His vision corrected itself, landing on a painted crack in the stage floor. He focused his attention on working the strings—Had her hair been purple? Or was it the artificial lighting? His eyes darted back to verify as T.R. led them into a cover of Luke Bryan’s “Kick the Dust Up.” The bass pulsated through the speakers near his ears, undulating energy of pretty women dressed to let loose and impress, and the purple-haired chick and her Baywatch-blond friend bounced up and down, laughing, wild and free, skirts fluttering up and down their miles of clothing-less thighs, tits bouncing—purple-haired chick’s rack was easy on the eyes. This time, he realized she stared back at him, grinning playfully, the brightest, gloriously wide eyes, color that was light and crystalline and most likely distorted by the dance floor lights, plushest lip pinched seductively between her teeth, making him wonder what they’d look like stretched around his—
Fuck, he’d clashed a chord!
T.R., mouth mashed upon the mic, turned his way, waggling his brows. He’d noticed the mistake and noticed to where Tyler’s eyes had wandered. Tyler didn’t make mistakes. The guitar was like a fifth appendage, even if he didn’t normally play in public, and he put his eyes right back where they damn well belonged: on the painted crack on the stage. Women. Distractions. The lot of ’em. “Knock, knock, knock goes the diesel, if you really wanna see the beautiful people,” shouted the crowd as some chick flashed her chest, followed by thunderous cheers.
He resisted another heavenward glance that he was in the thick of this Girls Gone Wild mess. Please, goddammit, no photos of me on this stage acting like my last brain cell died yesterday. He’d be disbarred in a hot minute. Or someone, somewhere, would recognize him…
Yet somehow, his stupid eyes had migrated back to Tie-Dye’s mouth, watching her shout the lyrics, as her friend and she dissolved into laughing, swigging their beers. From her angle now, which seemed suspiciously closer to the stage, to him, he could see the design of her shirt across her breasts, and how in the hell had he ended up staring at her again? Texas Paleontology is the Pits, with a dinosaur holding a shovel and a litany of sponsoring universities in fine print. Huh. College girl, maybe? Not his scene. He had no business imagining someone a decade or more younger than himself on her knees—
She was still watching him. A warning kick throbbed below the belt buckle. A twinkle in her eyes and a smile screwed those pretty lips sideways like a knowing secret that popped the most kissable divot at the corner of her mouth, like welcoming pillows he wanted to rest his lips upon to taste her honey for himself—pillows? Shit, I’m an idiot. Another kick in his Levi’s between his thighs. It had been a while since he’d hooked up. Dad-life came first. Farm next. Law practice after that. Libido last. But now that he was imagining her on her knees, her lips stretched around his pecker, imagining what those tousled waves would feel like sifting through the calluses on his fingertips as he gripped her and plowed home, he felt the familiar rush of blood away from his brain on a direct flight south to his less intelligent head, the head that had gotten him into more trouble on one painfully similar night so long ago…
He finished the song, passed off the guitar to T.R.’s guitarist, and hopped off the stage to retreat to his beer, if it was even still there. Naw, maybe he oughta jet right out the door—
A hand snagged his forearm. Skin tingling on skin where his shirt sleeves were rolled up shot electricity up his arm. Vanilla-almond deliciousness wafted around him, and on instinct, he drew in a satisfying breath, a sensual relief from the honky-tonk air perfumed with beer and stale cigarette residue embedded in the walls even though smoking had been banned inside for over a year.
It was her. He didn’t need to look to know it was the wild child from the dance floor with messy, purple—no, mahogany (?) hair, but he was looking nonetheless, like she was a drug and he was jonesing, eyes trailing over her classically beautiful face, her perfectly fistable tresses. Up close, he could see those eyes were light. And makeup-less. On stage he’d assumed she wore mascara, but no, her lashes were naturally dark and thick. Her lips seemed glossy, but it could also be the lingering sheen of beer he wanted to kiss off that flesh—no.
Her porcelain face was painted by the grace of nature’s paintbrush, not Dior. Not an ounce of foundation clogged her pores. She had a couple tiny freckles. An adorable nose that a man could litter kisses upon until the cows came home and probably never get tired of doing so. And bangly earrings that he wanted to tug with his teeth, and—
“You were good!” She grinned. He nodded his thanks at her obvious line, turning away. “The way you jumped all over the frets, barre chords to picking. Impressive, Ricky Scaggs. And also, thanks for tuning that D string because it was killing me!”
He eyed her openly. So, she wasn’t feeding him a line? She knew her music. Or played?
“Dance with me!” she shouted over the noise, a coy smile glinting those sparkly eyes.
