Chapter 7 Ina
Seven
Ina
The song changes. Something with more bass. More heat. And Beau’s hand slides lower on my back.
I feel him shift against me and…oh. Oh.
That’s not his belt buckle. That is a thick, hard, unmistakable problem pressing against my belly.
And not just pressing…pulsing. I can feel the heat of him through two layers of denim.
The length. The thickness. My brain short-circuits and my body takes over; my pussy pulses, my clit tingles, my nipples drag tight against my bra.
Every inch of me goes hot and wet and aware.
We’re still moving. Slow. Close. But it’s different now.
His thigh…hard, heavy with muscle…brushes between mine with every step, his hand grips my hip, fingers digging into my flesh, his thumb pressing into the soft curve above my ass, his breathing has changed …
deeper, rougher, his chest expanding against mine with every inhale.
I can feel his heartbeat now. Faster than before. Not so steady anymore.
And mine? I’m practically panting against his shirt. I can smell him with every breath …leather and cedar and warm, clean skin and something under that’s just him. Just Beau. The scent that’s been living in my head since the fair and is now soaking into my clothes, my hair, my skin.
This isn’t dancing anymore. This is foreplay with a two-step.
And we’re in public, in a bar full of people I’ve known since high school. With his brothers twenty feet away. And my best friend watching from a high-top like she’s livestreaming this.
I need to stop. I need to pull back and sit down and drink my lemonade and act like a grown woman with grown children and a shred of self-respect.
Instead, my hips roll against him. Tiny.
Involuntary. A slow grind that drags his cock right against my belly and sends a bolt of heat straight through my clit.
Beau’s hand tightens on my waist. His breath catches against my hair…
a sharp exhale through his nose that I feel on my scalp.
And he presses back. Firm. Deliberate. Letting me feel every thick, hard inch of what’s waiting for me.
God, I’m going to combust on this dance floor.
“I should go home,” I whisper, pressing my palms flat against his chest. I can feel the hard slabs of his pecs under the cotton. The heat of his skin burning through. Not pushing him away. Just… placing my hands there. Like a boundary, I don’t actually want.
Beau stops moving but doesn’t step back. He looks down at me. His molten gold eyes. Half-lidded. Hungry. His full lips parted. His jaw, tight. Up close like this, I can see the pulse ticking in his neck. Fast. He’s not as calm as he looks.
“Let me drive you.”
That voice. Low and scraped raw, like the words cost him something. The heat in his eyes. The promise of everything he’s not saying.
I shake my head. “No, I don’t think…”
“Please, Ina.”
My name in his mouth. Every time. Every goddamn time it undoes me. The way his deep voice wraps around the two syllables like he’s holding something precious in his teeth. My knees go soft.
“I… let me say bye to Tanya.”
Something shifts in his jaw. A muscle flexing. He nods once and lets me go. Slowly. His fingers trailing off my hip, dragging across the fabric of my jeans, the last point of contact his fingertips ghosting over my thigh before falling away.
I walk back to the table on legs made of rubber. Tanya’s sitting there with her arms crossed and her eyebrows somewhere near her hairline.
“So,” she says.
“I’m gonna head out.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He offered to drive me home.”
“Home,” she says it flat. Like she doesn’t believe a word of it.
“Yes. Home. My home. Where I live. Alone.”
Tanya picks up her drink, takes a long sip, and sets it down. “Babe, I’ve been married fourteen years. I know what ‘he’s driving me home’ means. And it does not mean home.”
I groan. “Tanya…”
She holds up a hand. “Go. Have fun. Be safe. Text me tomorrow with every single detail, or I’m coming to your ranch with chocolate and handcuffs.”
“That’s not…”
“GO.” She shoos me with both hands, grinning so wide I can see her back teeth. “And tell that man I said he better be good to you, I know where his daddy lives.”
I hug her. Quick and tight. She squeezes back and whispers in my ear, “You deserve this, Ina. Let yourself have it.”
My throat tightens. I pull back before she sees my eyes go glassy.
Outside, the air is cooler. Quieter. The music and laughter fade as the door swings shut. Crickets and moonlight and the sound of my own pulse hammering in my ears.
Then Beau’s next to me. His big body filling the space next to mine.
His arm brushing my shoulder as we walk.
Even that …just the brush of his bare forearm against my skin…
sends heat racing up my neck. I’m hyperaware of him.
The way he shortens his long stride to match mine.
The way his hand hovers near the small of my back, not quite touching.
The way he smells in the night air…leather and cedar, sharper in the cool, mixing with something warm and smoky from the bar.
I dig in my purse and pull out my keys. My hands are trembling. I hold them out, and Beau takes them. His rough fingers brush mine during the handoff, and I feel it in my chest.
He doesn’t say a word. Just opens the passenger door of my SUV and waits for me to climb in.
