Sacha
I couldn't recall how long it had been since I'd danced. Kevin never would, so it must have been somewhere in my mid-twenties the last time I was at a club, enjoying myself with abandon.
Abandon. That was a perfect word for what I was feeling right now, with this handsome stranger smiling down at me. It was really tempting me to let loose and shove my conscience aside for once. He was right, I had been working too hard for too long, and I deserved a little fun.
Didn't I?
Three margaritas hadn't hurt, either. I hardly even tasted the first one since that idiot spilled it.
But I'm so glad he did that…now.
Gibson, my rescuer, was tall and well-built, but not overly stocky like the drunk guy. He had a full beard, but it was neatly trimmed, and his blonde hair was slicked back. He looked the typical small-town worker guy, but something about him was…different. Despite the way he was dressed, in flannel and jeans, there was nothing "rough" about him. Watching him, I sensed an intelligence. There was power in the way he held himself. He radiated more CEO than blue collar.
As the song ended, his arms were still around my waist and he pulled me up off the floor. He held me up in the air, inches above him. Not at all the move I was expecting.
I let out a gasp. "Oh!"
As he gradually released his hold, I slid down his body until my feet touched the floor again. I grabbed his biceps for balance, surprised at the hardness beneath my fingers. There was no denying his well-muscled physique was firm, causing a spear of heat to my center. The room spun for a second as I gained my equilibrium and stepped back.
I was sure my panties needed changing.
He hadn't completely let go of me yet, and as the band launched into a fast song, everyone around us started moving. The crowd was writhing and bouncing, yet he stood holding me, his head bent down, his lips inches from mine.
Oh, hell, why not?
His lips were warm and tender, an introduction. The pressure increased as his lips parted, and I opened as naturally as if I'd kissed him a million times before. The familiar taste of scotch tingled on my tongue as he deftly explored my mouth, making me drunk with excitement. I leaned into him, losing control. Before I could even think about what was happening, I heard someone in the crowd prompt others to watch us.
I honestly didn't care. The world had fallen away and all that mattered was this man, now claiming my mouth with his. His tongue was exploring, tasting me, and I couldn't escape the sensation of how thirsty he was for it. And how utterly hungry I had been for some attention like this.
My senses began to kick in and I drew away. He gave me a wolfish grin and led me back to the table. The pounding of my heart began to slow, but I was still quivering, recovering from that kiss.
Cross that one off my bucket list, because Gibson the mountain man is the best kisser ever. What else can he do with that mouth?
I pushed the thought away and looked back at him. There was a glow in his eyes, and his lips were curved into a wicked smile. It was almost a smirk. He knew I liked kissing him. Well, I did. Damn it.
I was about to suggest calling it a night before I completely lost my mind and my virtue, when the owner of the bar, a middle-aged man named Stuart, appeared at our table. I'd met with him earlier and he had placed a good-sized order. He had kept me there for almost an hour, telling me his life story and how he came to own the Frisky Beaver.
"Ms. Rowan, I thought that was you. Let me get you and your friend some drinks."
The band was on another break, so we were stuck while Stuart chatted on about nothing and everything. He kept getting interrupted as patrons who knew him stopped by to say hello or clap him on the back as they passed. I accepted the drink, another margarita, to be polite, but only sipped at it in between nods at Stuart as he rambled on. My head was already starting to swim from the alcohol and being ravaged by Mr. Hot Beard's lips. I was usually a lightweight, and the few times I'd gotten really drunk, I had blacked out. So, it was better to quit while I still had my wits about me.
When Stuart finally moved on to another table, Gibson gave me the strange look I always get when people discover my profession.
"So, you sell booze?"
"I prefer the term, 'liquor distributor', thank you very much."
I was joking, but sometimes it did irritate me when people inferred my job was questionable. Alcohol had been around for thousands of years and wasn't going to disappear anytime soon. Someone had to sell it.
I gave him a look of faux indignation, to prove my point. He laughed.
"Well, you must be good at what you do. That guy seemed pleased."
"He got a hell of a deal, too. I was only up here for the day and he was my best client so far."
He downed the last of his drink, and I took another sip, though it was unlikely I would finish it, the way I was feeling.
"So where are you from, Miss Sacha?"
"Kennesaw. It's near Atlanta. A few hours from here."
For a moment, his gaze seemed fixed far away. Then he nodded. "I've heard of it. I actually used to live a bit south of there."
"Oh. So, how'd you end up here?"
The band was starting up again, so the music almost drowned out his words.
"I came for a visit and never left."