by Nicole Snow
Fuck, I haven’t felt this giddy with a woman on my arm since...ever.
Don’t know how to explain the difference. This feels purer than the easy conquests that came with winning over high-class women with rich families and born power.
There’d been real desire sometimes, sure.
Maybe that’s it.
This is something more than dumb desire.
Something so much more it makes me freak to put a name on it.
It’s a little scary how something this powerful could grow so fast with this pint-sized powerhouse of sass and determination.
“C’mon,” I say, giving her a little tug. “The party’s going to start without us.”
She laughs, and I lead her outside to my truck—where she stops, staring.
“Oh, wow. You went full country, huh? Dropped the Benz for this?”
“These trucks never die. Great for construction.” I thump the hood, then hoist her up into the passenger seat. “Besides, who’ll take me seriously driving around this town in a Benz?”
She pulls a comically straight face. “You could have tea with Mr. Cherish.”
“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.”
She just laughs her head off while I climb in and take the wheel.
We don’t say anything else as we drive out under the stars, the night lit up as bright as I feel inside.
We don’t need to.
It’s just us, and the charged glances full of promise that we give each other with every mile that passes.
The Nortons’ farm isn’t that far.
Heart’s Edge is one of those towns where half the population lives outside the town itself, sprawled out on little ranches and homesteads throughout the valleys and rolling hills.
The Nortons are one such homestead with a ranch house older than Libby’s and a few barns, surrounded by pens full of healthy, shaggy sheep and goats.
The brand-new barn we put up a few days ago glows bright red, lit up everywhere with string lights and lanterns.
There’s music busting out of the open barn doors, too.
Rockabilly in full swing, loud and energetic.
We can make out dozens of shapes moving around, people strolling among the refreshments set out outside on picnic tables or slipping off for what looks like more private...conversations.
There’s barely room to park on the road outside the fence, but I find a spot and hurry to help Libby before she tries to climb out on her own.
I know she can.
I just want the excuse to get my hands all over her. Helping her down, I steady her waist as she jumps down off the footboard, into my arms.
I’ve only been to two other barn dances in my life. They don’t happen as often as those down-home country movies would make a person think.
Usually it’s just grown-up parties with wine in people’s dining rooms or kids having awkward dances in the school gym.
Barn dances are one of the only times adults and kids get to mingle in the same place. There’s something nice about seeing teenagers swinging it out on the dance floor while their folks embarrass them slow dancing to the exact same music. Meanwhile, plenty of bystanders sit on hay bales stacked all around and chat over drinks.
I can’t explain why, but seeing faces both familiar and strange, all here together laughing and dancing and talking...it makes me feel like I’m home.
Nowhere has felt like home since I left Heart’s Edge.
I’m starting to think nowhere else ever will.
All I want, right now, is to drag Libby out on that clean-swept floor and dance away our woes—dead bodies, thieving assholes, and debts—but I can’t quite get clear without talking to the hosts.
The second Keith Norton catches sight of me, he raises his hand, hollering out “Holt!” at the top of his lungs. He tumbles down from a stack of hay bales, nearly crashing into me.
What follows is the most embarrassing damn display of back-thumping, thanks, and praise for my crew’s hard work.
The whole time Libby watches with a smirk.
One that says she knows how awkward this is for me, so much that I’m fucking red-faced while Norton talks like I hung the moon instead of built him a barn.
After I’ve had my hand practically crushed from shaking over and over again, we’re alone.
Finally.
She folds her arms over her chest, tilting her head up at me, her hip cocked.
“Look at you,” she teases gently. “Mr. Respectable. What happened to being the pariah of Heart’s Edge?”
“I lost that crown when I stopped sleeping with anything that moved and started offering good work cheaper than they could hire out of Missoula or Spokane.” I laugh breathlessly. “Goddamn, though. That was a little much.”
“What, don’t like having your ego stroked?”
I bite my tongue. No sense in detailing a few other things I’d rather have stroked.
Then again, the gleam in her eyes and that catty little smile says she knows it, anyway.
She knows, and she set me up.
This little screamer loves testing my self-control.
Chuckling, I sweep an arm around her, pulling her close. “Hey. How about we forget my ego and dance?”
“I wouldn’t say no to that.”
Her hand slips in mine.
A low growl burns up my throat.
I tug her close in a single pull, her body pressed so light to mine, and shit, it feels good to rest my hand on the small of her back, the curve of her spine against my palm.
She’s hot tonight, burning me through thin fabric. I feel her body printed against mine from the swell of her immaculate tits to the just-right curve of her belly to the softness of her thighs.
I don’t even care what song’s playing.
I want to hold her with those blue eyes looking up at me all starry and dazed, that pretty red mouth parted, her cheeks all pink and warm.
She’s so fucking lovely it hurts.
The speakers start pumping out some fast-paced Molly Hatchet, and there’s my cue.
Spinning Libby into my arms and a quick-step dance, we twirl in brisk rhythm. Her skirt spins around in a pinwheel flare and her face ignites with laughter.
We test each other with intricate steps.
There’s an energy here that makes me feel like lightning.
