Chapter 12
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Bev
I feel frustrated as we walk down the bustling main street. First, I broke my promise to my dad. Second, I let Nate Hart have power over me again. Every time I glance up at him, I see those lips, and I’m back in the room, splayed beneath him, wanting him with every fiber of my being.
And what does he do?
He tells me we’ll finish up later.
It’s enough to make a sunny girl surly.
My desire burns. It’s like my heart stopped pumping blood and started pumping a horny acid mixture instead, filling my veins with want and fire. And I liked my blood very much, thank you.
I don’t want him to have power like that over me again. I don’t want to think about him sexually. I don’t want to think about him at all. But here we are.
And that’s why my goal is to turn his “edging” plan on its head .
No matter how much I want him, I must resist. I may have slipped up in my promise once, but I won’t do it again.
This is very much on my mind as I take in downtown Azalea Beach. The historic buildings that flank main street are painted in tasteful pastel colors, pale blues, creamy yellows, and rosy pinks, which creates an upbeat feel. But the friendly colors are at odds with the people swarming main street—all the Harley Davidson-type men with their serious beards and tank tops with the arm sleeves cut out. They all wear red badges slung around their neck. I can only guess they’re here for the toe-wrestling conference.
It’s warmer here, and even the breeze off the ocean, doesn’t feel chilly. I probably didn’t even need my sweater. I want to stop and bask in it, but Nate is nearly sprinting down the street. “Why are you walking so fast?” I ask.
He pulls his John Deere hat lower. “I’m less likely to be recognized,” he says in a low voice. “If somebody walks by quick, it’s harder to get a good look.”
“Gotcha.” I try to keep up the pace.
It only works for so long. “Beefsteak!” a man shouts, pumping his fist, as he passes by.
“Is that one of your lyrics?” I ask, cataloguing this away for later, so I can make fun of him.
Nate shoots me a sheepish look as if to say, “Yes.” He pumps his fist back but seems eager to get out of the crowd. “How does this look?” he asks, gesturing at a nearby seafood shack.
“Great.” My stomach rumbles.
We luck out and a couple have just left, so there’s a table in the back patio, right on the marina. I’m a little worried about the prices because as soon as the hostess mentioned the word, “marina,” I knew this was going to be expensive.
We get to the table, and Nate pulls out my chair for me. At first, I’m not really sure what he’s doing, and I think he’s pulling out the chair for himself, so I pull out the second chair for me. “It was for you,” he explains.
“Oh.” I switch chairs. He chivalrously gave me the one facing the water.
We open the menus, and holy moly, expensive prices confirmed. Nate seems to read my thoughts because he says without skipping a beat, “This is on me.”
“I’m technically your boss though. Shouldn’t I be the one paying?”
“Save it and put it towards Possum.”
We each order a lobster roll. He orders a beer, and I treat myself to a mezcal margarita.
As we eat, I try to push whatever happened between us in the bedroom out of my mind.
But the more I try to push it down, the more it bubbles up. I gaze at his big hands on his water glass and marvel at the veins running up his knuckles. And then I remember how he looked without a shirt on. All my thoughts seem to build—one sexy image to the next.
Feeling hot, I lift my hair up from my neck, trying to cool off.
“Doing okay?” he asks.
“Just hot.”
He traces his finger down his icy water glass. I watch as the condensation builds against his fingers.
He shoots me a wicked smile and then sneaks his hand under the table. I can feel the heat of him hovering next to my thigh. Very slowly, he traces the same finger down my inner-thigh. All the sensations—the coolness from the glass, the slight bit of damp, the heat of him—firework through me, pleasure pulling me every which way. I can’t help but tilt my head back.
“That’s right, baby,” he whispers.
I have to fight it, and I right myself, even as his touch lingers.
I realize my hips are moving slightly against my chair as if I need some kind of friction. I have to keep stopping, reminding myself of where I am. The whole thing is embarrassing but also strangely thrilling. Something undeniably erotic.
“How are you doing over here?” a waitress pipes up from between us. “Any drink refills?”
