Series: Like Us Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 241
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
My smile explodes when he picks me up, his hands on my ass. I clutch him while he hops out of the booth, my legs wrapped around his waist. I don’t want to let go, but we’re in the middle of the bar—people might be watching. Maybe I should?
So I slide down him, my feet on the ground, and I swear his lips falter into a frown. Did he want me to stay attached to him?
Before I can make sense of this, he clasps my hand, leading me to the barstools. He wedges between two beer drinkers, but he’s careful to pull me in front of him, his large hands resting on my hips. My pulse spikes at his touch, and I feel the return of my unrestrained smile.
Our drinks have run dry, so he orders more. Water for him, another vodka Fizz for me. And then Donnelly convinces the bartender to play Journey.
“Top-tier all-time American rock,” he tells me as soon as “Lights” plays over the speakers.
The music entrances me, and I forget about the alcohol, abandoning it on the counter. Donnelly twirls me in a circle. My heart soars, and when he dips me, I latch solely to the sexiest gaze alive, one that consumes every ounce of me.
Once he releases his hold on me, he turns to grab our drinks. I take several steps backward, observing him like he truly is another species on a foreign planet.
He rakes a hand through his hair, the little hoop earring glinting in the pink neon light of the bar. And he speaks to the bartender, makes a gesture like thank you, then rotates to me with our drinks.
I’ve backed up into our table.
He’s a man. A handsome, sexy, soulful, lighthearted man.
Have I ever been with a man like him before?
I don’t know. I don’t know. Does it even matter if I have? He’s the only one I really want.
His stride towards me tilts my world on its axis, and I understand the phrase “weak at the knees” because of him, because my limbs want to turn to putty in his hands, because the mere thought of him touching me unbalances my physical hold on this universe.
I place my palms on the table, the only reason I don’t wobble.
He faces me, then curves an arm around my frame—just to set the drinks behind me on the table. His musk is a heady fragrance swirling around my brain. The song he requested still blares over the drunken chatter, and he yells over the noise, “You like it?!”
I nod repeatedly. I like you. “It’s a good one!” My heart pounds rapidly, and these urges slam at my body.
Be bold.
Be who you are.
Do what you want.
Who cares what anyone thinks?
No more wavering, I jump into his arms like one of the corny dance moves we did in the privacy of his bedroom. Donnelly catches me with the hottest grin, and my entire being sings as he whirls me in a circle. I raise my arms in the air, leaning back.
Then I fly forward, my hair sheltering us.
He laughs and sings against my lips, our foreheads nearly pressed together. I sing back, more off-key, and hold his neck. I rock my hips to the beat. He meets my rhythm with his own.
We’re the only ones dancing in a crowded bar. People are staring. They might even be snapping pics of us, and he doesn’t care about anyone. Except for me.
It is one of the most powerful sensations. To be set utterly and totally free.
He’s kissing me. I could dance and kiss and love him for longer than a lifetime. I wonder if he already knows that.
We don’t end when the music switches. We keep going. We’re two glittery disco balls. Refracting light which pierces in every direction. And as we grow sweaty, as I bounce on him, as he holds me—the songs change and the melody of one suddenly, sharply, grabs me. By the throat.
I can’t breathe.
This song. “Baba O’Riley” by the Who. I know it. I’ve known it since I was a kid, but I feel it like a boiling wave rushing over me. But…it’s cold. There are Christmas lights blinking in a rustic bar. It’s dark except for Donnelly’s face.
His hands.
He’s holding me. Literally. He’s holding me right now, but I think he was holding me then too. Is it…can it be…a memory? No, it can’t be. It’s almost Christmas now. It’s too big of a coincidence. Isn’t it?
“You alright?” Donnelly’s voice sounds far away. “Talk to me. Babe.”
It jolts me, hearing him call me babe without the space attached. “Huh?”
He’s stopped dancing, stopped moving. He simply holds my ass so I’m clung to his chest. My hands are death-gripping his shoulders. Oh no. I remove my claws and see half-moon nail indents in his skin.