Red.
The dark club pulses red in my vision.
I’m off the stool and storming toward them. I knock into a few people, unaware if I’m pushing them out of the way. I don’t want to be that guy. But my jaw is clenched. Muscles corded tight. Hands fisted. And my heart knocks hard against my chest, the pounding muting the music as blood roars in my ears.
The guy must see me coming, because his hands move to Sam’s back as he puts a few inches between their bodies. Too late.
“Hey, man,” I shout, kicking my chin out. His eyes snap to my face. “She’s here with someone.”
He holds up his hands as Sam turns toward me. “Sorry, bro. Just dancing. She’s all yours.” He slides away from Sam and swivels toward another girl dancing with her hands above her head.
My body is still thrumming with the anticipation of a fight when I feel Sam’s hands on my face. She tilts it down so that my eyes meet her large, round ones.
“Relax, Holden,” she says. “He’s harmless.”
I huff out a strained laugh. If she only knew just how untrue her words are. There’s no such thing as a harmless dude in a club, getting wasted with only one thing on his mind. But as her hand slips into mine, the anger seizing my body dissipates. A fraction.
“You wanna go?” she asks.
I watch as her face falls. Fuck. She was having a good time, and I really don’t want to be the one to ruin that. Stuffing my absurd jealousy in a box, I force a smile. “Show me your juking moves.”
With a laugh, she looks down at her feet. “All right,” she shouts as she releases my hand and backs up a step. Then she bounces onto her toe and slides her foot in a smooth movement along the floor. Her hands do a similar, fluid motion before her body follows. She looks up and raises her eyebrows expectantly.
The tightness masking my facial muscles eases, allowing my lips to stretch into a grin. “Awesome.”
“I know!” She bounces, and my chest warms, her scent sending a buzz to my head.
The music changes to a slower beat and she looks around, I guess deciding if we’re going to stand here or go. I make the call. Probably the wrong one, but fuck it.
Winding an arm around her waist, I bring her body against mine. I grasp her chin between my thumb and finger and lift her face, meeting her eyes. And with a hard drop in my stomach, I say, “You’re dancing with me.”
The tiny knot in her throat bobs as she swallows, her eyes clear and knowing. I want her to know who she’s dancing with. I don’t want her to pretend, or to substitute me tonight. I want her to want to be in my arms. And God forgive me, I’m sorry, Tyler . . . but . . . I want her.
There’s no more almost. I’m not falling. Hell, I fell a long time ago.
I just hope the delayed impact doesn’t kill me.
SAM
The strobe lights swirl above the crowd, along the walls, the floor, us. As the music heightens with the change of beat, a blast of light-filled fog cocoons me and Holden, wrapping us in our own world.
A voice of reason is trying to break through the club haze wrapping my brain, shouting that this is wrong. That I shouldn’t be this close to him. I didn’t listen to that voice all those years ago, and I regretted it. But being in Holden’s arms is so easy. Effortless. Against all logic and that voice kicking the walls of my mind, for this one, short moment, I let myself get lost.
Shutting down pain, regret, guilt—I wrap my arms tighter around him, trying to bury all those conflicting emotions, and feel the music thrum through me as I allow him to lead.
Where his hands rove over my body, heat blazes, sending a mix of fire-hot and cold chills skittering along my skin. His pale blue eyes, backlit by the glowing lights, hungrily devour me. I’m concentrating on my breathing, trying to do so normally, as the hard, tight muscles of his chest press against me. His hand roams lower, grasping the back of my thigh, bringing me closer still.
I’m so close to him, pressed so tightly, I ache. Everywhere. Not close enough.
I can feel his hard need against the seam of my skirt. It sends a thrill coursing through me, knowing what my body is doing to him. And when he lowers his head, resting his mouth in the crook of my neck, flames ignite my chest, his lips scorching my skin where they lightly brush. Holy shit. Holy hell.
I slip my fingers into his thick hair and feel his groan reverberate through me as his hips guide mine in a slow, wanting rhythm. His cologne invades my senses. My head is fuzzy, unable to think rationally. That voice in my head is now screaming, trying to be heard over the pounding bass. Over the rushing blood, hitting my heart hard and fast. It feels like it’s about to burst.
His hand guides my leg up, wrapping it around him. Then it travels back down the sensitive stretch, his warm, calloused palms a pleasurable friction against my skin. His lips move higher, just below my ear, and my eyes flutter closed as his hand dips beneath my skirt. The tips of his fingers just graze the seam of my boy shorts . . . so close to the fiery ache building between my thighs . . . excruciating. But if he just touches me—
My eyes fly open. For my sanity (did I really just think that?) I p
lant my palms against his chest (he feels so good, shit) and press. With just my subtle pressure, he backs away. But his breathing is as labored as mine. I watch as my hand moves with his hurried intakes of air.