Chapter 23

I have made a grave mistake.

I knew what kind of reaction Beau would elicit at a club. He's tall and built with messy blond hair and clear blue eyes. His smile is as warm as sunshine and he's so comfortable in his own skin that you want to get nice and close and cozy.

He disappeared for a couple hours in the middle of the afternoon and came back with the outfit he's wearing now—tight black jeans and a muscle tank that makes him a walking advertisement for his job. He's been getting eye-fucked since the moment we stepped through the doors and it's no accident that guys have been crushing themselves up against him at every opportunity.

Jealousy spikes every time I catch someone ogling Beau a little too seriously, and I can't stop myself from glaring down anyone who might want to approach. At this rate, Beau's going to end up coming home with me, which defeats the whole point of going clubbing in the first place.

The only pacifying bit is that Beau hasn't noticed all the attention he's getting. He's happily, innocently oblivious to all the heads swiveling as he walks by, and he's been more concerned about people bumping into me than he is about getting groped by strangers. It's mollifying, but on second thought, this is probably worse.

I'm supposed to be pushing him toward other men, not basking in his attentiveness. I'm supposed to be showing him how to pick up guys, not hogging him all to myself. If I don't point him in the right direction, there's no way he'll do it himself.

Beau turns back from studying the dance floor and his gaze is hot and heavy when it settles on me. My vision goes a little blurry around the edges and only then do I realize I've been holding my breath. I force my lungs to expand, taking in the scent of sweat and alcohol, and underneath it all, Beau's distinct spiciness.

"So? What do you think?"

He bends his head, nose brushing along the shell of my ear, making me feel safe and small, tucked into the alcove of his body. "I think we should dance."

"That's not—" The protest dies on my tongue when I see the eager puppy expression on Beau's face.

You wouldn't think it by looking at him, but Beau's a great dancer. Being so aware of his own body, paired with agility developed from a lifetime of sports, he's stolen the show on the dance floor more than once. Getting him out there would be the perfect opportunity for someone else to snatch him up. I'll just have to shove my jealousy down deep enough to let it happen.

"Okay, fine. Let's go dance."

Beau lets out a whoop, sets our half-finished drinks on a nearby table, and grabs my hand—like he did yesterday, threading our fingers together. I fight back the surge of emotion as I follow him into the thick crowd of people. If circumstances were different, if we were different people…

It's impossible to move on the dance floor, much as we try. With no space for me to maintain my distance, I end up with my nose brushing Beau's collarbone.

"Can't dance like this," he shouts into my ear.

"I know. I'm sorry. We can come back la?—"

His arm cinches tight around my back, he shifts an inch to the left and suddenly I'm riding his thigh. I'm flush against him from groin to chest and his lips are ghosting down my neck.

"Oh god." My head falls back as I cling to him. He's all around me, with hard muscles and damp skin. We move together. Or rather, Beau moves, rolling his hips and swaying side to side while I have no choice but to go along for the ride. We're not so much dancing as rubbing up on each other.

Not that my cock would know the difference. It's a solid rod trapped in my pants and crushed against Beau's hip. His thigh is wedged so high between my own that my heels don't fully touch the ground. Every move he makes pushes me up and down until I'm basically humping his leg, and dear lord, I'm so close to coming, I don't even care.