I lift my head and stare into the deep blue of Austin’s eyes, hoping this delicious feeling never ends. He takes our entwined hands and places them behind his neck, then catches my other hand and drapes it along the first. The movement crushes me tighter against the firmness of his torso.
The only other time I was this close to a boy, I was kissing him. And that boy was Austin.
Callused fingers slide down my bare arms, and shivers explode in their wake. My own fingers curl into the soft wisps of hair at his nape. Locking his hands together at the small of my back, Austin begins swaying our bodies to the slow, exhilarating beat of the music.
“I’ve never done this before,” I tell him. I don’t know why I do, but it feels important that he know.
He grins. “Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.”
A blush erupts under my skin. Austin’s grin widens, seeing the power his words have over me, but I’m not embarrassed. I’m tired of trying to hide how I feel. “I know I don’t have to worry,” I say. “You’re always good to me.”
Austin’s mischievous grin fades as his gaze holds mine. His fingers contract, and he draws me even closer.
I lose myself in the music, in the words, and in Austin’s strong embrace. The buzz of alcohol and the close proximity of his body electrify my blood, and my head grows heavy. Resting it against his shoulder, I strengthen my grip by clasping my wrists. If I could live in this moment for the rest of my life, I would.
I press my lips along the warm column of his neck, and he sucks in a sharp breath. His body tenses, and I wonder if I am being too forward. But then he releases a low noise in the back of his throat and spears a hand through my hair, possessively splaying the fingers of his other low on my back.
One song bleeds into another like this, the next with a noticeably faster tempo, but we do not change position. I nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder and breathe him in.
I feel Austin hesitate, and with reluctance I lift my head.
“Alessandra—”
The glide of roaming fingers on my backside causes me to jump, cutting off whatever Austin was about to say. I widen my eyes at him in surprise, but then register the dual pressure of his hands where he left them minutes before—one threaded in my hair, the other spread low on my back.
Whipping around to discover just who had dared to take such liberties with my body, it doesn’t take long to catch the arrogant smirk of a man taking his seat at the now crowded table behind us. The desire once thickening my blood from Austin’s proximity transforms into molten lava.
I have been dishonored.
I don’t think past that; I just act, fueled by Goldschläger.
Marching the three and a half steps to their table, I fist my hands on my hips and do my best to level the brute with an aggressive, haughty look—it aids me greatly that he is seated and we are now at similar heights. Heedless of the man’s mocking, lifted eyebrow, I plow ahead.
“Excuse me,” I snap, not feeling at all guilty for interrupting their table’s conversation, “but the beauty of this world is that I don’t have to accept such vulgar behavior—especially not from distasteful little men like you.” I have no clue where the word little came from, for the man is far from that. Nevertheless, I carry on, throwing my shoulders back and folding my arms across my chest. “You, sir, defiled my person with your unwelcome advance, and from now on I ask that you—uh, I ask that you…”
And it is about this time that I lose steam. I’ve never been very good with insults, and I already used the word bitch once this evening. Palming either side of my head, I long for another insult to come, preferably one that will make sense in this generation. I very much doubt calling the man a knave or miscreant will have the desired effect. But then an expression I learned from a humorous movie of musical, rock-band children zaps into my brain, and I snap my fingers. “I have it!”
Paying no heed to the derisive snorts from the table, I shove a forceful finger into one of the man’s brawny biceps and shout as loud as I can, “Step off!”
In response, a muscle ticks near the man’s eye. He glances down at his arm, and then gradually, deliberately taking his time, back up at me.
An outbreak of tingles surges over my skin, but this time they are not from the effects of alcohol, Austin’s kisses, or even from the venom in this miscreant’s eyes. They are from the pure thrill of standing up for myself and for all womankind.
Unfortunately, Austin cuts short my dance of victory by whisking me into his arms and carrying me toward the club’s side exit.
“But wait,” I say, pounding his shoulder and fighting his hold. “I wish to continue our dance.”
He ignores my protests and lengthens his stride. I twist around in his grip just as he kicks open the door and manage to see Lucas acting yet again as peacekeeper, this time with my foul offender.
Then Austin hauls me outside.
Chapter Twenty-one
Austin doesn’t stop walking or even let me go until we are halfway down the street.
Unlatching the rear gate of his truck, he sets me down and cages me in with his arms so I cannot escape. Not that it was my plan to do so. Being this close to him in relative privacy is almost as good as dancing.
Chest heaving, Austin lowers his head to my shoulder, muttering a string of curses under his breath. Confused over his winded reaction—he carried me farther than this on the beach earlier today without any difficulty—I run my fingers through his soft black hair. “Austin?”
He nods once, as if to let me know he is still coherent. But he does not lift his head. Moments pass to the sound of his labored breathing and the whistle of the passing cars before he finally raises his eyes to mine. At the emotions swirling within their blue depths, I gasp.
Austin stands there, letting those emotions wash over me, before asking in a voice laced with surprising tenderness, “Alessandra, who was that girl back there?”
His rough, disappointed timbre and the sadness in his gaze let me know that he isn’t talking about the brazen redhead; he is asking about me. Unsure of the exact reason, my heart begins to pound, and any lingering effects of the alcohol burn away.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he says, raking a hand through his already disheveled hair, “I’m glad you told that dickhead where he can stick it. Once I realized what he did, I wanted to rip his fingers off myself for even thinking about touching you. But all of that back there? Confronting him, the showdown with the girl before—that wasn’t just the alcohol talking. And it wasn’t your newly dyed hair. That was you.” He releases a weary breath. “And you’ve changed.”
My shoulders stiffen, even as I fight the urge to be defensive. After all, wasn’t my changing what he wanted all along? Swallowing around a thickened throat, I find my voice and say, “Of course I have changed, Austin. This is the new me, the one you inspired. It was you who issued the challenge to shake me up. And everything you told me at Rush the other day about your dad and your past and not caring anymore? You were right. Being perfect all the time is exhausting! Some days, it’s hard for me even to lift my head off the pillow. I’ve spent my entire life trying to be everything for everyone, but this…this is so much easier.”
I take a breath in preparation to speak again, and in the space of a second relive the arguments the new me found herself in tonight. While I wouldn’t deny the confrontations were terrifying, the freedom I felt to speak my mind in both of those moments was nothing short of liberating.