Page 36 of Duke
Honestly, what iswrongwith me that I can’t give this cowboy a chance? He isexcellentin every sense of the word.
And then I remember Preston saying my high school boyfriend broke up with me because I was ugly and stupid and “kind of a bitch.” I cried for days after that. Mom made him say he was sorry, but his apology was halfhearted at best.
“When we were kids, we’d get freaked out when the weather was bad,” he explains. “Remember how the TV would beep really loud during tornado warnings?”
“That was terrifying.”
“My mom would take my brothers and me to the basement, where she’d turn on music and have dance parties with us.”
My chest hurts. “She wanted to distract y’all.”
“It worked. Just like it’s gonna work now.” He flexes his fingers. “Up. C’mon.”
I really, really should just call it a night and go to bed. My buzz is wearing off, and I’m exhausted.
This flirtation is going nowhere. I won’t let it.
But I’m just tipsy enough—just terrified enough—to shove all that aside.
“Great.” I take his hands and let him pull me to my feet. “So I just need to dance, and I’ll stop thinking about the wind blowing down all those trees and them crashing through the house and us getting pinned underneath them and dying a slow horrible death from internal bleeding and/or asphyxiation before the rescue teams are able to make it up here?”
His lips twitch. “Yup. That’s all you need to do.”
I don’t know how it happens. One minute, the wind howls, the windows to our left literally rattling in their casings. The next, my arms are wrapped around his neck, and he’s got his hands on my hips, which are melted into his.
I’m terrified.
I’m turned on.
Duke starts to dance. It’s the kind of dancing I’d hoped to do that night we met at the Rattler: flirty, easy, fun.
He’s a good dancer, confident as he moves to the beat. His grip on my hips is firm, and he urges me to follow his lead by guiding my body one way, then the other.
The need between my legs flares hotter. Blares louder.
I glance up and see him looking down at me intently. The lenses of his glasses make his eyes look especially large.
Especially blue.
Our lips are inches apart. How does that keep happening?
My own lips throb with the desire to be kissed. He tilts his head—or maybe I’m imagining he does—giving him the perfect angle to go in for the kill.
How good would it feel to let him sink me into the sofa, the weight of his body making me deliciously short of breath as he kissed the shit out of me?
I look away. Look down at my feet, heart pumping.
“We’re gonna be just fine,” Duke murmurs, his breath warm on my cheek.
I nod. “You know, I’m still not over the fact that these guys were fakes. Milli Vanilli.” I glance at the screen.
“The nineties were apparently a wild time.”
I move and he moves, and I start to feel slightly better.
Better and so turned on it literally hurts. The more we move, the more adventurous his dancing becomes. I know he’s just trying to make me laugh with his exaggerated hip gyrations, and I do. I laugh so hard it leaves me breathless.
I throw up my arms and close my eyes and lose myself to the music, because why the hell not? It really does make me forget everything except the beat and the feel of Duke’s body pressed against mine.