I jump, startled, and my cheeks burn. I look up at her, but she doesn’t seem to have noticed.
“I tried not to say anything,” she gushes to Nate. “But I just can’t help it. I’m a huge fan.”
He smiles politely, although I feel him watching me, and I know he’s thinking about what just happened under the table as much as I am. He agrees to take a few photos with her, but in them, he’s looking at me.
One thing Nate Hart has made me realize: Waiting for him makes you want him more.
So does that mean if I give in, I’ll want him less? If we do hook up just this one time, can some of this fade already?
I realize what I’m doing, and I stop the questions dead in their tracks. I can’t give in. I can’t justify hooking up with him. I must remain strong, steadfast.
And that’s when an order for Kumamoto oysters arrives at the table. They’re on the house. Apparently, the chef, like the waitress, is also a Nate Hart fan.
“Have you ever had Kumamoto oysters?” Nate asks .
I shake my head, feeling like he’s seen so much more of the world than me. Tasted it.
“Close your eyes,” he commands.
“I’m good.”
“I want to surprise you.”
“I don’t like surprises.”
“Bev, can’t you just let me give you a little joy? You get so worked up about it.”
“I’m not worked up.” But I’m so worked up, I sound like I just completed a cycling class.
He raises his eyebrows.
“Fine.” I do as I’m told and close my eyes. He can feed me an oyster. It won’t mean anything.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod when I feel a shell against my lips, cool from the ice, and smelling of saltwater and lemon.
In an instant, a tasty explosion of brine and garlic dance over my tongue. I savor for a minute, eyes still closed, appreciating every moment of this, feeling the need for him grow.
Must fight it.
We finish the rest of the oysters, and I try to distance myself, bringing the topic back to Cody. I show him photos that Chandra sent me. A dog that looks like he had some lab in him. Patchy hair. Skin and bones. Wounded eyes that won’t meet the camera.
“Wow.” He looks stunned.
“I hope the drive tomorrow isn’t too stressful for him,” I say.
“Me too,” he agrees.
The bill comes, and I must confess I’m afraid to leave. I want him so bad, but I have to resist. Will I be able to restrain myself as soon as we leave this outdoor table at the marina? What’s going to keep me from not dragging him back to the motel—to our one bed?
I internally panic as we leave the restaurant and walk down the busy streets. He burns in my mind. Every time I glance up at him, I’m somehow more attracted to him than I was the time before. I even notice he has the faintest of green flecks in his eyes.
And it’s just not his looks; it’s everything. His voice. His mind. Maybe even his heart.
I can feel my guard slip.
What if this was his plan all along?
The thought sends a whisper of unease down the back of my neck.
Five large men spill out of a bar, howling in laughter from what they’ve just seen.
I need to distract myself and keep us in public. We can’t be left alone and to our own devices. “Let’s go into that bar,” I say.
Nate scratches the back of his head like he’s not sure. “In there?”
“Yeah.” I grab his elbow.
He allows himself to be dragged a few feet and then stops. “I never go into bars anymore,” he confesses.
“We’ll leave if anyone recognizes you.”
He nods but doesn’t seem completely convinced.
We enter the bar, and it’s like we’ve entered a whole other world. A ring is set in the back, and a man, who looks to be in his forties, faces a young girl, who looks to be about eighteen. They sit back in chairs almost like they’re lounging, so their legs can be fully stretched out. Their toes are intertwined but not moving yet. A ref starts a count down, “Five, four, three… ”
The crowd is electric. Some count down with the ref; others chant. It’s glorious mayhem.
I feel Nate watching me, and I grin up at him, feeling relieved we’re here and happy that it seems so fun.
The ref continues his count down, “Two, one!”
Nate leans close. His breath whispers against my hair, sending shivers cascading through me. I try to brush it off.
“I don’t usually shout like this,” he says loudly, still close, his nose almost buried in my hair. “Normally, I have to ‘save’ my voice.”
“For performances?”
“Yeah, either that or recording.”
He pulls away, and I long for him to be close again.
