over her shoulder and speaking close to her ear to be heard over the volume of the music. “Dance, find a table and order some nachos, or sit at the bar and order a drink?”
She scanned the crowd, weighing her options. This was a far cry from the movie or dinner at a quiet restaurant she’d expected of tonight, but it could still be fun.
“Let’s get a drink,” she yelled back, tipping her head toward the bar.
With his hand at her back, Emma eased her way through the crush of bodies and hopped up on one of the tall stools lining the long mahogany bar. Mitch took a seat beside her and ordered two cold beers.
Since she hadn’t had anything to eat yet that evening, she sipped her drink slowly and tried to avoid their images in the mirror that lined the wall behind the bar.
It wasn’t her reflection that made her uncomfortable, but Mitch’s. He was too darn handsome, too tall and sinewy and masculine in all the right places.
Beneath the wide rim of his black hat, he looked like some hardened Clint Eastwood character. His eyes glittered in the low lighting, his mouth a thin line of indifference.
And yet he took her breath away. Every strong, familiar inch of him.
She dragged her gaze away, staring intently at the colorful label that circled the brown glass bottle in her hand until her pulse slowed to an almost human rate of speed instead of that of a hummingbird.
Even in a rowdy, crowded bar, surrounded by strangers and the teeth-rattling thrum of a noisy band, she was still unaccountably attracted to him. He hadn’t touched her intimately since that night in the barn two weeks ago, yet she still felt the whisper of his hands and mouth on her naked flesh.
She shivered at the memory and took a long swallow of her light beer to extinguish the fire sparking to life low in her belly.
When Mitch’s hand closed on her arm, she jumped.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”
He was talking at a near-normal volume now, and she realized the band had slipped into a much slower song.
“Let’s dance,” he said. Then, without waiting for a reply, he slid off his stool and pulled her down to the floor beside him.
Fingers linked together, he led her to the dance floor, then swung her around and into his arms.
He held her entirely too close…not too close for society’s standards, especially in this place, but too close for her peace of mind. For her body to maintain its natural calm.
One of his hands clutched hers. The other rested at the small of her back, his arm wrapped around her waist. His tall form brushed against her in all the right spots—chest to breasts, stomach to stomach, pelvis to pelvis. Everywhere they touched, rockets went off beneath her skin.
If he hadn’t been holding her up, she thought she probably would have melted to the floor. As it was, her feet felt like they were barely touching the ground.
The music flowed all around them, and for the moment she let herself pretend this was more than their first date, more than two old friends who were toying with the idea of getting more seriously involved.
She imagined they were old lovers, maybe even a married couple, still very much in love. Out on the town for their anniversary, or perhaps just for an evening away from the kids.
The hand on her back shifted slightly lower, caressing the upper curve of her buttock and drawing her snug against his arousal.
It stunned her still that he was so obviously attracted to her. After all the years she’d pined for him from afar, to suddenly have him notice her as a woman and show sexual interest left her feeling confused and off-balance. Especially when he could make love to her with abandon one minute, then leave her hanging for two full weeks without so much as a phone call.
But he was trying. His suggestion that they try dating might not have been the smoothest invitation she’d ever received, and this might not be the greatest first date she’d ever gone on, but she gave him an A for effort.
And an A-plus for the way he made her heart beat faster, her knees turn to jelly, and her insides feel like she was riding up and down in an elevator car.
She sighed and closed her eyes, forgetting that they were in the middle of a crowded dance floor. As far as she was concerned, there was only Mitch and herself and the electricity arcing between them.
His rough jaw scraped her cheek as he leaned in close, his warm breath stirring her hair as he leaned in to speak above her ear.
“Want to get out of here?”
She blinked, raising her head to meet his gaze. His gray eyes burned with barely banked desire, and it was all she could do to remain upright.
She didn’t think, didn’t weigh the pros and cons, she simply responded in the only way her heart and body would allow. “Yes.”
Four
Even as he half-dragged Emma out of the Silver Spur and across the gravel parking lot, Mitch called himself seven kinds of fool.
He’d purposely brought her here, knowing the bar would be noisy and crowded. Knowing there would be no chance of him being overcome by lust and making a move on her.
Ha! So much for that theory. His brilliant plan had backfired almost at the speed of light.
It had started innocently enough. Sit at the bar, sip a beer. The decibel level of the music and surrounding conversations made small talk impossible, which he considered a good thing.
But then he’d gone and asked her to dance. What a colossal mistake.
What had he been thinking? If he was going to make such a blunder, he could have at least made the offer during a fast song or while people were two-stepping in a synchronized group.
But, no, he’d gone and asked her to dance to a slow song. One that required them to stand close, to touch just about everywhere.
And he’d willingly taken her into his arms, set them both to swaying. Only when he felt her breasts with their semierect peaks brushing against his chest had he realized he was in trouble.
But by then, it had been too late. The scent of her freshly washed hair and spicy floral perfume had invaded his nostrils. The brush of her hands and belly and hips had turned him hard in an instant.
And despite his best efforts to maintain control, to cool his jets and remind himself that he’d promised he wouldn’t sleep with her again, he found himself leaning in and asking her to leave with him.
To hell with their drinks. To hell with his vow to keep things platonic. He wanted her…now, with a single-minded determination that made him feel like a bull charging a red flag.
Their feet crunched on the gravel of the parking lot as he led her to the pickup and lifted her inside. Slamming the door, he stalked around the front of the truck and climbed behind the wheel.
Before the sound of his door closing had finished echoing through the cab, he was on her. Reaching out, dragging her across the vinyl seat and kissing her senseless. His hands were everywhere, groping, yanking, tearing her clothes away so he could get to her naked flesh.
She tasted of the beer she’d drunk earlier but also like Emma. Sweet, womanly, innocent.
Her lips met his, matched him move for move as though she could read his mind. Her tongue teased and tangled, parried when he thrust and thrust when he parried.
And her hands…her hands were at the buttons of his shirt, the belt at his waist, every bit as eager to strip him bare as he was to do the same to her.
Her willingness, her eagerness drove him, let him know he wasn’t the only one raging with passion, scrambling to get closer, faster, now, now.
He let her push the shirt off his shoulders and fumble with his heavy busting bronco