An energy to her that feels like I’m taming a storm.
Every time her body brushes mine, I tense up.
I’m on the verge of straight-up combusting, breathless and animalistic and hot.
We’re both misted in a thin skim of sweat by the time the song ends and we tumble together, laughing.
The night’s warm, but we’re on fire.
Her scent rolls off her real lush, sweeter than even the earthy scent of hay all around us.
She drapes her arms around my neck as the music melds into a slower song, and fuck, she’s so pliant and smooth against me.
Libby molds to me as we fall into a sway, still panting to catch our breath.
“You’re not half bad at this,” she whispers, tilting her face up to mine with unvoiced laughter sparkling in her eyes.
I settle my arms around her waist.
Fuck, yeah, she fits just right.
“You know what they say about dancing,” I tease, and she smirks.
“Do enlighten me.”
“It’s just sex with our clothes still on.” I grin. “So if I’m good at dancing...”
“Oh, I’ve heard enough rumors about your prowess, Holt. I don’t need to hear your bragging, too.” She giggles, though, and her body stays close to mine, moving with me as we turn in slow circles. “Besides. I said you’re not bad. I didn’t say you were good.”
“Ouch.” I lean down, nudging her nose with mine, pouring warm breath against her lips. “C’mon. Admit it. You’re having fun.”
“Maybe.” A little tilt of her head, her mouth teasing over mine. “But half of it’s ’cause that Norton girl is glaring bloody murder. I
think she’s sulking.”
I try not to be obvious about glancing to one side, where Charity Norton leans against the wall, pretty as a picture in a little button-down jean dress with a painfully short skirt.
Another day, another time, another life...
Yeah, I might’ve been tempted by the sullen pout on those lips and those long farmer’s daughter legs.
Tonight, the only woman tempting me is already in my arms.
I chuckle, pressing my hands just a little harder to the small of Libby’s back. “She’ll get over it. Leave her to pout at her friends. They’ll tell her the rumors about me, and she’ll realize she had a near miss with disaster and she’s better off.”
“So that’s the verdict now?” Libby’s silent laughter makes her body move against mine in ways that make my cock jerk as her tits press against my chest. “Women are better off without you?”
“I’m a heartbreaker and a devil, you know.” Without even thinking about it, I’m leaning harder into her.
Just the two of us in our own little world. Not an inch of space between us, all heat and body language and slow, signaling movement.
“I hear one woman even calls me a snake on account of my eyes. Or maybe my tongue. Not quite sure,” I growl.
She sucks in a sharp breath, then narrows her eyes. “Felicity. That traitor. She told you I call you that?”
“Didn’t take much coaxing, either.” I drop my voice to a whisper. “It’s almost like she wanted me to know you’re hard up for a little Holt.”
Libby scowls. “Who says I am?”
“You,” I say. “The fact that you’re still holding on to me even though you’re glaring.”
Her breath sucks in and she shoves back, pushing at my chest. “I hate you.”
I let her go, but I can’t look away from the snapping fire in her eyes.
“Try again, honey. Don’t think hate is what you’re feeling right now.”
Hell no.
Not when she’s flushed thermonuclear, still breathing so hard her chest heaves even though we’ve been slow dancing for a few minutes now and my breath’s all caught up.
Not when I can see her nipples riled hard against the fabric of her dress, pressing in clear outlines and making my mouth burn, imagining how they’d feel on my tongue.
Libby’s brows draw together in a fierce line before she looks away sharply, folding her arms over her chest.
“I just need some fresh air,” she says. “I’m going for a walk.”
“You want some company?”
She darts an almost wary look at me.
Then looks away stubbornly before offering me her hand, slim fingers outstretched.
Fuck, she’s hardheaded to the end.
Leading her outside, we pass beneath the starry spangles of the string lights and move into the darkness beneath the real stars. The Milky Way’s a wild thing of beauty above us, breathtaking lights in a thousand pale colors.
I tilt my head up, looking at the sky as we walk hand in hand, the music fading behind us. We move along one of the pasture fences.
She’s not scowling anymore, but her expression’s pensive, withdrawn.
“You’re thinking about your dad, aren’t you?” I say.
She smiles weakly. “Sorry. I know we’re supposed to be having fun and forgetting things for a while, but...I can’t help it.”
“He was everything to you,” I tell her. “Now we’re standing out here under everything bright and spinning. Probably feels like those stars are him watching you right now.”
She inhales, darting me a wide-eyed look. “How’d you know?”
“Because it’s how I’d feel, too. If everything I grew up with was suddenly thrown into question.” I squeeze her hand. “It’s fine to have doubts, Libby.”
“I don’t want to. That’s what upsets me the most.” She bites her lip, drifting to a halt, resting her free hand on the wooden fence railing and looking up at the sky. “I want my faith in him to be so damn unshakable not even a whole graveyard of bodies could change anything. It hurts that it’s not. Scares me. Makes me feel like a bad daughter.”
