me a wink.
I’m speechless but not for the reasons he thinks.
He grips my arm and pulls my ear to his lips. “Exit is that way.”
He tips his hat before walking to the centre of the stage, to the thunderous applause and flurry of bills tossed like confetti.
The lights offstage are dim, and my boots click on the concrete as I make my way around the curtains.
I feel the heat on my skin, the ache in my chest. I’m barely holding it together.
My breath is shallow.
My heart is tight.
Every inch of me is alive, burning, and I hate it. I exhale slowly, willing the past back into its box.
But I don’t get the chance. I step off the final stair, and a rough hand catches mine and yanks me sideways.
I don’t have time to react. The shock of it cuts through my foggy thoughts, and before I can blink, my back presses against a wall, hidden behind the velvet red curtain where the world is quieter.
And there he is.
Six-foot-something with storm-brewing eyes, worn denim, and calloused hands that still make my skin remember.
His jaw clenches tight, but his eyes—Lord, those eyes—are wild. Hungry. Tortured.
“Hart?” His name is a whisper on my tongue.
Pain and anguish loom in his eyes with something I can’t quite place.
Something heavy.
Something painful.
I swallow, frozen in place.
The noise of the crowd, the music, everything is muffled. It’s just us now, alone in the dimness.
“What are you doing?” My voice comes out shaky, but I can’t seem to stop it.
He doesn’t say anything. His hand is still on my wrist, holding me gently but firmly, like he’s afraid I’ll slip away.
He presses closer, one hand braced above my head, the other still wrapped around mine, tight enough to feel my pulse.
“That song, Jade. You let someone else touch you to our song?”
There’s no air between us now. All I can smell is the soap he always uses, the one that never quite washes away the scent of horses.
I try to laugh it off, shaky and hollow. “I didn’t let anything. It’s a show, Hart.”
“Don’t care.”
His hand slides to my waist, fingers curling possessively. “Don’t want anyone else puttin’ their hands on you. Not like that. Not ever.”
The heat between us ignites like a match to dry grass.
I hate that I still know every inch of him, that just one look could strip me bare.
“You were the one who walked away.” My voice is barely above a whisper.
“I had to,” he growls, closing his eyes like the memory burns.
He steps even closer, so close his belt buckle brushes my stomach.
“But tonight?” His eyes pierce mine. “You up there, flushed and smiling and touched by some asshole in a plastic hat to our song? I nearly lost my goddamn mind.”
My breath snags on his words, but I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do.
His breath grows ragged, like he’s been holding it in too long. And we stand there for a few beats before his big hands cup my face and he pulls me so close, so quick, I expect him to kiss me. But he stops. A breath’s space away, and I feel his tremble match mine.
And then, his voice cracks, low and desperate. “Please.” His voice breaks, begging for a kiss, just as affected by the song.
My heart stutters in my chest.
I don’t know what he’s asking, but the intensity in his eyes makes me dizzy.
My mouth dries.
I can’t breathe.
I should ask why the hell he wants to kiss me. Why he’s holding me like he never wants to let go. Demand to know why he’d be affected after he walked away from me.
But I don’t.
I simply whisper, “Yes.”
His mouth descends on my lips, brushing them before pressing down, soft and searching.
Every second stretches.
I can’t think.
I can’t move.
I just feel the heat of him and the urgency in his kiss.
I didn’t expect this. But somehow, I’m not pulling away. This is what I have missed.
I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him even closer.
Hart takes a step into me, pushing me flush against the wall.
My heart rate accelerates, my body reacts, and I don’t question a damn thing. I release my mind and my body to respond to him. Our kiss deepens, and I find myself grinding against Hart’s bulge. This is no hit-it-and-quit-it locking of lips. This is a kiss that puts into words all we can’t say.
His hands leave my face and slide down my sides, coming to a stop on my hips. He pulls from the kiss and rests his forehead against mine, looking me straight in the eye.
“Jade I—”
I shush him with a finger to his lips.
“As the midnight moon was drifting through,” I whisper, singing the song that got us here.
Hart’s eyes light up, and he smiles, almost nervously, and begins swaying his body against mine while softly singing the following line.
“The lazy sway of the trees...”
My mouth finds his ear. “I saw the look in your eyes lookin’ into mine. Seeing what you wanted to see.”
