10. Matty
Matty
For the first time in a long time, my cheeks hurt from smiling. Actual, genuine smiling, too. Not the polite kind I had been faking for the past few months.
The air in the room was cool thanks to the A/C unit in the window, but my skin still buzzed from hours of dancing.
Diaz was already kicking off his shoes with dramatic flourish, wobbling slightly as he laughed at himself. Sweat gleamed along the clean curve of his shaved head, catching the light before tracing a slow line down the side of his temple until it disappeared under the open collar of his shirt.
Correction: his slutty shirt.
The top few buttons had surrendered somewhere between the third round of panty droppers and Diaz trying to coax the entire bar into joining his one-man conga line. Which meant I now had a front-row seat to the light smattering of hair on his warm, caramel skin.
Yummy.
“Who knew James Jarrett had hips that don’t lie?” he said, sliding across the floor like he was Tom Cruise.
“Didn’t he play a jock turned dancer on that teen drama in the early 2000s?”
“Sure, but he’s like sixty now.”
I rolled my eyes and leaned back against the door. “He’s in his forties and you know it.”
Diaz barked out a laugh.
We were both a little buzzed. Not drunk, but just loose enough from the tequila and the high of finally letting off some pent-up energy. Hell, it was going on two a.m. and I was nowhere near ready for bed.
Judging by how Diaz was bouncing around the room like Freddie Mercury, neither was he.
“So, is he . . . your type?”
I arched a brow. “I don’t have a type.”
He nodded. “I don’t know. You two looked pretty cozy, yakking it up by the bar together.”
Well, slap my ass and call me Sally.
Did I detect a hint of jealousy? Not the ugly kind, but the sharp, needy kind that made my stomach flip and my dick harden.
I liked it. More than I should have.
I let the silence stretch just long enough for him to squirm. “It wouldn’t matter if he was my type because I’m definitely not his.”
“What’s his type?”
“Vagina.”
“You did not just say that.”
I couldn’t help the laugh that escaped me. “I just call it like it is. Actually, the two of you have a lot more in common.”
He pursed his lips. “As much as I appreciate the female form, I’ve never actually sipped from the lady fountain.”
“That’s not— I’m talking about Captain America.”
His eyes were sparkling now, the jealousy morphing into that bright, playful smirk he wore like a second skin.
“Mi amor?”
“Apparently, James has one hell of a comic book collection. He and Colt got into it about the best issues of Captain America.”
“#110, the first appearance of Madame Hydra. Obviously.”
“Damn,” I said, fighting a grin of my own. “Just when I thought you couldn’t out-nerd yourself.”
“You’ll understand better after a proper Evans-ducation.”
He twirled away from me, humming one of the upbeat, Latin pop songs we had danced to at the bar. He swayed his hips in exaggerated circles.
“Come on, Alabama. You’re killing my buzz.”
I toed off my shoes and set them neatly by the door. “And you’re going to wake up the whole place.”
Diaz just laughed and kept moving, like the music was still playing in his blood. I caught myself staring at the way his shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat, the fabric translucent in places.
My mouth went dry.
If anybody made sweat look good, it was Peter Diaz.
The guy could sell his by the bottle and make a fortune. Twelve ounces of liquid, salty goodness all for the low, low price of needs to be mine.
Plus, it would pair so well with his candle.
Holy hell, I was one step away from a glorified shrine to the man.
The tiny ball of brown and black fur curled up on my pillow pulled my focus. Mo was fast asleep, snoring like a chainsaw. She hadn’t so much as lifted her head.
“Twirl me,” Diaz demanded.
“Twirl yourself. I’ll just—”
“I don’t think so. You know, your moves weren’t half bad out there. A little stiff, but we can work with that.”
I snorted, crossing my arms. “Oh, we can, can we?”
“Starting now.” He held out his hand, palm up, eyes sparkling with challenge. “?Dale! One dance. I’ll teach you.”
I hesitated, my pulse ratcheting up for reasons that had nothing to do with the tequila.
We had spent the past several hours dancing around each other, literally and figuratively. Well, he’d danced. I’d feigned indifference while trying—and failing—not to ogle him too obviously.
When I’d finally joined him on the dance floor, it had felt good. His radiant smile, the way his arms fit around me a little too well, a little too naturally. Close enough to feel his heat without crossing that invisible line that we’d drawn since Soren and Clarke’s wedding.
But now, with no one watching? That line felt thinner than ever.
“Fine,” I muttered. “But if I step on your toes, it’s your fault.”
I took his hand and his fingers curled around mine.
