Battle

“This ain’t county,” Scooter says, his lip curling. “This is pop-country crap. Quick cash for the suits in Nashville, but it ain’t country.”

I’m not knowledgeable enough to debate the history of country music. I opt instead for another dancing partner and turn to Austin. “How about you? You wanna dance?”

He smiles, lifting an eyebrow. “I don’t dance—period, but I’ll watch.”

“Suit yourself,” I say, wiggling out from between the two hefty men.

Battle stands, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He leans with his back to the bar, staring at me. The alcohol in my system shoots my confidence to the surface. I step up close enough to him to feel his breath on my skin.

“You wanna dance, cowboy?”

Although I expect him to ignore me, his doing so causes my skin to burn. I didn’t get the slightest reaction from him. Really? What the hell is his problem? Am I so repulsive that the Battle McCoy can’t be seen with me?

I roll my eyes, which was a mistake as the room spins slightly. More than a chocolate bar for dinner would have been a helpful defense against alcohol. I manage to stay upright, surprisingly walking a straight line to the dance floor. At least, I think I walk a straight line.

Marty and Ginger squeal when I approach them. A hard beat thumps from the speakers, pounding in rhythm with my heart. The crowd bounces in unison. Once the chorus kicks in, I feel a male crotch at my backside. I turn my head slightly to notice it’s Austin. His large hands swallow the sides of my waist as he controls the rocking of our joined bodies back and forth.

I lean back against his chest, looking upward and shout over the music. “I thought you don’t dance—period?”

“This ain’t dancin’ darlin’,” he replies in my ear, his lips lingering, and his hot breath caressing my skin. He smells like sweat and beer. He smells like man, and I’m positive I’m not woman enough for him.

As naive as I know I’m about to sound, I ask anyway, “What is it?”

His soft chuckle enters my ear before he answers in a provocative whisper. “This is dry fuckin’ and much more enjoyable than dancin’. Don’t you agree?”

I swallow hard, shaking my head. As shocked as I am by his words, my body keeps moving. His hand reaches up in front of me, clutching my throat and holding me hostage against his solid frame. His hips push forward, and I gasp. He’s hard—ready to go right here and now.

I’m way out of my protected little world with these guys. They’re not the boys I grew up with. These are grown men, with extremely loose lifestyles. They might as well be rock stars, and they expect more than I’m prepared to give.

My heart races until I swear it’s going to shoot straight through my chest. Austin seems like a nice guy, but I’m not interested in a one-night stand with him. His hand glides down my throat, until his long, rough fingers dip into my blouse.

In the next second, I stumble as someone shoves Austin away from me. I hear the sexy, rugged voice of Battle McCoy. He tells Austin to beat it—two little words, but hot. Maybe it’s his tone, or the warning to Austin that makes me feel excited, but I’m overly turned on by the display of testosterone.

Battle takes Austin’s spot behind me, splaying a hand across my stomach. A shiver rolls through me, and it’s hard to breathe.

“What the fuck are you doin’?” he growls in my ear.

“Dancin’,” I reply, trying to keep my voice even, but failing.

“Right. The buckle-bunny groupie thing may be your friends, but you’re too sweet and innocent for Dakota’s.”

“Maybe,” I shrug against his chest.

“No … Absolutely. Go on home now and apologize to him.”

“Who?”

His hands squeeze my waist, preventing me from spinning around.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, his lips grazing my earlobe. “Don’t be coy. Go on home and tell your boyfriend, or whoever he is, you’re sorry.”

I want to shout how I don’t have a boyfriend anymore. How it’s Wyatt who should be sorry. Only my will to argue remains under siege with his warmth surrounding me. “Why should I?”

He laughs softly. I hold my breath when his warm hands push between my bare thighs under my denim skirt. “Because if you don’t, I’m gonna take you up on your offer to go for a drive. We’re gonna fuck … hard, and you’ll hate yourself in the mornin’.”

It takes me a second to absorb his words. When I do, my thoughts become more jumbled. The burning inferno between my legs traps my focus, increasing my desire for him to push his hands higher—deeper.

I’ve never felt more wanted. I give serious consideration to letting him fuck me hard. At this moment, I don’t care how much I’ll hate myself tomorrow if it means he relieves the ache throbbing between my legs and makes me forget the one Wyatt caused in my heart.