The night Hendrix and I had danced, I’d kept him at a distance, knowing he certainly wouldn’t have been dancing had he been sober, especially not with me in the intimate way he was trying to. Somehow, I had maintained that barrier between friendship and something more, though it was hard, and if I’m being honest, I hadn’t wanted to be respectful. Not in the slightest. I’d wanted to be very, very disrespectful to my friend that night.
So maybe Hendrix is ignoring me because he thinks I want more, because he thinks I almost kissed him—I mean, I did but he doesn’t know that—and maybe I can show him that I don’t. By all accounts, I would swipe that man up in a heartbeat given the opportunity, but if I can convince him I don’t want him, then we may be able to go back to the way things were. For Hendrix, I would lie to him and myself for another chance at having him by my side.
Nerdy-hipster brazenly nips my bottom lip without invitation, and my eyes snap open as I jerk back. I hadn’t realized I’d closed them; I guess it was easier to pretend I was dancing with Hendrix that way. Stepping back, I put space between us and furrow my brows at the guy, and okay, yeah, I don’t have to act so offended by a harmless advance. He was just shooting his shot, and I’d been the one to put more enthusiasm into our dancing.
Entirely out of my control, my gaze slides sideways to Hendrix, wondering if he saw, then wondering why that should even matter.
The look on Hendrix’s face . . . it’s unreadable. Dark. Stormy. Shadowed by a sudden absence of light as everything goes dark, the song switching from a fast beat to a slow, grinding one. When splashes of pink and blue return, I catch the very end of Hendrix tossing back his glass like a shot before slamming it down, hard, onto the table. The other abandoned drinks rattle at the contact.
One step, then two. He walks in my direction, his shadowed eyes not once leaving mine. I stand frozen as he approaches us, and once his chest is practically glued to my shoulder, he opens his mouth to speak over the thrumming music.
“Fuck off.”
That’s it. Two words directed at the man I’m trying to hold at an arm’s distance, though he keeps attempting to push himself closer. At Hendrix’s rude remark, Nerdy-hipster scoffs and reaches for me again. “You fuck off. We’re dancing.”
Shaking my head, I pry his hands off me. “No, we aren’t. Next time, ask before putting your mouth on someone else’s.” My cheeks are already going warm before I finish speaking.
Okay, well. It is good advice—advice I will definitely be taking into consideration. Starting now.
He crosses his arms, cocking a hip and giving me an offended look. “Really? You called your bodyguard because I barely bit your lip?” He huffs, muttering an insult under his breath. “Prude.”
I’m grateful when he stalks away without any more of a fight, but then I realize that leaves Hendrix and me alone together, standing on the outskirts of the dance floor. He’s looking at me, and I’m looking at him, and neither of us is saying anything, and—
Hendrix’s hand finds my waist, and he pulls me close, just enough space between us that we aren’t touching anywhere other than his palms against my shirt. I feel him, though—an intense heat emanating from his body, from his hands on me. I want to lean in, want to press the rest of my suddenly shivering body into his.
His head tilts up until his mouth is a breath away from my earlobe. “Are you okay?”
My reply is entirely too honest. “Better now.”
The sigh of relief that escapes his lips brushes the sensitive skin beneath my ear, and my knees fucking shake. He’s so close. He’s right here, after weeks of distance between us. I want to pull him closer, flush against me, and I also want to grab his shoulders and vigorously shake him because how dare he. How dare he deny me his presence for weeks and then come over here like my knight in shining armor I didn’t need but wanted?
Hendrix pulls back to look at me, the apple in his neck bobbing with a harsh swallow. “That drink was, um, pretty strong. I don’t want to do anything I regret, so do you think you might—” Another dry swallow. “—dance with me? Just so I don’t do anything stupid.”
I’m already nodding. “Yes. Of course. And if you drove here, I can take you home. To your apartment. Or—” No, don’t suggest bringing him home with you, Tahegin.
“Your place is closer,” he says so lowly I almost miss it over the heavy pulse of the club music.
My hands slide up his chest, indulging in the moment blissfully blessed to me by alcohol. If tonight is anything like the last time, he won’t remember dancing with me. I can let myself go, just for a little while.
