Page 16 of Heartbeat Highway

“Nothing about that was off key.” He stands up and his proximity is so alluring, almost overpowering but he holds himself back. He’s seven inches taller than me. I know this because we measured once, one giggly night over the winter when it rained nonstop for four days. I love that he’s taller than me. I like looking up at him, the indent at the top of his sternum, the strong cords of his neck, the angle of his bearded chin. He’s so handsome it hurts, but in the best possible way.

“What should I sing?” he asks softly.

Gulping my cocktail, I turn away from him in a feeble attempt to calm my raging libido. “Anything. I want to hear any and everything.”

He chooses a song by Pink that, halfway through, he gets really into and can’t stop punching the air. I join him, the giddy, reckless joy of movement making me weightless and buoyant. We tumble through more songs as food and another round of drinks appear. I butcher “Mr. Brightsides” gleefully. He does a very sincere version of Dua Lipa that has me sob-laughing into my brightly colored cocktail. Then we get on a tangent of classic dance songs, and we both forget to sing. We just move and groove.

I forgot how much I missed it, being on stage, music running through my veins. It was something K took for himself in our relationship, and I spent so long trying to contort myself and my wants to be whathewanted.

Now my body belongs to me again. I move the way I choose, the ways that feel good, and it’s all because of Bo. Without him, I wouldn’t be here. Without him, I wouldn’t have found myself again.

Because he’s always seen me, and appreciated me, for exactly who I already am.

He stands at the table, holding a beer bottle by the neck in one hand and flipping the pages of the songbook with the other. He’s painfully handsome. The dark beard lining his jaw, the trimmed sideburns that suggest he cares just enough about his appearance to know how good he looks. For a moment, I sip my sweet and sour cocktail and let myself want. Desire unspools in my core, all calling Bo’s name.

“What do you want?” he asks, his voice gruff.

As discreetly as I can, I adjust my posture to relieve a little of the tension between my thighs. It does nothing to change the fact that my panties are damp with need. “Whatever. Maybe a duet.”

A wicked smile creases his face, those damn hypnotic dimples rising. “I’ve got the perfect song.”

He cues it up, and the moment I hear the opening strains of “Open Arms,” I squeal. Last year at a holiday party back home in Wisconsin, he and I did this with a karaoke machine my parents rented, and it wassomuch fun. We played it goofy and way over the top, and it’s one of my best memories from the past two years.

The alcohol and the adrenaline and the pure joy of singing again, singing withBo, rushes through me. He starts with the first verse, and I come in after the last line.

But what starts out the same as it did in the past morphs somewhere after the first chorus. There’s an earnestness in his voice, a heat in his gaze, his posture angled toward me. I find myself matching his energy, thriving off it, using his energy until it swirls like an orgasm deep in my belly. Somehow we’re six inches apart, crooning into each other’s eyes. Then we’re two inches, then one.

The pleasure builds with the crescendo of the chorus. I hold the microphone in one hand, wrap my arms around Bo’s neck, and draw him to me, pressing my lips to his.

He tenses. Shit. I’ve totally misjudged the situation. I start to pull away, but then he grabs my waist and covers my mouth with his. The initial awkwardness—oh my God I’m kissing Bo, this is my best friend, what am I doing?—melts away the longer the kiss lasts. Then there is no awkwardness. I’m not kissing my best friend; I’m kissing Bo.

Bo, who understands me. Bo, who lifts me up. Bo, whose strong, capable hands I’ve dreamed about more than once.

He kisses me like he’s dreamed of me, too, and if that isn’t hot, I don’t know what is. He tugs me closer to him, and his erection presses unapologetically against my stomach. It sends all sorts of complicated, deeply delicious hormones spiraling through me. Then one hand lifts to my breast, his thumb strongenough for me to feel the pressure against my nipple. He drops his lips to my neck and my toes curl with pleasure.

“Bo,” I moan. My eyes flutter open as he kisses along my collarbone, and I see the door to the hallway wide open. Frustration and practicality twist along my spine. “Bo, we—”

He leaps away from me, panting. He pushes his hair out of his face, like clearing sleep from his eyes after an intense dream. “Lily, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have crossed the line. I—”

This man. I cup his face, letting the sharp hairs of his beard score my palms. “I just meant we should lock the door.”

“Oh.” His gaze, still half-lidded with lust, flicks to me and then the door. His dimple re-appears, and this time, I don’t stifle my instincts. I run my thumb over the divot and then let my lips brush it, let my tongue taste it. He shivers under my touch. “Okay. Give me a second.”

He races across the karaoke room, using a moment to adjust himself before he shuts the door and flips the lock. Giggling, I run toward him, and then I’m in his arms. He pushes me back against the door, letting me feel every single one of his muscles. His cock is insistent and heavy, and all I want to do is turn around and let him fill me.

Which should be weird. It should feel different, distant, an idea but not reality.

It’s none of those things. IneedBo. I crave him.

As he kisses my earlobe, sending shock waves of pleasure down my spine, I palm his cock through his trousers. He stiffens and groans.

“Sorry about that, Lil. It’s so difficult to hide how intensely I react to you.”

My panties might spontaneously combust. I jut my hips against his, my hand still between us, and the back of my ring finger nudges my clit. Electricity thrums through me. “Don’t hide it,” I say. “No more hiding. Do something about it.”

There’s a fire in his eyes that’s enthralling. Tentatively, he strokes one hand down my side, from collarbone to breast—squeezing, testing its weight in his hand—then lower, lower, trailing down until his palm skims my thigh and lifts my skirt. I arch toward him, shameless and alive. When his hand reaches the junction of my thighs, my arousal hot and wet, he smacks his forehead into the door and groans. “Fuck, Lily. You have no idea how badly I want you. I always want you.”

Enough waiting. Behind us the tinny sounds of the karaoke background music play, but I’m not in the mood to sing. I unzip his pants and reach for him, taking his hard length in my hand. I love this control, the ability to make a man groan. There’s so much power in it. Why do men think they dominate sexually when so many women have to fake orgasms? We should be able to take and have what we want.

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