Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
REVA
Dinner and dancing, he said.
And then.
The and then doesn’t worry me as much as the dinner and dancing. I haven’t been on a date in years, and my date wardrobe dwindled as a result. I certainly didn’t pack for date nights when I was throwing everything I could fit into a duffel bag.
Standing at the foot of the hotel bed with a towel wrapped around me, I survey my options.
There are several pairs of jeans, one sundress better suited to July than November, a stockpile of tee shirts, three sweaters, four pairs of lightweight joggers, a variety of leggings, and an assortment of hoodies.
Jeans, it is.
I pull a tee shirt randomly from the stack, shrug when it turns out to be a sleeveless Beatles number, and then, in a nod to the potential of and then, grab a lacy black bra and matching cheeky panty.
I’m not too worried about what Shiloh will think as I finish pulling my Docs on, stick my license, room card, and some money in the back pocket of my jeans, and leave.
My legs—and other regions—are shaved, my face at least has a modicum of make-up, and my hair is half-way done, piled up on my head in the messy bun that most guys seem to think is sexy.
Take me as I am, or you don’t get me at all.
Shiloh waits in the lobby as promised, holding up a column near the door. He’s scrolling his phone but his fingers stop as I step off the elevator and he watches with open hunger as I cross the floor to him.
“Hi,” I say when I draw near, his scent wrapping me in smoky arms.
“Hey, Yank,” he returns. “We going to dinner or a biker convention?” Without waiting for an answer, he palms my hand and tugs me toward the door.
My cheeks warm, and I lift my chin. “I didn’t bring a lot with me, sorry.”
“Not complaining. You’re hot as fuck, and I think you know it. You never did tell me what you’re doing down here.”
“I’m passing through on my way to New Orleans, like I told you.”
“Yeah?” Shiloh opens the door to the truck for me and hands me up into the seat. My stomach flips at the courtly gesture.
I could get used to this.
“Whatcha going to do in New Orleans? Work, play…?”
I tense at his polite probing, reminding myself that it’s normal for people to ask other people questions about themselves. It’s how they get to know each other.
Just conversation.
“You southerners are awfully chatty, aren’t you?” I tease when he slides behind the wheel.
“When we want to know someone,” he answers, echoing my earlier thought.
“Shiloh…”
“Reva…?”
“We really don’t need to know each other.”
He gives me a slow grin that makes me suddenly hot, and I squirm in the leather seat. “Where are we headed, anyway?”
“There’s a bar down the road a piece. They have live music on the weekend.”
“Sweet. Thanks for…keeping me entertained.”
“Can’t have you getting bored.” He slanted those hazel eyes of his sideways at me. “Besides. I think we’ll probably entertain each other.”
I huffed out a laugh. “Mighty cocky of you.”
“Not cocky if it’s true.”
“Ohhh.” Inwardly, my ovaries—or some other part of my female anatomy—clench with a little oooh of appreciation.
Milt’s Place is appropriately dim and smoky, even though there’s no smoking inside the premises.
We find a couple of seats at a small, round table against the wall and far enough back from the raised stage that we’re not in danger of being trampled by anyone dancing and sit, a couple of beers between us.
After a couple of attempts to talk we fall silent and just listen to the band. It’s too loud, and shouting at each other isn’t sexy.
Shiloh’s lips are, though, when he leans in after the third set to say something into the shell of my ear. “Another?”
A shiver courses through me, and I nod without speaking, gulping the last sip of my beer.
He notices.
Rising, he reaches in and grazes his thumb against the flesh of my bottom lip, catching the alcohol that lingers there. Holding my gaze, he brings his thumb to his mouth and licks it, swirling his tongue around it, then turns and disappears into the crowd.
I shake my head to clear it. “Shit.”
While I wait, the syncopated strains of “Black Horse and the Cherry Tree” drift my way and for the first time that evening, I find myself driven by a need to dance.
Maybe it’s because Shiloh isn’t sitting right there; maybe it’s because I’ve always felt an affinity for this song with its cutting lyrics about feeling forsaken by one’s own heart… whatever the reason, I need to move.
Shifting a few feet into the stream of people, I lift my arms over my head, close my eyes, and begin to move.
It’s not a slow song. Not one given to swaying hips and lazy rhythms. It’s more sharp twists and rolling, swinging jerks.
I look like I’m on something, I’m sure, but I ignore that and allow the song to embed itself into every nerve and cell.
When KT Tunstall transitions into something slower and sexier and a pair of hands settle on my hips, I jump and then ease back into the warm, solid body I know instinctively belongs to Shiloh.