“You’re not a bad daughter. You’re human, honey, and so was he.” I settle in next to her, leaning my arm on the fence—but while she’s watching the sky, I’m eyeing her. “It’s okay to realize our parents aren’t gods. Even if you’re having doubts, even if you’re scared...you’re looking for answers. Just asking questions doesn’t mean you’ve lost faith in who he was.”
Her throat works in a tight swallow, and she touches her fingertips to that pretty, delicate silver necklace she always wears.
“You know,” she whispers, “I think maybe he’d like who you are now.”
“I’d like that. But I’ve got a bigger question on my mind.” I watch her intently, the way the night shades her in delicate colors. “Libby, do you like who I am?”
“Aw, hell. You gotta go and ask me something like that?” But she’s smiling, no matter how shaky.
I grin back. When she looks up at me, her eyes are gleaming.
“I think...yeah. Maybe I do. Maybe I like you an awful lot, and that scares me too, Holt.”
“It’s okay.” I curl my fingers against her cheek, stroking along the high, soft crest of her cheekbone. “We’re both freaked, woman. You do the craziest shit to me.”
Her laugh comes gently.
“I scare you? What’s your score?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not keeping score with you any day, sweetheart.” I shake my head. “Promise you, the way I get being around you is a first for me every time. There’s nothing to compare with that.”
She wets her lips, that red tongue so tempting. “Tell me how you get around me, Holt Silverton.”
“So pissed off I can hardly see straight,” I say, and she laughs again, stronger this time, that glint in her eye less sad now and more amused, and it warms my heart. “So frigging spun up all I can think about is you. The madder you make me, the more I want you. You mess me up.”
“Yeah, well, funny how that works,” she whispers.
“I’m not done. The more I want you, the more I want to be someone you can respect just like the way I respect you. You push all my goddamn buttons. You make me want to be a better man...and that’s fucking nuts, Libby.” So crazy my heart pounds like mad, but I’ve got to say these things. “Because trying to be better means failing. But being afraid of failure’s no reason not to try.”
Her lips quirk, one-sided and sweet.
“All of that, huh?” she says, tilting her head to press her cheek into my palm.
“All the hell of that and more,” I growl back. “I’ve said enough, though. If I say anything else, you’ll think I’m just buttering you up.”
“Probably. I got no use for sweet talk. You know that.” She rests her hand to my chest and looks up at me with her eyes as clear as the wide Montana sky. “So kiss me, Holt. ’Cause I’m done talking.”
“Honey,” I murmur, “anything you say.”
Curling my fingers in her hair, I pull her in close—but she meets me halfway, rising up on her toes to press in close and slant her mouth against mine with an eagerness that’s almost defiant, pushing back against her fear of this heady thing between us.
It’s hot. Wild. Perfect.
Every whipsaw sweetness I could ever want, her lips hungry and working at mine like she’s trying to quench a desperate thirst.
I get it.
I get it fucking deep.
Libby burns me up so hot I’m desperate for anything to ease the pain of it even as I crave her more and more and more, devouring her mouth.
I’ll show her with every needy, scorching kiss that this is real for me.
More real than anything I’ve ever known.
When her lips part on a gasping moan, letting me into her, letting me taste her, I let myself sink into this feeling rushing through me until I’m a fucking mess.
I’m hard as goddamn steel. My jeans a
re a necessary evil to keep me under control, pure torture when it aches every time her body sways against mine.
Our tongues twine.
Her arms slip around my neck, her fingers buried in my hair.
With a ragged groan, I grip her waist, lifting her up to sit on the fence, pulling her up to my height so I can taste her.
Shit, it’s like there’s ambrosia inside her.
The deeper I search, the better she tastes, hot and wet and luscious.
Her knees part, her thighs flanking my hips. I lean into her with nothing left between us but that dress falling between her legs, but it’s so thin I can feel her heat through it.
Her pulse sears my hips, making my cock throb and jerk with a surge of pure lust.
Skimming my hands up her thighs, I push the dress up around her hips.
Yeah, I know we’ve got people not that far away. For me, right now, there’s nothing but us and the stars overhead.
Plus, the thrilling way she whispers my name.
“Holt,” she murmurs against my mouth, needy, and I’ve never heard my name sound better.
My lips hurt from the crush of our mouths, bruised and sensitive.
It’s the best feeling in the world—almost as good as the heavy weight of her tits on my chest, her nipples hot points against my skin.
Almost as good as her panties dragging against my jeans, and maybe the denim’s too thick for me to feel how wet she is, but fuck.
I can smell it, creamy-tart and alluring, making my mouth water.
My tongue aches like hell to find out if she tastes as good as she smells.
“Holt.” Her knees grip hard at me, then her thighs, quivering and tightening, and I can feel the desire rushing through her in the tautness of her body. “Take me home.”
If I could, I’d have her right here, right now, naked under the night sky in all its glory.
But the lady wants home, so I’ll take her.
Then I’ll keep her up until dawn.
Reluctantly, I pull myself away.
Walking hurts when I’m struggling with a hard-on that could do riot control.
I take her hand and lead her through the fields, toward the truck, lifting her up over the fence at the edge of the Norton property before jumping it myself.
We’ll just have to be rude and leave without saying goodbye to our hosts.