The match officially begins. And the toes are a’moving. It seems like the man is ahead, but then the girl makes a swift comeback and wins.
Nate and I jump up and down, cheering.
“And the young lady, Juana, wins again!” The ref shouts. “She’s on a roll tonight!”
People around us shriek and whoop, cupping their mouths with their hands, essentially going nuts. The commotion pushes Nate and I closer. We brush arms. My skin goosepimples at his touch, alive and alert. It feels so good. It’s too much. “I need to use the bathroom!” I gesture in the direction of the bathroom just in case he can’t hear me over the wound-up crowd.
He nods.
I turn to go, trying to squeeze through the crowd, and am surprised when they part for me. I turn to see Nate, following closely behind, casting a tall and intimidating shadow, which is what most likely caused them to move .
We reach the back hallway, leading to the bathroom area. There are three small individual restrooms, but each is taken.
My heart thuds in my ears. Will he try to enter the bathroom with me?
I desperately want him to, hoping he’ll push me against a wall—I don’t even care if it’s dirty—and finally set me free. I need his touch. I need to feel connected to him. I need to come.
But I also need to resist. Can I?
After the person in front of me enters a newly open bathroom, Nate pulls me into a bearhug from behind. His arms wrap around my chest and his erection presses into my lower back. “I love that tank top,” he whispers in my ear.
Pleasure warms me, and my cheeks heat with the compliment.
“And I love that you brought me here,” he whispers.
I nod, unable to form words. It all just feels too amazing. My head buzzes with it.
“Have you been thinking about us?” he asks in a low voice.
“You mean what happened in the motel room?”
He squeezes me. “Yeah.”
Every second of this evening . “Some.”
“Some?” He pulls me closer, so he can peek at my face.
“Yeah, some.” I’m about to tuck my hair behind my ear, but I let it fall, so it can hide my expression, my desire. “You?”
“Always.”
“What have you been thinking about?” I try to sound upbeat like we’re talking about the weather forecast or gym schedules .
“How much I want you.” His fingers trail down from my collarbone, down the top of my tank top, and brush against my breasts. All my muscles clench deliciously together, and I can’t believe how on edge I feel, teetering so close to an orgasm, when they’ve always been so hard for me to achieve during sex. I don’t think I came once while Jay and I dated. I’d have to do that on my own time.
His hands slide down to my thighs, and I lean back into him, nearly shaking with anticipation. I want to tell him how much I loved the dinner; how he fed me the oyster; how he’s opened my eyes in so many ways. But words are too much now. All I can do is sink back into his embrace, feeling high from his touch.
A bathroom door swings open, and an older man stalks out. I can no longer stay away from Nate. I need him. He’s driving me crazy with desire. I look back at him like, “Aren’t you going to follow me in?”
Unfortunately, someone joins us in line, making it impossible for us to enter together, unnoticed. Even so, I want to yank him in. In fact, it pains me to close the door—decorated with initials written in sharpie—and leave him behind.
As I stand there in the bathroom alone, I try to tell myself it’s probably for the best. But it doesn’t feel that way as the disappointment turns to stone in my belly.
I quickly finish up, eager to see him again.
When we return to our spots, Juana is about to start her final match. Whoever wins this will be champion. And after a bitter battle, she wins. She’s the champion.
We jump, cheering. She’s got two new fans in us. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had this much fun. It’s something you don’t get to experience often when caring for a sick parent .
The crowd begins to dissipate, and a moment of panic flies through me like a thousand birds taking flight. I know that I want him, but I’m trying so hard to resist him. Can I make it a few more hours until I fall asleep, finally immune from my desire for him?
As people leave, it’s rowdy. People cheer, pumped up, animated.
Nate places a protective hand on my lower back, and my breath gushes from my lungs. His touch makes me ache with need.
As much as I try to fight it, my lust has only grown stronger.
I now know—without a doubt—that I won’t be able to resist him tonight.
My heart pounds in my ears, unsure of what to make of all this.
Am I going to hook up with Nate Hart?