Page 35 of Making It Burn
I don’t know who moved first.Maybe we both did.Maybe it was gravity or fate or just the inevitable conclusion to weeks of tension that had been building since the moment he’d walked into that conference room.
But suddenly we were kissing.
His mouth was hot and demanding, tasting like tequila and lime and something that was uniquely him.My hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he made a sound low in his throat that went straight to my groin.
This wasn’t a tentative first kiss.This was desperation and need.His tongue swept into my mouth, and I met him stroke for stroke, giving as good as I got, swallowing his groan when I bit his lower lip.
We were in the middle of a crowded dance floor, and I didn’t care.Didn’t care who saw us or what they thought.All that mattered was Beau’s hands on my body, his mouth on mine, the way he kissed like he did everything else—with his whole being, holding nothing back.
When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.
“Holy shit,” Beau whispered.
“Yeah.”
“Come home with me.”His voice was rough, wrecked.Not a question.A statement.
My body screamed yes.My body was already saying yes, already imagining what would happen when we got to his apartment, what his skin would feel like, what sounds he’d make.
“Yeah,” I heard myself say.“Yes.”
Beau’s smile was blinding.He took my hand—actually took my hand, fingers laced with mine—and started pulling me toward the exit.
We made it halfway across the bar before reality crashed back in.
My hand in his.The fact that we worked together and that Carter and Patsy trusted us with their biggest case.I was on partner track, and getting involved with a colleague—with Beau specifically—could destroy everything I’d worked for.For fuck’s sake, I’d spent fifteen years building walls, and Beau had demolished them in under an hour.
I stopped walking.
Beau turned, confused.“Mason?”
I pulled my hand from his.“This is a really bad idea.”
“What?”
“We can’t—we work together.We have a case.This is—” I was backing away, my chest tight, panic flooding my system.“We can’t do this.”
“Mason—” Beau reached for me, his expression shifting from confusion to concern.
“I’m sorry.”The words came out strangled.“I can’t.I’m sorry.”
Then I was moving—pushing through the crowd, ignoring Beau calling my name, shoving open the door and stumbling out into the chilly night air.
I’d made it to my car before my brain caught up with my body.Keys in hand, door unlocked, engine waiting.Then I’d looked at myself in the rearview mirror—flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, the unmistakable glaze of too much tequila—and realized what I was about to do.
Drive drunk.Break the law.Risking everything I’d built on one moment of poor judgment.
Just like I’d almost risked everything by going home with Beau.
I’d locked the car again and walked away, ordering a Lyft with fumbling fingers.
Now I sat on the cold concrete, watching my phone tell me that “Marcus” would arrive in a silver Camry in four minutes.
I could still taste Beau.Could still feel the ghost of his hands on my back, the heat of his body pressed against mine.My phone buzzed with a text.I knew without looking it was Beau.I’d seen three notifications already, but I couldn’t read them.Couldn’t face whatever he was saying—whether it was anger or confusion or something worse.
The Lyft pulled up.I climbed in, mumbled my address, and leaned my head against the cold window.
“Rough night?”The driver asked sympathetically.
