Chapter 3
CHAPTER
THREE
EMELIA
Beers in hand, we eventually reunite with the Kims, though at least one of my friends is still missing in action. Arin and Harry are locked in conversation, and I didn’t think Harry was their type, but you learn new things about people every day.
Don’t think about Jason. Don’t think about Jason.
Roscoe must sense that my mind is wandering because he taps my elbow, leading me back to our table.
We drink more beer as my friends ask him all kinds of questions, like he’s a novelty.
And I suppose he is, unshaven and wearing his heavy boots, two decades older than any of us.
His leather jacket wonderfully complements his broad shoulders and contrasts the bit of salty seasoning in his hair.
I never thought older men were attractive until now, but I can’t take my eyes off him.
Maybe it’s beer goggles. Maybe it’s the fact he’s been so kind to me tonight, when I never got much of a read from him before.
He’s opened up to me to make me feel better, and I genuinely appreciate that kind of human connection.
Plus, he let me cry into his shirt. You don’t get that every day from a stoic man with a lot of stubble.
After a while, the conversation moves on and people start saying goodnight. First it’s Kim, then Becks—who reappeared after an hour—and then Kimmy. Harry has been hitting on Arin, but Arin is as shy as they get and hasn’t picked up his messages yet.
“Another drink?” Roscoe asks, getting up from the table. “Then more dancing is on the docket, I think.”
I grin, because that’s exactly what I want to do, even though I know the whole dancing thing makes him uncomfortable.
“Thank you. I really should buy the next round.”
He looks like I’ve shat on his carpet. “No honorable guy lets a girl buy her own beer on her birthday. And you got a promotion, didn’t you? That was part of the invitation.”
I cover my cheeks with both hands. “Yeah. They made me a regional manager. It’s like a whole two steps up from where I was before.”
Roscoe’s smile is broad and genuine. “Congratulations, Emelia. I’ll be back in five seconds.” Then he takes off, literally jogging, toward the bar to get us more beers.
Harry and Arin are exchanging phone numbers. “Are you coming with me?” asks Arin. “I’m thinking of leaving.”
I frown. “So soon? But we’re still having fun.” The world might be swimming a bit, but I’m finally having a great time not thinking about Jason.
“You and Roscoe are having fun, you mean.” Arin waggles their brows.
I swat them with my purse. “It’s not like that.”
“All right, if you say so.”
I glance at Harry, who clearly has tried hard, but Arin is too sweetly dense.
“I’ll walk you to your Uber,” he says, almost morose, as Arin calls one.
Roscoe’s surprised when he gets back to find the table is now empty of everyone but me.
“Your friends left?” he asks.
“Yeah. Tired. It’s late.”
“Pssh.” Roscoe rolls his eyes. “It’s barely one in the morning. The night is young. I thought the youths stayed out later than this.”
I like that he’s, well, not vanilla at all. He clearly was a party guy in his day. Maybe still is. It’s not like your life ends at forty.
As we drink our beers, I can’t help feeling like this night has become almost a date. But I’m here trying to forget about Jason, not get busy with his dad.
Still, as the night goes on and we abandon our empty plastic cups to head out into the throng of dancers again, I start to notice things—how he moves with such strength hidden beneath his skin.
How he puts an arm out to protect me as we work our way through the crowd.
How he smells? A tantalizing mixture of plain soap and plain deodorant and his own delicious scent.
As we start dancing again, his arm around me and our other hands linked, I could simply lick the sweat off his neck.
Yes, he’s hot. He’s definitely hot, and he’s also definitely pulling me closer as we dance until my cheek is resting against his chest and his chin is perched on top of my head. He holds me like that to the beat of a wild song, as if the bright-colored world around us doesn’t matter at all.
I could simply sink into him like a soft mattress.
His heart is beating much faster than his smooth movements give away, and I wonder if I’m doing to him anything like what he’s doing to me.
I want to bury my face in his armpit, he smells so good.
I want to see what he looks like underneath that leather jacket and plain white Fruit of the Loom shirt.
This is my ex-boyfriend’s dad we’re talking about, and we’re pressing ourselves even closer together, our hips gently brushing up against each other.
I almost don’t give a shit, and that should frighten me, but the beer has gone right to my brain and I’m happy and loose and nobody else is even here.
It’s just me and Roscoe, alone, surrounded by strangers.
I peek up at him, wanting to see what’s on his face, if it might give away how he’s feeling about this. When I do… I see yellow.
Yellow eyes peering back at me. The green is now wholly gone, and the bright yellow glows in the dim light on the dance floor.
“Whoa,” I say, not sure what I’m looking at. Immediately, the yellow fades, and his eyes return to green again.
Did I just imagine that? Does he have some kind of contacts in?
Roscoe licks his lips, his gaze darting away from mine nervously, then back again. “Do you want this?”
