Chapter 3
Andi
Dammit , I wish we weren’t in Galway, because there is a big. blond snack of a man—no, hell, he’s a five-course feast of a man—at the teachers’ table, right next to Steve Jackson. If we were in Asheville or Charlotte or Greenville, I’d be planning my after-party accordingly.
He’s easily as tall as Lenny and James, with eight-foot-wide shoulders and biceps that strain the sleeves of his dark polo. No wedding ring or sign of there ever having been a wedding ring on the hand he has clenched around his beer mug. His expression is just right when he looks at me…sweet, poleaxed, and not real bright. A golden retriever of a man. Probably a coach, like Steve. All brawn and not too many brains, young enough to have plenty of stamina, and almost certainly up for a night of energetic, no-strings sex.
He’s freakin’ perfect .
And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it because this is my hometown and you don’t pee in your own pool, unless you’re really gross and have no sense. I have a serious professional reputation to guard and no need for entanglements. So I divide my attention between him and all the other people in the bar who look interested, and just enjoy having his eyes on me as I sing and dance with James and David.
But ohhh, if we weren’t in Galway, I could strip that polo off of him and gnaw my way across those big shoulders and up the firm column of his neck, bite that square jaw and his cute little earlobes, let him flutter those thick gold-tipped lashes against my skin…
No. Rein it in, Andrea.
So I channel my sadness over Gram’s death and my worry over my clients and my rage at abusers worldwide and every last ounce of my sexual frustration into songs by Etta James and Nina Simone and Janis Joplin. I do a little dance sandwich between big James and pretty David, and I enjoy just being up here with these guys. I’m not the only one dealing with stuff; Lenny had a nightmare of a childhood and Chris is still in love with his remarried ex, years after their split. The stage is a place where they can let everything out too.
For James and David, it’s different. James is a big flirt with a deep voice and a big belly-laugh. He acts like a hound dog when he’s up here singing and playing, but offstage he’s a devoted dad and husband, a master with a barbecue grill and surprisingly good at freeze tag. David might as well still be on his honeymoon, he’s so besotted with his wife, and they’re over the moon about the three kids they’re adopting.
But onstage we all put on a show, wailing and flirting and sometimes raunching it up, singing our hearts out, playing to the crowd. And it’s almost enough. By the end of our first set, some of the tension is leaving my body, replaced by the high of a good performance.
I speed back to the restroom while I can, not even glancing at Steve Jackson’s table or his big blond friend. Not gonna go there. Too dangerous. Too tempting.
I use the facilities and check my makeup and my cheap fake nails, make sure everything’s where it should be. I look into my eyes in the mirror for a long minute, hoping that no one else can see loneliness or sadness or fear in me tonight. Just in case, I reach into the top of my dress and adjust the girls to show a little more cleavage. Strategic tattoos, the girls, and a butt load of makeup… Those are the secret of the Andi-to-Andrea attitude shift.
I’m starting to get hoarse. Might have overdone it a bit on a couple of those songs. Gotta pace myself if I’m going to be able to do justice to “Late Nights and Heartbreak” at the end of the night.
Need to check Lenny’s set list real quick before we take the stage again…
I’m out the restroom door, headed up the hall full speed, when out of nowhere I hit a wall. Not a metaphorical one—a solid wall of muscle and sinew and hard flesh, directly in my path. The force of the collision sends us careening through the curtain into the little alcove where Lindon’s stores extra chairs. Knocks the air out of my lungs.
Alarm floods my veins with ice. I struggle to regain my balance enough to fight or flee.
“Oh, ma’am, I’m so sorry! Are you okay?” Voice like low, warm velvet. Big hands gentle on my waist, not grabbing, just steadying me.
Light glints off thick lashes above eyes that look dark in the shadowed alcove, but those cheekbones and that jawline are unmistakable.
I’m okay. It’s Snack Man
Oh my god, it’s my big blond snack man, his hard body still close to mine, his thumbs rubbing slow circles just below my ribs, his scent a little spicier and more mysterious than I would have expected. A faint glimmer of my lip gloss on his left pec.
