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“Yes, sir. Everyone but, uh…” his eyes flickered to mine then back to Mr. McClure. “Everyone but my twin.”
“I see…” He nodded, glancing down the hallway toward the sound of music. “I need to talk to Cletus about the transmission work he did.”
Beau stood a little taller. “Is there something wrong?”
Beau, Duane, and their older brother Cletus owned the Winston Brothers Auto Shop in town, hence the blue, grease-stained coveralls he currently do
As an example, he’d started attending my first period advanced placement calculus class two weeks ago. Apparently, he’d talked to my principal and had been cleared to sit in for the rest of the year.
The fire chief shook his head. “No, no. It’s not for my truck, son. It’s Red, the fire engine. He’s helping me get the old girl ru
“Ah. I see. Yeah, Cletus is playing his banjo.” Beau tossed his thumb over his shoulder. “Only one room is jamming so far tonight; I think everyone else is waiting until the trick-or-treating is over.”
Mr. McClure glanced in the direction Beau had indicated. “I’ll go sit in then and wait for a break.” He then turned a friendly smile to Claire and me. “Girls, I’d be honored to be your escort.”
Claire nodded for both of us; but before she could verbally accept the offer, Beau reached out and grabbed my arm lightning fast.
“Claire, you go on.” Beau pulled me away from my friend in a smooth motion. “I’d like to catch up with Jess. See y’all later.”
He didn’t wait for Claire or me to react.
Before I knew what was happening, he’d slipped his rough palm into mine, grasped my fingers, and turned toward the converted cafeteria, tugging me after him. I was so shocked by the sensation of his skin, the electric current ru
I loved the feel of him. In truth I was in danger of climbing him. I just wanted to be near him, touch him, snuggle against him. He was so epically enticing.
We wove through the crowd as I tried to memorize the feeling of his hand grasping mine. I had difficulty drawing breath; my stomach was an eruption of amorous butterflies. People said hi — to both him and to me — but we didn’t pause. I was his shadow as Beau led me to the buffet table; I dreaded reaching it because he would likely release me. To my surprise we kept on walking.
He didn’t glance back at me as we skirted around a table laden with lemonade and sweet tea, heading behind a curtain that ran the length of one wall — from ceiling to floor — and obscured a set of stairs leading to a small stage. The stage, likewise, was hidden by the curtain. Beau didn’t pause once we were up the steps or on the stage. Instead he continued tugging until he had me to one side, backstage, completely hidden by the curtain, around a corner, and behind a wall.
It was dark and my eyes required several seconds to adjust; likewise, my brain hadn’t yet caught up with where we were and how we’d arrived here, not to mention who I was with. A single light source overhead cast our surroundings in a grayish murkiness. Therefore, I nearly tripped over my own feet when Beau turned, his hands suddenly on my hips, and backed me into the wall.
I felt solid concrete behind me, Beau and all his gorgeousness looming before me, scant inches away. His glittering eyes ensnared mine. Then and only then did he stop.
I was so confused — really discombobulated was the word for it. This was like something out of my music video fantasies. (Did I forget to mention that my daydreams actually present themselves as music videos ala Paula Abdul’s Rush, Rush complete with glowing, imperfection-blurring lens filters?) Therefore I could only gaze up at him in wonder.
He leaned forward, and his forehead hit the rim of my hat. Scowling, he pulled it and the wig from my head.
“I like this costume,” he said in a low voice as his hands reclaimed their spot, his thumbs rubbing the area just above my hips like he was entitled to touch me and my body how he liked. The heat from his palms sent spiking shivers to my lower belly. “But I do not enjoy that hat.”
I’d known Beau for almost fifteen years, had dreamt of a moment like this since my earliest awkward stages of puberty. In all those fantasies, Beau had been sweet and slow, gentle and coaxing, patient. As well in my fantasies, nothing ever really happened. He’d kiss me, I’d feel warm and tingly. Basically they were the neutered fantasies of a young girl.
But Beau didn’t look patient now and he felt very, very real. Even in the murky dimness his eyes glittered like sapphires, like they possessed their own internal radiance. I thought mournfully of my plain brown irises and, like the weirdo I was, I hoped that our make-believe children would inherit his eyes.
His hands slid up my body then pushed my cape over my shoulders with a whisper-light touch. He removed the staff from my hands. I watched as Beau leaned it against the wall with care, his boots scuffing against the wooden floor.
“Jessica James, you’ve been giving me hot looks that are difficult to ignore.” He said this in a near growl, leaning a fraction of an inch closer.
I didn’t respond. I didn’t know what a hot look was, what it meant, or how to make it on purpose. Regardless, I surmised my inadvertent hot looks were responsible for our alone time. Therefore, I mentally high-fived my hot looks. My heart twisted then leapt as he wet his bottom lip just before drawing the succulent flesh into his mouth, between his teeth, and biting.
That’s right, bite that lip.
I almost groaned.
I was maniacally and fiercely aroused, and I was completely ill-equipped to deal with these feelings. A broken hymen while horseback riding; a few inconsequential and forgettable gropings in high school and college; a drunken, laconic coupling in my dorm room with my physics lab TA last year. These were the pithy total of my sexual exploits.
In all honesty, I’d enjoyed the horse ride more than the man ride. At least the horse had been a stallion. Looking back, my lab TA was more like a Shetland pony — hairy and small.
Instinct told me to tackle Beau, maul him before he discovered his error and tousled my hair like I was still a twelve year old. At the very least, I’d made up my mind to force his mouth down to my chest. Nothing fantastic had ever happened to my nipples before. I was pretty sure I’d die a happy woman after Beau Winston did something fantastic to my nipples.
Speaking of nipples, I didn’t realize I’d brought Beau’s hand from my hip to my breast until hot sparks of desire radiated from where I pressed his palm against me, the only barriers between our skin my lace bra and the thin fabric of my sheath.
I didn’t know what I was doing. My experience was so lackluster, and in my fantasies we never made it to second base.
Beau stared at me, his mouth parted in stu
And then I learned what a hot look was.
Because Beau Winston was giving me a hot look.
I wanted to label it as incendiary, but as it was the first hot look I’d ever been aware of receiving, I decided instead to make his hot look the baseline by which all other hot looks would be measured.
I didn’t get much time to mull over what units of measurement I would apply to hot looks — would it be Celsius? Calories? Watts? Or voltage? — because Beau did four things, driving all thought and ability to reason from my brain.
First, he tugged my beard off my face and over my head.