“I don’t know why, but that train wreck I just watched was hot as fuck,” he murmurs close to my ear, his hands roaming the flat of my stomach to just beneath my breasts and back down. He pulls me against him, and I feel him against my ass, hard and thick.
I don’t reply, afraid whatever I say will emerge as a moan. Instead, I let my arms hang limp, arch my lower back, and press against him in tacit reply.
He holds me to him with one hand splayed firmly across my lower stomach, his fingers creeping beneath my tee shirt to explore skin. The other drifts down, squeezes the back of my thigh, then tracks a slow trail back up my body.
I stopped dancing several minutes ago, moving straight to a fine trembling. It’s like I’m cold, but I’ve never been this hot. He’s burning me from the inside out, but I don’t fear the fire.
I am the fire.
His hand skates along the side of my torso, briefly cups my breast, then shackles my neck before turning my face to his.
I catch a glimpse of hazel eyes glittering down like priceless gems before his mouth seals to mine.
I’m drowning in contact. His body pressed up against every inch of my back. One hand a collar around my neck, the other a teasing peek at what’s coming.
Raising my hands to link behind his neck and curl into his hair, I offer myself to him. Let him eat my mouth and feast on his in return. Let him hold me up when I feel like falling.
Someone stumbles against me, breaking our contact, and in that brief second sanity makes a searing return.
What the hell am I doing?
I tear myself out of his grip, refusing to meet his gaze. “I’ll…uh…be back. I need to go to the ladies’ room.”
He lets me go; expression neutral.
The bathroom is a tiny rectangle divided by a partitioned toilet and an area for a dubious-looking pedestal sink. I pee, thighs burning as I hover over the seat, and then flush and pull my pants up, half-zipping as I head to the sink to wash my hands.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror as I soap and rinse, hesitating over the ceramic bowl.
Who is this woman, all flushed and pink and almost pretty?
My eyes glitter with the alcohol and something else…anticipation, maybe. I’m not a first date kind of girl…not even a second or third date kind of girl…but there’s something about Shiloh that calls to me. Makes me think about breaking my own arbitrary rules.
Shaking my hands free of water, I twist the faucet handles and turn to pull a paper towel from the wall dispenser.
That’s when the door opens and the lights simultaneously turn off, and the bathroom is plunged into a Stygian darkness.
Forgetting the paper towel, I hold myself still, unbreathing, and allow the black to settle over me. Air wafts over the bare skin of my arms, raising gooseflesh, and I shiver.
I’m not alone.
“Hello?” I say, proud when my voice doesn’t shake. “If you’re going for creep factor, mission accomplished. You can turn the light back on now.”
A low chuckle sounds, and then silence falls. Outside the room, I hear the muffled sound of music and people. The darkness seems to magnify it and my aloneness.
“Asshole,” I mutter and move to where I know the door is. I walk into a body, instead, a tall one, obviously male, and built.
Definitely not a female.
I step back hastily, the sound of my shoe scuffing against the tiled floor echoing in the small room.
“Shiloh?”
There’s no answer. Anger flares, along with irritation. I lift my hands and place them in the vicinity of the man’s chest and shove. “All right, asshole. Move the fuck on.”
Hands come up and curl around my own on his chest, pulling and pressing them deeper into the skin beneath what feels like a T-shirt. I dig my fingernails into him, drawn by some subversive lure I don’t want to examine too closely.
Because it’s Shiloh, I tell myself. That’s why.
I sink my fingers into his chest and let myself feel. Heat. Strength. Power.
Control.
From the moment I touched him, though, I knew—I was no longer in control…probably never was.
Shaking my head, I try one more time to gather a shred of mastery over myself. I step back, and the man follows, backing me into the sink. “Why are you here, little ghost?”
“Little ghost?”
My brow creases with a frown. His voice is so low it’s hard to tell…but…is this Shiloh? I shake my head and the idea that it’s not him…not Shiloh…away. He watched me walk in here. I let out an uneasy laugh.
“I didn’t take you for a freak, Shiloh. And honestly…I was probably a sure thing, anyway.”
The words emerge too thin and breathy for my liking. He hums in response, a gritty thread of sound unraveling in his throat, and without further conversation presses his hips against mine. His erection is unmistakable, and a sudden bright pop of lust bursts through me, so strong I’m dizzy with it.
“I’ll scream,” I whisper, raising my fingers to ghost them over his jawline. It’s bristly with day-old growth, just like Shiloh’s.