“Want what? To dance with you?” I pull him closer. “Yes.” And then, because I’m horny and feeling bold, I rub my crotch against his.
Roscoe’s eyes practically roll back in his head, and his hands grip my hips.
“Emelia,” he rasps. “That’s dangerous territory.”
“Is it?” Now I’m feeling a bit coy and sassy, too. That’s not usually me, but right now… “Does it make you want to do dangerous things to me?”
His answering expression of shock almost shuts me down, but I remain firm in my question. Slowly, Roscoe nods.
“Yes.” He leans his head down, and his voice is most certainly a growl in my ear. “Yes, it does.”
His hand coasts from my hip to my back, then down over my ass.
He inhales sharply, his hips jerking in a way that seems entirely involuntary.
The friction is welcome, and I want his hand to keep traveling south, down between my legs.
I’m warm there—so warm—and all I need is for him to touch me.
He pauses where it is, though, and then he squeezes with his firm fingers.
Reflexively, I grind against him, and Roscoe grunts.
“You’re drunk,” he says, though he squeezes again as if his mouth and his hands belong to two separate people. “We shouldn’t.”
“You’re drunk, too. And who says?” I trail my hands up his chest. “Nobody’s here who would judge us.”
If he turns me down, I’ll probably cry like a baby. I can’t handle two rejections in one night.
“True.” Roscoe curls his other arm around me, keeping our lower bodies rooted together as we sway to the music. It’s quite noticeable when his erection nudges me, and I make sure to rub myself over it, hopefully tantalizing him under his pants.
When his hold on me tightens, I think I’ve succeeded.
Growing bolder, my palms skim back down his body to his jeans, which are held up by a thick leather belt. Below the belt, I brush over where his dick is hiding underneath, and I watch Roscoe’s face as he grits his teeth.
“That’s damn good,” he murmurs, his body responding to mine. I keep my hand hidden between us, but I probably shouldn’t be getting him off in public.
“Can we go?” I ask suddenly. “Please?”
Roscoe leans backward so he can look down at me. “You’re sure that’s what you want?”
“I understand if you don’t.” My voice wobbles as I say it, because yes, I would understand, but I wouldn’t like it. “I’m probably just upset, and I don’t want to use you—”
“Use me.” His grip stiffens around me. “Use me, Emelia. Make yourself feel better. If that’s the purpose I serve, I’m more than happy to be that for you.”
My eyes feel tight, but not because I’m sad. It’s the way that I feel understood by this gorgeous man with sprinkles of gray in his dark hair. How he actually sees me.
“Thank you,” I whisper, and I know he can’t hear it over the music, but I think he can read my lips because he nods and tips his head down to kiss my forehead.
Oh, do I love that.
I grab his hand in mine and pull him off the dance floor, eager to get the hell out of this place and go somewhere we can be alone.
“Where are we going?” Roscoe asks as he obediently comes along with me.
“Leaving. Maybe your place?” I glance over my shoulder at him for confirmation. He lifts his brows.
“Sure, we can go there. It’s a ways away.”
“I know where you live. I just got a big raise, so I’ll pay for the Uber.”
He lets out a resigned sigh, but he’s smiling. “All right. Let’s go.”
I don’t release his hand as we head out into the cool night air. Well, cool relatively speaking. It’s late August, nearing the end of summer soon, so it’s late enough in the year that I’m a little bit chilly.
“Here,” Roscoe says, taking off his leather jacket. He steps behind me to drape it over my shoulders. “Now call us that taxi.”
Doing as I’m told, I tap for a ride and I’m lucky that there’s a car close by. Then I sneak my hand into Roscoe’s. I know what we’re about to do isn’t necessarily intimate, necessarily affectionate, but I feel affection for him right now and I want to show it.
He doesn’t miss a beat, gripping my hand in return as if to comfort me, to assure me it’s okay to ask for it.
Finally, the Uber appears at the curb, and we both climb into the back.
I resist the urge to sit in his lap, and then we buckle ourselves in responsibly as the car pulls away.
Still, though, Roscoe is holding my hand, and when I glance up, I find him staring straight ahead with a slight smile tugging at his lip.
Boy howdy, do I like his face. He has some of Jason’s features, but on him they are less soft and more rugged, with a bump in the bridge of his nose that makes me wonder if he’s broken it before.
And then, of course, there’s that handsome stubble, the square jaw that isn’t lined with baby fat, and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes that deepen when he grins.
I really could just eat him.
Feeling adventurous, I abandon holding hands and instead, my fingers drift down to his jeans, where I rub over the slight lump still there.
Roscoe bites his lip and holds in a breath, watching me as I touch him just outside the driver’s line of sight.
I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help teasing him.
I think watching this man come undone might be my life’s greatest accomplishment. I can’t wait.