He nodded and tossed the phone on the bed as the guitar chords started playing.
“Would we dance?” he asked, needing to feel her in his arms, needing to touch her and be touched by her.
“We might,” she whispered, staring up into his eyes.
“Then dance with me, Minx.”
He watched as her smaller, whiter hand settled into his larger, tanner one and he carefully curled his fingers around it, pulling her up against his body until her breasts were finally, blessedly, pressed against his chest. Careful not to step on her little lacquered toes, he dropped her hand and slid his arms around her, resting his hands on her lower back, his breath catching as she reached her arms up and laced her fingers behind his neck.
She laid her head on his chest and they swayed lightly to the mellow music, to the words of a man beseeching a woman to trust him.
***
After tonight she would have to delete “Woman” from her playlist. She would never be able to bear hearing it again—even if she heard it fifty years from now, she knew she would wince, remembering tonight, remembering her terrible, fierce longing for the man holding her.
He had surprised her by choosing this song. It wasn’t one of the innocent, lighthearted 60s tunes they had enjoyed listening to in his truck yesterday. There was something more mature, deeper and more complex, more…inevitable about this song.
Inevitable.
Like Lars turning his back on her tomorrow.
Her heart twisted painfully, and she closed her eyes against her thoughts, leaning her cheek against his chest, swaying back and forth with him.
Generally, Jane was satisfied with herself—who she was deep inside where true character lived. She had longings, of course: to belong to someone, to feel connected to family as she had before she lost her parents, to feel secure in her relationships. But mostly, Jane approved of the woman she had become. She had modest ambitions that she didn’t realize through unkindness or manipulation. She had integrity. She was a good person. She rarely wished she were prettier. She had come to terms with her average looks a long time ago. She told herself it wasn’t so bad being plain if you were kind and funny, interesting and well-liked—if you could look at yourself in the mirror and not feel shame or regret.
But, leaning against Lars Lindstrom’s solid chest, with his tender words fresh in her head, she felt an uncharacteristic rebellion against the unfairness of being so plain, so average, so forgettable.
If I were beautiful, she thought, he wouldn’t be able to walk away from me. If I were beautiful…
Her eyes watered, and she tried to shift her thoughts away, back to the moment.
Stop thinking about tomorrow, Jane.
Lars leaned back and Jane looked up at him. His eyes were large and black, surrounded by a thin band of icy blue, and they captured hers with intensity, flicking briefly to her lips then back to her eyes. She read his question and answered with her body, tilting her head to the side and running her tongue over her lips.
His lips twitched up for just a moment before he lowered them to hers.
Jane closed her eyes, her insides spinning and swirling with pleasure. He ran his hands over her sweater, up and down her back, slipping under her cami and touching the warm, smooth skin of her back.
She shivered, leaning into him, frustrated she couldn’t get closer. Every nerve ending demanded to be touched by him and her breasts ached to be flush against his skin. She felt him trying to push her sweater up, and she wiggled, breaking away from him for a moment to slip her cami and sweater over her head, leaving only her bra still intact. He found her lips again and his hands returned impatiently to her lower back. She felt his rough, muscular fingers kneading, adjusting and readjusting over her skin like pumice, making her tremble.
She moved her hands to his waist, pulling on the bottom of his polo shirt. He tore his mouth away from hers to pull it over his head in a quick movement, then put his arms back around her. He pulled her roughly up against him, crushing her lips with his as a growly sound rose up from his throat. Through the flimsy material of her black, sheer bra, she could feel the tickle of his hair, the heat of his chest pressed up against her breasts with only a thin barrier between them. She sighed into his mouth, loving the liquid fire of his tongue stroking hers.
Lars backed up against the bed, sitting down on the edge, and lifting Jane’s so she straddled his lap. As he held her close, kissing her deeply, a soft, strangled sound rose from Jane’s throat, a flurry of feelings and sensations poured into a single, low, erotic sound. Lars groaned in response, his fingers sliding into the waistband of her skirt.
“Wait,” Jane breathed, breaking off the kiss. She leaned her forehead against his, lowering her hands to gently push his away. “Wait.”
He took a deep breath and exhaled raggedly, putting his arms around her and holding her in place. She rested her palms against the flat, hard planes of his chest, panting, trying to catch her breath, acutely aware, by virtue of her position, that he was more than ready to keep going and she was in the process of disappointing him.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, closing her eyes.
Her body protested her heart’s decision, wanting him as badly as he obviously wanted her. But, her heart held firm: You can’t sleep with him, Jane. It will hurt too much later. You have to slow down.
“It’s okay. Don’t be sorry.”
Likely trying to calm himself, he rubbed his jaw with one hand while holding her with the other, a movement that made his chest muscles flex under her hand. She felt the contours of sinew under his warm skin and it made her clench her jaw, as she fought for self-control. Oh. My. God. She couldn’t see very much in the dim light of the hotel room, but she could certainly feel the rock-hard muscles moving under her palms.
“Your chest is…um…firm.”
His teeth were white as he broke into a smile. He reached one hand up and pushed her curls away from her face, cupping her cheek. “I work out a little.”
“A little?”
He put his hands under her arms, lifting her away from him. She stood up by the foot of the bed and he stood up for a second only to turn and kneel on the bed, crawling to the headboard. He fluffed up a couple of pillows and moved her phone to the bedside table before settling in comfortably.
He had bared his feet at some point and all he was wearing now were low-slung jeans, ridiculously cut abs and a grin. “Come lie down with me?”
Jane stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, suddenly aware that she was standing before him in a black sheer bra and a jean skirt. She gave him a look.
“Come on, Minx. Come get comfy. We can just…talk. I won’t touch you.” He winked at her. “Unless you ask me to.”
She took a deep breath and smiled at him. “Is that right?”
“I swear.”
“On what?”
“On my good name, Jane Mays. That’ll have to be enough.”
“Now who’s the minx?” she asked.
“You are. Come lie down with me.” His voice was low and serious, and he didn’t ask this time.
She crawled between his legs up the bed from the foot to the head, watching his eyes widen. She grinned at him then maneuvered to the left at the last minute, settling herself beside him innocently. He put his arm around her and she curled into him, her ear comfortably resting on the solid warmth of his chest. He ran his fingers up and down her arm, and then he laced his fingers through hers, taking a deep breath, and trying to relax.