And just like that, I take leave of my senses. Instead of moving back into the hallway, I step farther in. Tilt my chin up and aim my full Andrea smolder at him. Raise one long red fingernail and stroke it slowly across his chest, just below the lip gloss. His breathing stalls and his nipple hardens under my fingertip.
So do mine, under my dress. I feel a tug low in my belly, and instead of taking it as warning, I arch closer.
“I”—I rub my fingertip back the other way, over his nipple again—“messed up my lipstick on your shirt here. I should probably go fix that. You want to make it worth my while?”
His hands clench and unclench and clench again on my waist before his thumbs resume their lazy stroking. “Make it…worth your while?”
I stretch my arm up slowly, bringing my hand to the back of his hard, warm neck. His eyes sweep my arm and shoulder and chest before rising to mine. When I tug his face down, he doesn’t resist.
***
Kevin
My idiot brain chooses this moment to remember every science concept I ever studied. Osmosis, as the heat of her body under my fingertips seeps through my cell membranes to set me on fire. Absorption as I soak up the hunger in her eyes, and reflection as mine mirror it back. Surface tension, as every freaking molecule of my body quivers and strains to hold it together despite the irresistible pull of her.
This wet dream of a woman—no, this mesmerizing, all-powerful goddess —is pulling me in for a kiss, her dark eyes glowing and a pulse beating fast in her throat just uphill of her amazing breasts.
Life shifts into slow motion. A delicious, see-every-detail, think-every-thought-fully slow motion.
My hands are on her, one at her waist, the other rising to cup the silky skin of her shoulder.
God, I’ve missed touching people. I’ve gone almost totally without physical contact with another person for the past three and a half weeks. That’s unheard of in my big family, where physical interactions are constant. My last hug and kiss and hand-holding and arm pat and shoulder bump—really, any skin-to-skin contact—was in Nebraska when I was saying goodbye as I set out on my move to North Carolina.
I am starving for human touch and Andrea’s smooth skin is a feast. I want to run my hands all over her, dip her back over my arm and press my mouth to her throat, her collarbones, the firm curves of her breasts, suck and nip and, just, feast .
Lord, she feels impossibly good. Warm, soft, firm, full… I try to get control of myself, but her dark eyes have me and she doesn’t seem to want to let go. In fact, one of her hands is in my hair now, her fingertips swirling against my scalp in a way that never felt sexy before but that brings a low growl up out of me tonight. I’m about five seconds away from stripping her naked and taking her up against the wall.
And then our mouths meet in a kiss so hungry, so forceful it’s impossible to know who is giving and who is taking.
Holy mother of god. It’s like inhaling a flame. She’s hot in my hands, hot against my lips, hot everywhere we press together. The slide of her tongue, the friction of her body against mine as she pulls me closer… Her taste and scent are irresistible. Salty, sweet, and spicy, warm and dark and captivating.
I ache to bury my face in her cleavage and breathe her in. Discover the source of that scent and that heat. Lick her, taste her, suck little marks into her skin there.
We devour each other, pleasure humming out of us, my hands smoothing up and down her back. I want to get closer, but all too soon she pulls away.
I let go, of course, but my hands and body scream a silent protest. I stand with her in that dim alcove, still on fire, waiting to see what she’ll do next.
Her lipstick really does need fixing now. I’ve eaten most of it off of her. She puts one hand on my forearm as if to steady herself. “That was def initely worth my while. Thank you.” Then she goes up on tiptoe, kisses my cheek, and disappears through the curtain and into the women’s restroom.
I have to forcibly gather my wits and will my body back under control before I duck into the men’s room to see if I have lipstick all over me. I do not want to have to explain to Steve or anybody else what just happened. I mean, not that I’m even sure what just happened, except me being hit by lightning in the shadowy back hallway of a bar.
No, kissing Andrea will be a memory I’ll keep to myself and treasure. Because damn , what could I possibly say about it? “Well, one night I met this goddess…”