Page 57 of Before You Fell

Jax points his glass toward the dance floor. “Go. Be young and hot.”

I leave him at the bar and make my way down to the dance floor.

By the time I reach it, the bass has crawled into my bones and made a home there. Blue light skims the crowd, catching bare shoulders, sweat-slick skin, and flashes of gold jewelry. Bodies move beneath it in slow waves, with mouths close to ears and hands tangled in hair.

The whole dance floor pulses with that dangerous energy that only comes after midnight, when people stop pretending they’re good at making sensible decisions and start chasing whatever makes them feel alive.

The air itself is heavy, thick with music and bad ideas. And God, I love it. For once, I don’t just stand at the edge, watching everyone else live while I write songs about it later.

I step into the middle of it—into the heat, the noise, and the beautiful mess of bodies and lights that seem to pulse in time with the music.

I close my eyes and let the bass carry me. My hips find the rhythm, swaying slowly as the beat rolls low through my body. My hair brushes my bare shoulders as I move and I smile to myself because I forgot I was young. I forgot I had a body, not just a broken heart inside it.

Bodies shift around me, dancing and brushing past one another beneath the blue lights. Sweat glistens on skin. A couple kisses shamelessly beside me. Hands slide around waists. Mouths hover near ears.

Nobody is pretending. Nobody is acting. Everybody here is chasing a feeling. A sensation. And I want to experience something, too.

I lift my hands into my hair, gathering the heavy waves from my neck as I move to the music. The cool air kisses my skin and I smile to myself.

God, I feel beautiful.

A guy drifts closer behind me, slipping into the rhythm. Heat radiates from him, close enough that I can sense it at my back. His hands hover near my hips, waiting for permission. I turn my head slightly, just enough to make it clear I know he’s there. Just enough to tell him I’m choosing this.

His palm rests lightly at my waist.

I move with the beat, with the heat and with the stranger’s hand on my waist. His body is close and his breath brushes the side of my neck as the crowd presses tighter. I let my head fall back a little and roll my hips against him, slow enough to feel sexy.

Then another man steps in front of me.

He doesn’t touch. Not right away. He just moves into the rhythm, close enough that the blue light catches the sharp line of his jaw and the hungry little flicker in his eyes. His gaze drops once—quick and hot—down over my body before lifting back to my face. His fingers flex at his sides as if his hands have opinions his manners are still trying to overrule.

I have always had a weakness for men who understand the difference between wanting and taking.

The stranger behind me shifts closer as the crowd presses in, his palm tightening slightly at my waist. Suddenly I am caught between them, heat at my back and heat in front of me, the music sliding through all three of us in one filthy, perfect rhythm. My body keeps moving before my head can talk me out of it, hips rolling, hair brushing my shoulders, skin warm beneath the lights.

I let my hips roll again, more slowly this time, and they move with me, grinding into the rhythm.

And God, what a rush.

For a few glittering seconds, I let myself have it. The music, the hands, and the heat. The wonderfully uncomplicated reality of two men pressed close enough that there is no mystery about what they want, their hard cocks and dark eyes speaking a language far more honest than most men ever manage with words.

Then the man in front of me leans closer, blue light slicing across his face as his gaze drifts to my mouth. His fingers tighten once around my waist, and for a dangerous second, I think he’s going to kiss me.

God help me, I know I’d let him.

His gaze lifts suddenly as something behind me catches his attention.

His expression shifts. Then, with a slight smile that seems almost apologetic, he steps back and disappears into the crowd, swallowed by blue lights, sweat, and bodies moving to the beat.

A second later, the warmth behind me shifts as well. And just like that, he’s gone.

Story of my fucking life, really.

Then another hand glides to my hip. Not hesitant or polite. Familiar.

My entire body knows before my head does, which is humiliating and inconvenient and exactly the sort of shit my heart would pull.

It’s Phoenix.