Page 37 of Where I Should’ve Been

To anyone watching, it all probably looks sweet. Innocent, even.

Sure, we’re probably engaging the rumor mill a little after Eileen Martin’s ridiculous article, but everyone in Red Bridge knows that woman makes shit up.

Plus, I can’t really find it in me to care what anyone else thinks right now because I’m enjoying myself too much.

Tad’s lips dip close to my ear, his breath hot against my skin, and the rumble of his voice changes everything. “Meet me at my place in thirty minutes,” he whispers, low and rough. “I want to make you come on my cock.”

Heat spikes through me so fast I stumble a little and have to catch myself against him.

The people around us keep laughing, clapping, and moving with the music. They’re completely unaware of the dirty command Tad left in my ear or the growing arousal in my belly, born of eagerness to take him up on it.

I manage a smile, shaking my head like it’s nothing, but my pulse is thrumming everywhere.

When the music ends, Tad gives me a friendly hug and says, “Thanks for the dance, Breezy Bishop,” before he starts his goodbye tour around the bar.

I head back over to where Bennett and Norah are, pretending I have no plans to leave anytime soon, but as soon as I come up with an excuse, I’m gone.

My libido is already grabbing her purse and making a beeline for Tad Hanson’s bed.

15

Tad

I don’t look at Breezy when I leave the dance floor. Frankly, if I did, I’d be tempted to drag her out of here in front of half the damn town.

Instead, I plaster on my grin, clap Clay on the shoulder, and head out the door.

Act normal.

Be normal.

That’s my role. That’s what everyone in Red Bridge expects from me.

But by the time I make it back home and I’m climbing up my porch steps, headlights sweep across the snow. It takes me less than a second to realize it’s Breezy’s Range Rover.

She kills the engine and gets out, boots crunching against the ice. She looks like a fucking goddess under the moonlight. It bounces off her sleek hair and pretty eyes and only makes her look more mysterious.

More alluring.

More tempting.

More encompassing of the beautiful distraction I so desperately need right now.

Losing myself in Breezy is better than drowning myself in booze. She’s entrancing in ways that make me feel high for hours and days after being with her.

I unlock the door, shove it open, and wait at the threshold as she climbs up the stairs. But when she closes the distance between us, I don’t even give her the chance to speak. I wrap my arms around her and crash my mouth into hers.

I kick the door shut behind us, and I pin her gorgeous body against it, kissing her like I need her to stay alive.

“Breezy,” I whisper her name against her lips like a fucking prayer, and she moans into my mouth. It’s a low and hungry sound, and it wrecks me.

“Fuck,” I mutter. “I want you.”

“I want you too.”

All my senses home in on the press of her body against mine and the way her hands thread through my hair. She’s soft and lush in all the right places, and I relish the way she bites my bottom lip.

Fuck, I need this. I need her.