His dick gave another warning throb. Feeling her skin on his was the hottest foreplay.
“Naw, I don’t dance.” Wait. He was walking out on the dance floor, letting a one-sided grin tug up the corner of his lips, playful tugs of her hands luring him.
T.R. grinned, the bastard, notched his chin toward the woman during a lyrical interlude, mouthed Guitarists always get laid, man. Tyler scratched his cheek with his middle finger, eliciting a laugh from T.R. at the surreptitious bird, who launched into a chorus again. And yet, just the mere suggestion of sex had his bronco buster below the belt ramrod straight and itching for a rodeo, growing uncomfortable trapped in the leg of his jeans.
He stood on the floor as undulations pushed and pulled around him, as this party girl with the not-purple hair and perfect cheekbones and magical eyes—were they brown?—who smelled like his favorite ice cream shimmied against him, lost in her own little world and soaking up the moment. He took her in, folded his arms, let her show him what she had as if she was his own personal dancer, eyed those legs, that nice ass as she twisted and dipped, her hair adorably in her eyes, those curves and that grabbable waist.
His hand snagged her hip on a primal instinct to claim, anchored her against his thigh as they began to move together. She flashed her eyes at him in pleased surprise. Definitely brown. And wide. The kind a guy lost himself within as he made lov—got off. Felt her tug his belt buckle as if to pull his thigh, wedged between hers as he dipped lower, harder against her. His hands slipped around her waist, up her back. Tight. Yet supple. Natural curves, lean muscle. Sexy as hell. Like a model. And didn’t he have historically poor taste when it came to models?
Somehow, he missed T.R. calling the set. Missed the recorded music transitioning onto the sound system, lost in this woman’s energy that pulled him in like the proverbial moth to the flame. He knew better; he’d been fried by this flame before. He buried his face in her neck sucking in lungfuls of her vanilla-almondness while her body rubbed mercilessly against his erection, mesmerized by her carefree laugh and singing, memorizing the shape of her curves with his palms inching dangerously close to the underswells of her tits as he stoked hormones up and down her body, as she did the same and unbuttoned his shirt over his T to let it hang loose, leaving trails of gunpowder ready to ignite all over his skin, felt himself…laughing?
What the hell? She popped his hat off and cocked it on her own like a cowboy’s fantasy. He felt her in his arms as they stumbled off of the dance floor and she snagged his hand and hurried them toward the bathroom where she dragged him inside a tiny unisex closet.
Her back fell to the door as his chest pinned her in and his hands braced her hips where he wanted them. She dragged him down to her lips when he stopped short. Fuck, he didn’t kiss. But her breath smelled like peppermint. His favorite candy. And IPA. Both favorites of his. He didn’t dare touch her lips, or he wouldn’t resurface for air until he’d gotten himself drunk on them and found himself begging for her number. Even lips like these that he’d been staring at for God knew how long now, that looked so bitable, that he was allowing to ghost gently against his as he fought for self-control, then relented to dusting his lips along the corner of her mouth to her cheeks.
He could hear her excited breath hitch in his ear as he nipped her jaw, her neck, that earring, her nails scoring his nape as she rolled against him, making a groan rumble up his throat as his pelvis rocked into her, satisfying his need for friction and yet, stoking his erection into frustration. He reached shamelessly down his jeans to readjust it.
“How many beers you had, Tie-Dye?” He forced the responsible question out.
“Tie-Dye? My name’s—”
He put a finger to her lips. This was one and done. He didn’t want a name. Thanks for that, Isabella. “If you’re three sheets, we’re done here.” No matter how much his dick would argue.
Her eyes landed on his, so close. In the dim single bulb with the chain pull cord, he drank in their beauty. Light brown, like honey. With a flicker of something he couldn’t peg. Surprise?
“A gentleman,” she murmured with that playful twist of the lips, pressing a kiss onto his fingertip shushing her. A rumble welled up his throat as he pressed his finger between those lips and she sucked on it, letting it pop out. Her fingers swirled contemplatively on his nape.
Naw, a gentleman wouldn’t lift her skirt in a honky-tonk piss pantry. Yet something about the contemplative way she’d said that… Was she not often treated with basic respect?
“What the hell sort of guys you been with that they don’t make sure you’re sober?” he grumbled, resuming his devouring of her neck and jaw and relishing the flutter of her pulse along the smooth flesh against his mouth. She was turned on. She was so earthy and soft in all the right places, a complement to his hard ridges.
She also didn’t answer his second question. “Just the one beer. I don’t like being drunk. Keeps me from fully enjoying the experience.” He felt her smirking against the rough stubble around his jaw as she returned the favor.