“Fuck, Jess…,” he growled, then pulled his mouth from mine, his breathing labored. He bent to bite my jaw, lick my ear, suck the soft skin into his hot mouth while one hand pushed my little gray dress up to expose my lace-clad breasts. The fingers of his other hand danced around the hem of my panties but moved no farther. I felt his hesitation and I clawed him. I dug my nails into his shoulders and bucked instinctively, wanting him to touch me.

The non-crazy part of my brain told me I was going to be seriously mortified by my behavior at some point in the future, but crazy was now the overwhelming majority. Sanity had lost the popular vote.

In response to my crazy, he tugged the cup of my bra down. Then his wet mouth was on the center of my breast. Then his tongue swirled over my nipple as a tortured-sounding moan rumbled in the back of his throat. Then I panted because it was fantastic.

I reached for his white shirt, drawing him closer, and tried to roughly pull it off. He acquiesced, helping me remove the material, as my fingertips fumbled for the hem of his boxers then delved inside. This was easily accomplished since the coveralls were only loosely held up by the long sleeves tied around his waist. My hand closed around his hard length, and he sucked in a startled-sounding breath, releasing it raggedly as I stroked him.

“Oh, God..,” he breathed, his eyes moving back to mine. I’d expected to find them dazed with desire, instead he looked a little shocked, panicked even. “Wait, wait a minute.”

He reached for my wrist, and I saw his intentions clear as day. We were moving too fast. He was going to put on the brakes.

But the thing was, crazy didn’t want brakes. Crazy wanted acceleration. Crazy wanted velocity. Crazy wanted reckless, heedless, crazy, passionate sex with Beau Winston. And crazy wanted it right now, against this wall, at the Green Valley Community Center, while children trick-or-treated and Mrs. Sylvester traded recipes for blueberry muffins, ignorant to the fervent and erotic moment on the other side.

I stroked him again, pressing my chest to his and lifting on my tiptoes to bite his neck. He shuddered, moaned, his hips instinctively jutting forward and into my palm even as his fingers tightened around my wrist and gently tried to force my withdrawal.

Instead, with my dress bunched up under my armpits, I rubbed my body against his; my thumb circled the head of his erection. With my other hand I brought his fingers back to my panties, pressing them over the fabric and against my center, and I nipped at his parted lips.

His breathing was labored, and he moaned again, cursing. Beau’s eyes were squeezed shut like he was trying to separate himself from what was happening, like he was trying to strengthen his resolve…like he was losing control.

Abruptly, and with an audible growl, he yanked my hand out of his boxers and turned, walking ten steps farther backstage and away from me.

I felt the loss of his heat first, then the loss of his touch. I didn’t try to pursue him because I felt dizzy, disoriented, and out of breath. Instead I leaned against the wall at my back, closing my eyes. My body hummed and protested the loss of promised fulfillment. I don’t know how long I stood there, gulping air and trying to figure out what had just happened and why it ended.

Eventually I heard him say, “Goddammit…” Again, like a restrained roar, his voice closer than I’d expected.

I opened my eyes and found him standing a few feet away, shirtless, hands on his hips. His chest visibly rose and fell as he breathed. His gaze flickered over my body then to the floor of the stage. Numbly, I adjusted my bra to conceal my breasts and tugged my tiny dress down to my thighs, allowing myself to devour his muscled torso, the ridges of his stomach, the plane of his hard chest.

I wanted to touch him again.

“Jessica, you have got to stop looking at me like that.” He sounded irritated, desperate, catching me by surprise and pulling my eyes back to his.

I was startled to find that his teeth were clenched, his eyes were flashing; however, despite the fact he’d just reprimanded me for how I was looking at him, Beau was giving me an extremely hot look. Regardless of his words and the fact he’d been the one to end our frantic grope-fest, he appeared torn. He appeared to be struggling.

He appeared to want me very, very badly.

I stared at him, mystified. The realization of his want paired with the reality of the last several minutes caught up with the here and now. He was watching me as I was watching him. My stare was undoubtedly one of inviting and anxious expectation; whereas his glare oscillated between blatant desire peppered heavily with longing, and then fierce frustration.

I waited silently, witnessed his resolve waver, watching his eyes lose focus as they moved beseechingly between mine. He was still breathing hard.

He took a step forward as though pulled, stumbling in a daze, had no choice; words tumbled from his lips in a rush, “Jessica, I’m not who you think I am and—fuck it all—but I want you, I’ve always wanted you, and I can’t do this without you knowing—”

“Duane, you dummy. Are you back here?” a man called from my left, and I heard the telltale sound of boots on steps.

My eyes bulged.

My jaw dropped.

My breath caught in my throat.

And my head whipped to the side and toward the newcomer.

It wasn’t that I feared getting caught in a heated moment, not at all. The cause of my intense shock was the sound of the approaching voice. It was Beau’s voice.

“Are you back there?” The steps slowed, then stopped. Beau once more called out to Duane, “Should I… uh, do you need some privacy?”

My body jolted as understanding punched me in the stomach. The ice bucket of reality quelled any hot looks or hot feelings and I was left cold. So very, very cold. I turned my attention back to the man of my dreams.

Except he wasn’t.

My companion was most definitely not Beau Winston—hero, world’s nicest guy. No, no, no. This man was not Beau. This man was Duane.

And this man had just done fantastic things to my nipples.

CHAPTER 2

“The road that is built in hope is more pleasant to the traveler than the road built in despair, even though they both lead to the same destination.”

― Marion Zimmer Bradley, The Fall of Atlantis

~Jessica~

As soon as our eyes tangled, Duane winced—almost like I’d sucker-punched him—and he turned away. I watched his muscled torso and chest rise and fall with an expansive breath just before he plucked his shirt from the floor and pulled it on.

He cleared his throat then called out, “Yeah, a little privacy would be nice.”

“Who’s back there with you? Is it Tina?” Beau’s deep, velvety chuckle met my ears, and my stomach twisted painfully.

I felt like I was going to be sick. My eyes drifted shut, the back of my head hit the wall behind me. My chest seized. I was so stupid. I wished for a black hole to open up under my feet and swallow me, send me to the other side of the universe.

Tina was, of course, Tina Patterson. Duane’s girlfriend. Or ex-girlfriend. Really, keeping up with their on-again, off-again relationship was inviting whiplash. She was also my first cousin on my daddy’s side as well as my best friend in elementary and middle school; but we’d gone in very different directions since.

“None of your business, dummy. Go away,” Duane answered his twin; his voice sounded thick, gravely, and I felt his eyes on me though mine remained firmly closed.

“All right, all right. Fine. Tell Tina I say hi, but we’re leaving for Bandit Lake in twenty minutes.” Beau's response was paired with the sound of boots descending the stairs.