Chapter 1 – Lena #2
I dragged my eyes away and focused on Kimmy. "I need to go."
Running. Shocking.
"Absolutely the fuck not. You are going to stay right here and dance. The next guy that puts his hands on you and dances, we'll just pray that he can dance. And then you're going to show everyone what you can do. Do you understand me?"
The mom face again. I nodded blindly. "Yeah, okay got it."
I tried not to pay attention to him. I tried to forget he was there.
But it was impossible. I kept dancing, kept my eyes shut, kept moving my hips to the beat.
But his words, "Honestly, I can do better," zinged around in my head.
And the worst part wasn't even what he said.
It was how he said it, calm and matter of fact, like my not being enough was just data.
My fingers tightened around the neck of my beer bottle.
I wanted to hit him. Mostly I wanted to hit myself because why was I letting his words get to me like that?
I was a 3.9 GPA student carrying a full course load while managing my mother's healthcare from two states away.
I could take apart a Faulkner novel and file an insurance appeal in the same afternoon.
I was not the kind of woman someone "did better" than.
And yet here you are, spiraling over a statistics TA. Get a grip.
And in that moment, a set of hands grip my hips ever so gently, I didn't immediately feel a rubbing of a dick up against my ass, like with the last guy. But this guy was close. Close enough that I could feel the heat coming off his chest against my bare shoulders.
And his scent.
Oh God. There was a hint of sandalwood and mint. No beer, though. He hadn't been drinking. Just clean skin and something underneath that smelled annoyingly good, like, offensively good, and I wanted to lean back and just breathe him in.
And, bonus of bonus, he could dance.
I knew that scent. I couldn't place it, but my body sure could. Before my brain even got a vote, I was leaning back against him.
You don’t even know his name. You don’t care, do you?
The beat dropped again switching to a new song. This one with a grimier beat that required ass to crotch grinding. And Kimmy's eyes went wide as she grinned at me. I mouthed at her, "Who is it?"
She just kept grinning and shook her head, not telling me, dimples popping, eyebrows up. Full Kimmy. Whatever she knew, she was enjoying the hell out of it.
So all I could do was really lose myself to the dance, and dealing with someone who could really dance was amazing because I could just let go, ticking and whining and grinding and having a damn good time.
The crowd pressed in around us but he carved out space like the dance floor belonged to him, and sweat prickled at my temples while the music was so loud I could feel the lyrics vibrating in my teeth.
And the way that he placed his hands on the front of my hip bones, gently pressing me back to him, not in a gross, forceful way. But in the kind of way that said that he knew exactly where to put his hands during sex. He knew exactly where to push to make you feel every inch of him.
His fingers were calloused, the unmistakable marks of someone who spent hours gripping a hockey stick. The realization sent a jolt through me, but I pushed the thought away because half the guys in here played hockey and it didn't mean anything.
For a split second, something tugged at the back of my mind — a bleacher, a cold rink, a feeling I couldn’t name. I shoved it down before it surfaced.
My gut tightened and I shivered, and he leaned into my neck, whispering against the shell of my ear. "Damn baby, the way you move gives me all kinds of ideas."
It was a line. I knew it was a line. However, something pulsed low and deep inside and I was caught up. Yes, it was dancing. It's not like I was going home with the guy. So I let myself indulge.
I could feel Matt watching. Good. Let him watch.
We danced through another song, then another, and I lost track of time, which was the whole point. At some point Kimmy had drifted a few feet away to dance with some tall guy, but she kept glancing back at me with that grin.
And then slowly he turned me around, with my eyes closed, feeling the beat and I looped my arms around him.
My fingers found the back of his neck and I registered the details through touch, strong jaw, broad shoulders, hair a little longer on top.
Even in my boots, I barely came up to his chin.
Built lean and hard, the kind of body you got from actual sport, not a gym selfie routine.
The muscle in his jaw flexed when I looked up at him, like he was holding something back.
Then he released my hips. He didn't step away though. When I slowly lifted my lids, I froze. I'd been dancing with my mortal enemy.
The son of Fox Coulter, NHL legend. The brother of Trevor Coulter, rising hockey star. The boy who'd once been my best friend before he destroyed everything. The boy who, for one crazy moment in high school, I'd thought might be something more.
But most importantly, the boy who'd betrayed me, who'd schemed with his brother to break my heart. And who was now staring at me with those piercing blue eyes, looking just as shocked as I felt.
I'd been grinding on Trace fucking Coulter.