Change Rein - Anne Jolin Page 0,25
hums as I return to the table.
I hold my hand out as she stands. “This wasn’t a date.”
“Oh, I . . .” She trips over her words.
I’m ecstatic with the way her body quivers as my lips brush against her cheek. “This was to make you comfortable.”
She seems adorably confused as I pull her towards the center of the bar. “I don’t understand.”
“Today was about getting to know you, and you getting to know me so that, when I pick you up for our first date tomorrow, there will be no mistaking that you are mine entirely.”
Her breath hitches just as my boots come to a halt.
“I’ve been waiting for you.” I spread a hand over the small of her back and gently pull her against me. “And I don’t like to share.”
Her mouth parts just as the first twangs of Chris Stapleton’s “Tennessee Whiskey” fill the empty bar.
“Dance with me, London.”
Conceding to my request, she rests a palm on my shoulder and folds the other into my waiting hand. We move slowly in time with the beat, the strength in my body giving way to the softness of hers. I’m holding my breath at the intimate proximity to her, the moment rich in things even I have no capacity to understand.
The steady clamor of her heart ricochets over my skin when her head lays claim to my chest. I am a man brought to his knees with each of her touches, and I’d not trade being that man for anything in the world.
“I think I’ve been waiting for you too,” she whispers just below the music.
This girl, with blond hair and a steel-laced spine. This girl, with blue eyes and a bleeding heart. This girl, with fair skin and a passionate prison in her mind. If this girl is the death of me, then I surely wanna die.
THE NIGHT AIR HAS DEVELOPED a chill as we make our way out of the bar. I can smell his cologne on me from our dance together, and subsequently, I shudder at the sensation.
“Are you cold?” he asks as we reach his car.
If it can even be called that. His car is prettier than most of the women I know.
Swaying on my feet, still entranced in my lustful dizzy spell, I nod. “A little.”
Concern is etched in the edges of his eyes. “It’ll be cold with the top down,” he murmurs. “Here.” He lifts a suit jacket from the back seat and holds it out to me.
I slip my hands through the too-big sleeves, shrugging it over my shoulders. Then I turn back around to face him. “Thank you.”
After running his hands across the lapels, he drags me towards him. The heady spell I’m under dissipates when he kisses my forehead. Again. I’m overwhelmed by sudden disappointment. I’d expected him to kiss me at least once before the night was through. The tension between us has been thick and I could most certainly cut through it with a butter knife, but nonetheless, he refrained.
After helping me into the passenger’s seat, Branson buckles me in as he did earlier. The graze of his knuckles against my chest is a ruthless tease. I desperately want to understand why he hasn’t yet kissed me. I thought I was quite obviously displaying signs of need.
The drive back is comfortable. The local country station filters in through the car stereo, and I sit huddled in his suit coat, wishing the drive could be longer. I am infinitely worried that my body will no longer be able to function after leaving him.
I don’t want to leave him. I don’t want our day together to end.
“How do you feel?” He watches my face intently, never once dropping his gaze to my heaving chest as he moves the vehicle into park.
“Better,” I breathe on a whisper.
He tucks a stray piece of hair behind my ear, and I find myself leaning into his hand shamelessly. “Let me walk you in.”
Shaking my head, I reach for the handle of the door. “I’ll be just fine on my own,” I tease him. Truthfully, I don’t think I can handle the letdown of another kiss on my forehead or cheek if he were to walk me to the door and not pin me against it.
Frowning, he looks around the area as if he sees a serial killer lurking about. “It’s dark,” he murmurs as I slide out of his coat.
“I’m a grown woman, Branson. You can watch me walk inside if that suits you.”
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