Hart picks up the following verse as he brushes his fingers in circles on my hip.
“Hart?” My pulse quickens in time with the rubbing of Hart’s fingers.
“Yes?”
I whimper in his ear. “I want a man with a slow hand.” I nibble his earlobe, rough and hard.
Hart pulls back, and the surprised look on his face is adorable.
I nod, permitting him, silently telling him I want this as badly as he does.
Here and now.
Desire fills his eyes as he meets me again for another kiss. This time, rough and hard. But his hands are anything but. One slides slowly down my backside and grips my ass cheek before rubbing in slow, teasing motions.
He certainly remembers the lyrics.
“More,” I cry, wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling him closer.
Hart’s mouth makes its way down my throat and along my collarbone.
“Mmm,” I moan and feel his smile as he continues to nibble my skin softly.
How could I have forgotten how soft his lips were?
His other hand slides down the front of my jeans, brushing the zipper.
I bite my lip, anticipation coiling inside me.
He begins rubbing my jeans, exactly where I crave it, where every nerve is lit. His other hand massages between my ass cheeks, and his fingers tease my entrance as his thumb continues its sweet torment at my front.
Can he feel the inferno between my legs through the clothing?
My body trembles with need. I feel myself on the brink, my body straining towards release, lost in the methodic motion of Hart’s hands, rubbing me in front and behind. Then both hands move behind, and his erection rubs my front. The dual sensation is overwhelming.
“Hart...” My voice is barely a whisper against the backdrop of the theatre.
His lips curl into a smirk, his eyes never leave mine as he continues his sweet torture.
A wave of pleasure threatens to drown me. I grind harder, my body seeking more of his touch.
And his mouth. Fuck. He’s kissing me like I’m his lifeline, his tongue diving and exploring my mouth, rough, needy, and hungry.
So damn hungry.
My gasps and moans grow louder, but it doesn’t deter Hart. It doesn’t stop him or even slow him down. He keeps to the slow, albeit constant motion, and I feel myself on the edge, ready to fall over.
His fingers move in a rhythm that matches the pounding of my heart, each movement pushing me closer to the edge.
Just as the group dance on stage ends, my orgasm hits me. I cry out, and he catches it with his mouth. My body shakes from the force of it, and I come with the applause of the crowd covering my keening wail of pleasure.
Hart holds me until the last tremor of my orgasm subsides.
When I finally see him, I glance down at the bulge in his pants.
“No. This was all for you.” He kisses my forehead.
A woman steps out from the stage. “Oh, you found her, great. I hope you enjoyed the show.” She winks as she walks away.
My mind is still spinning when we meet our group in the lobby, and they’re on a high from my dance.
“That was hawt.” Josie pretends to rope me in before swinging her arms around me.
When I step back, I notice Dean eyeing me and Hart.
“What’s this?” He waves his finger between us.
“Fuck off,” Hart says.
His eyes search and squint like he’s trying to make sense of something. Then they widen with clarity.
“Did you two”—he leans in—“get your dicks and pussies wet? You know, smash, polished, balls deep?”
Hart scowls at him. “You’re the human equivalent of a migraine.”
Dean smiles. “Oh, you always know how to flatter me.” He motions a zipper across his lips, and then hugs Harper, dragging her into a kiss as we begin to exit the theatre.
I can’t even think straight.
What was I thinking back there? Letting Hart drag me behind the curtain. Letting him touch me, kiss me, make me orgasm in a public place?
I blame it on my vulnerability to the song and living in the past.
But I know it’s not true. Because when I stop being mad, it leaves room for all my other emotions to resurface. All the ones that will actually drag me into the sadness I’ve spent my life trying to outrun.
“We’re not coming,” Josie grasps my hand. “We have tickets to the meet and greet.” She holds up golden tickets in her other hand.
“A meet and greet for what?” I ask.
“The dancers. We’re going backstage for conversation, autographs...whatever else happens behind closed doors.”
I feel Hart’s body tense beside me.
“Oh, and”—she waves the envelope between us like a sword—“girls only. No guys allowed.”
I glance at him.
His jaw ticks.
Josie leans in. “They said there’s going to be touching.”
“I want it,” Dean says.
“You can wait for us, but no entry for you.”
He curses, but I’d switch my spot with him in a second.