Fingers locked at the nape of his neck, I let my arms rest on his shoulders and chest, leaning into him as we sway and roll to the music. I give as good as I get—and, damn, is Hendrix a great dancer. There’s an art to a sensual dance, one that the nerdy-hipster guy clearly didn’t understand, but Hendrix does. He presses against me in measured increments—chest, sternum, abs, the slightly jutting bones of his hips, crotch, all the way down his thighs nearly to his knees. It’s a slow and fast move, a give and take as we come together and pull apart just as quickly. Whereas that other guy was practically dry-humping my leg, Hendrix is dancing to the music, feeling the beat and letting it push and pull his body in every direction, and I just happen to be on the receiving side.
I lean down, my nose and cheekbone drifting along his neck, below his ear, as I subtly inhale his scent. He’s all aftershave and sweat, blood pumping hot and fast just below the surface, the alcohol taking its toll. For all I know, he’s had a couple of drinks since whenever he arrived, and everything he is doing can be blamed on alcohol. He might wake up tomorrow regretting getting close to me again, especially since we haven’t talked about anything important.
So I allow myself tonight, on this dance floor, knowing that tomorrow might, despite his earlier words, bring him regret.
I cherish it because I don’t know when—or if—I will ever get to hold him again.
Our chests bump and stay pressed against each other, neither of us separating as if we are both thinking the same thing.
Tonight. We can have tonight to be carefree before returning to reality tomorrow.
“Come home with me, Rix,” I murmur against the delicate skin of his neck, the recently shaved stubble pricking at my lips, like a small punishment for my more-than-friendly actions. The feel of his responding hum of acceptance makes it worth the consequence.
CHAPTER 19
HENDRIX AVERY
I lied.
It was only water that I drank at the club.
I’d asked the bartender to pour it into a glass to make it appear as if I was drinking—but not for the excuse I ended up using it as. My goal was to remain sober for Tahegin’s sake, like some kind of olive branch to say, “Hey, if you can’t drink, I won’t either,” but then I’d spotted him on the dance floor with that overeager asshole. I’d slammed the drink for courage, forgetting it was nothing but water until I swallowed it before stalking to the dance floor to—what? Defend Tahegin’s honor?
Jesus, what is wrong with me?
Using the “drink” as an excuse, I convinced Tahegin to dance with me. We had danced before, the last time we went to the club together, but things are different now. For me, at least.
I tried to stay away. I really did. For nearly two weeks, I avoided him, but the desire in my gut has only grown. It’s been years since I jacked off this much—going as far as to sneak into the bathroom at the hotel to get off while Tahegin slept soundly in the bedroom just on the other side of the door. His name has been on my lips each and every time.
Waking up in the morning brings with it all the memories of last night. We had danced. We danced so long I was sure our other teammates were long gone by the time Tahegin and I separated our bodies. He was probably just humoring me with the dancing—because he’s a good guy like that—and was trying to buy time to “sober” me up. To my credit, though, I hadn’t been a stumbling, babbling idiot, hadn’t acted like I was intoxicated. Still, Tahegin didn’t question my mental status as we left the club, climbed into his truck since I had taken a car service to the club with Micah, and made our way to his house. Conversation was minimal, but he had a new playlist he was trying out, so we listened and nodded to each other during the songs we thought were worth listening to again.
At his house, we both stumbled up the dark staircase to the second floor, and then . . .
I blink, taking in the familiar room, the curtains, the trash can placed beside the bed. Groaning, I cover my face with my hands as I recall wordlessly following Tahegin into his bedroom last night. I’d fallen into his bed, listened as he went about the room to close the curtains and move the trash can, and waited, heart pounding, for him to climb in the bed beside me. He had grumbled something about his expensive mattress and his bed but settled beneath the sheets without asking me to leave. It had taken a long time for me to fall asleep, knowing Tahegin was only a foot away. The blanket moved with each of his inhales, and his body heat reached me easily despite the gap between us—driving me to the edge of insanity until I was fighting to keep myself from doing anything else I would regret.
Because I do regret last night. I regret giving myself a taste of what it could be like with him, the ease with which I could lose myself dancing with him.
But it will never happen because people have types, something Micah lectured me on when I dared question if maybe Tahegin liked more than only smaller men. He’d said it was possible—something called vers, which means the man is willing to “top” or “bottom”—but the information he has points to Tahegin most likely being a “top.” When I asked what that meant, he’d given me the long explanation of both positions in full detail while I’d stared at him in horror.