His hand finds my elbow as I step up …steadying me, guiding me…
his palm is warm and firm on the bare skin of my arm.
A shiver rolls through me. He notices. His golden eyes flick to mine in the dark.
Holds for a beat. Then he closes the door.
He folds himself behind the wheel, adjusts the seat back to make room for his legs…
long, spread wide, his thick thighs straining his jeans…
and starts the engine. My SUV suddenly feels too small.
Too warm. His body fills the whole space; his broad shoulders take up half the cab.
His big hand wraps around my steering wheel, and I watch his forearm flex, the tendons shifting under tanned skin, and think about that hand wrapped around my hip on the dance floor.
Between my thighs in the bullpen. Inside me on my porch.
I press my knees together and look out the window.
We don’t talk for the first few miles. Just the hum of the engine and the dark road ahead. Me, fidgeting with the hem of my top. Him, driving with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the console between us. Close to my thigh. Not touching. Almost.
“You haven’t been around town,” Beau finally says. His voice is quiet in the dark. Intimate. It fills the cab like a warm hand.
“No. I left after high school. Went away for college, then moved to the city.”
He glances over. The dashboard lights catch his profile …the straight line of his nose, the cut of his jaw, his thick lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones. He’s beautiful in a way that’s almost aggressive. Like his face is daring you to look away.
“Yeah?” he asks.
I nod. And then I do what I always do when I’m nervous. I talk. I give him everything. Not because he asked…but because some part of me needs him to know what he’s getting into. Needs to test whether the truth will scare him off.
“I lived in the city, got married young. Had my daughter, Lilah…she’s twenty now.
My son, Miles, is eighteen.” I pause. Watch his profile in the dark.
He’s listening. Not just hearing, listening.
His jaw relaxed, his golden eyes steady on the road.
His hand still resting on the console, his pinky finger barely an inch from my thigh.
“The marriage… it wasn’t good. Not at the end.
My ex cheated. I found out. And instead of just letting me go, he turned the divorce into a war.
” I swallow. “Made me fight for everything. The house, the money, time with my own kids. Like I was the one who wronged him.”
My voice tightens. More than I want it to.
“Anyway. My parents needed help with the ranch, so I came home. Been here about eight months now.”
The silence stretches. Long enough that I start to wonder if I said too much.
Dumped too much baggage on a man I’ve known for a few days.
Maybe this is where he realizes I’m not some uncomplicated fantasy.
I’m a whole mess of a woman with stretch marks and legal bills and a teenage son who barely texts me back.
Then Beau reaches over. Takes my hand. His rough, calloused fingers lace through mine…
slow, deliberate, filling every gap. He settles our joined hands on his thigh.
The denim is warm under my knuckles. His quad is hard under, solid and huge.
His thumb starts stroking the back of my hand. Slow. Steady.
“He’s a fool,” he says quietly. Not angry. Not performative. Just certain. Like it’s a law of physics. The sky is blue. Water is wet. The man who let Ina Samba go is the dumbest motherfucker alive.
Something warm cracks open behind my ribs.
“And I’m glad you came home, Ina.” His thumb keeps moving on my skin. “Real glad.”
I don’t trust my voice. So I just hold his hand. Feel the warmth of his palm against mine. The rough texture of his skin. The steady stroke of his thumb. And I let it be enough for now.
We drive in comfortable silence after that.
His thumb tracing patterns on my hand. My head against the headrest, turned slightly toward him, watching him in the dark.
The way his other hand holds the wheel…relaxed, confident, his long fingers draped over the top.
How the muscles in his forearm shift when he takes a turn, the dashboard light catching the gold of his eyes when he checks his mirrors.
The strong column of his neck. The breadth of his shoulders blocking out the driver’s side window.
He drives the way he does everything. Calm.
Sure. Like nothing in the world could rattle him.
And there’s something about being in a car with a man like that…
his hand holding yours, his body steady, his presence filling the silence without needing to…
that makes you feel like nothing bad could ever happen again.
It takes me a minute too long to realize we’re not heading toward my place.
The trees look different; the fencing, the open pasture stretching wide under the moon. Then I see the big wooden arch overhead. ‘Redding Ranch’ carved into the beam.
My heart kicks. “Beau. Where are we going?”
He doesn’t look at me. Just keeps driving. His thumb still stroking my hand like nothing’s changed. Then he gives me his golden eyes. Full of heat and certainty and something so raw it steals my breath.
“Home,” he says. “To my place.”
The word settles in the cab like a lit match.
I should say something. Should tell him to turn around. Should remind us both that this is moving way too fast, that I barely know him, that going home with a man I met days ago is not something I do.
But I don’t say any of that. I look at his hand holding mine, at his rough thumb still moving on my skin.
At the quiet certainty on his face…no arrogance, no expectation.
Just sureness. Like he already knows where we’re going and he’s just waiting for me to stop being afraid of wanting it. And I let him take me home.