“I’m willing to risk it.”
The A/C rattled in the background like a half-hearted metronome, not that Diaz didn’t need it. He started humming again and began the basic salsa steps he’d been trying to drill into me all night.
“Did you talk to Bernice about your A/C today?”
Diaz nodded without missing a beat. “She said the earliest the repairman could come out was tomorrow. Until then . . .”
He batted his eyelashes up at me.
I rolled my eyes, but my pulse kicked up. “You can stay another night. Just . . . behave yourself.”
“What fun would that be?”
He picked up the pace and my heart rate accelerated. It was hard to know if it was because of the dance or the way our nipples brushed together.
“Okay, now forward with the left, back with the right.” Every muscle in my body seized when his hand drifted down my back, dangerously closing in on my ass. “One, two, three, hold four.”
I mirrored his movements, feeling awkward at first. My legs felt too long, too clumsy next to his fluid grace. He was like liquid sex to my uncooked spaghetti noodles.
But he didn’t seem to mind. He guided me with gentle pressure until the rhythm finally began to click.
“There you go,” he murmured. “Loosen those hips, tesoro.”
I stumbled again. Diaz laughed and the sound vibrated through his chest, close enough for me to feel it when our bodies brushed.
“Not bad for a country boy,” he said around a smile.
“You should see me line dance.”
Little did he know, I was a junior line dancing champion in the Southeastern region. None of my teammates were aware of that tidbit, and if it was up to me, they never would.
“Don’t tempt me with a good time,” he teased.
I nailed the next pass perfectly and Diaz whooped, spinning me under his arm like we were a couple in an old movie. I laughed loudly, the sound bubbling out unfiltered.
Fuck, it felt good to just . . . be.
With him, like this.
No cameras or teammates to see. Just the two of us, sweaty and silly in a log cabin the size of a shoebox.
Eventually, our laughter faded, replaced by a heavier silence. His thumb grazed the inside of my wrist, making my dick twitch. It was such a stupid, little move, like something out of one of my romance novels, and yet here I was, seconds away from coming in my jeans like a teenager.
The hand on my back pressed firmer, drawing me in until at last, our hips met.
Diaz’s breath hitched.
There was no way he could miss the hard line of my cock pressing against his front, threatening to break free. His eyes darkened, zeroing in on my lips. We were barely moving now. Just staring, breathing each other in.
I didn’t overthink it. I had spent too much time overthinking this thing, this pull between us.
Fuck it.
Let it have me.
“Matty—”
I crashed my lips onto his.
Diaz opened for me instantly, his tongue sliding against mine, hot and hungry. One of his hands fisted in the back of my shirt, drawing it slightly up my back. The other cupped my jaw, his thumb stroking along my jawline in a way that made me want to fall to my knees and beg.
That could be fun.
I groaned into his mouth, and he answered with a moan of his own.
Holy hell, this man could kiss. And as a certified kissing expert, I should know.
I’d once read something about a study that said it took about 10,000 hours to become an expert at anything.
If that math held up, then I’d logged more than enough time to claim the title.
Growing up in small-town Alabama, there wasn’t much else to do on Friday or Saturday night except park somewhere with whatever girl was willing to climb into the cab of my old Chevy.
I’d kissed my way through most of high school and half of junior college. Hundreds of kisses, maybe thousands. Enough that I’d gotten good at it.
But this was different.
Diaz’s kisses put mine to shame. He kissed like he was trying to memorize every inch of my mouth.
But then, just as suddenly, he pulled back.
“Wait,” he whispered, his voice raw.
His forehead dropped to mine, breath coming in short, uneven pants. “What’s wrong?”
There was no hiding the desperation in my tone.
“Last time I kissed you like this, you ran. And I—” His voice cracked. “I don’t know if I can handle that again. I can’t hurt you.”
His words landed heavily in my heart. I cupped his face with both hands, forcing his eyes to meet mine.
“Look at me.” His long lashes fluttered open. “I know exactly what I’m doing and who I’m doing it with. I’m not going anywhere this time.”
He swallowed. “I wouldn’t blame you.”
“Do you know why I panicked?” I kept my voice steady even though my pulse was hammering.
“It wasn’t just because of the fanfiction.
It was because those stories that you wrote about me, about us—they turned me on.
A lot. More than I knew what to do with.
And your texts. Fuck. Every time my phone lit up, my heart would race like I was a teenager again.
I’d never felt that way before. Not for anybody. ”
Diaz’s breath caught. His hands flexed on my hips like he needed something to hold onto.