He only makes one sound—a soft, pained groan. His hands grip the skin just beneath my ass and he lifts me onto the counter. The dress is tight but I manage to part my thighs far enough to accommodate his broad figure between them.

My fingers press into his back, urging him closer even though it’s not exactly possible. I try to catch his tongue but he’s sweeping it deeply inside, then pulling back to suck on my lips. A muffled moan escapes my mouth and slides into his.

“You taste like whiskey, Bluebird.” He chuckles lightly, then cuts off any chance I had of verbalizing a response by slipping his fingers between my legs and into the waistband of my panties.

“I’ve come a long way since strawberry ice cream.”

A wounded sound like an animal might make tears from his chest and I feel his erection press into the tiny scrap of fabric between my thighs. “If I don’t stop right now I won’t be able to.”

“Please don’t stop.” I don’t even recognize my own voice—it’s raspy and deep and filled with desperate need. Desperate wasn’t quite what I was going for, but there it is.

Apparently desperate works for Gavin, though, because my plea fuels his enthusiasm and my panties are a mere memory in a matter of seconds.

His fingers explore my newly exposed skin before sinking into my pulsing wet heat.

“Fuck, you’re wet,” he bites out when I thrust myself harder against his hand. “So fucking wet.”

“Seems you have that effect on me.” I want him so badly and wanting this much can’t be a good thing. He’ll break me, burn me to ash. Again.

His mouth against mine blanks my memory. I want to forget the many reasons why this isn’t a good idea—because it doesn’t matter how much it will hurt in the end. All that matters is now.

I’m drunk, but not from the Jack Daniel’s in Jag’s flask. I’m lust drunk on the cocktail of emotions Gavin Garrison always sends swirling around inside me.

I can feel the smile on his lips when they meet mine again. But then he groans and pulls back, and I want to scream.

“We shouldn’t do this. Not like this. Not here.”

I whimper in protest, biting his bottom lip, then nipping his top one hard enough to let him know I’m not playing around. Either he’s in or out. Literally. But the mind games are a thing of the past and I won’t be that person again. He either wants me or he doesn’t, plain and simple.

I open my eyes and stare directly into the fire flashing in his. “I won’t beg. Not this time.”

His gaze deepens and darkens simultaneously. “Bluebird . . .”

“Either fuck me or don’t, Gavin. But I won’t play this game again.”

And I won’t join the band if this is how it’s going to be. Hot and cold. On and off. Yes and no. Soaring hopes and dashed dreams.

My heart does not belong on a yo-yo string and I won’t allow it to be treated like one, no matter how much I love him.

His luscious mouth drops open slightly. I’ve caught him off guard. I raise an eyebrow while I wait for him to decide.

“You know I want you. I want this. I want us. But there’s so much I should—”

A harsh loud knock on the door interrupts whatever he was about to say.

“Band’s taking five and this is the only bathroom we’re are allowed to use. Dying out here!” Levi, Dallas’s friend and the leader of the band that’s playing the reception, calls out.

“Just a minute!” Gavin calls back.

When he returns his attention to me sitting there propped spread eagle on the counter in all my undignified glory, I can’t help but shake my head. I can literally feel my self-esteem being dashed to hell in a handbasket. I don’t know how I became putty in Gavin’s skilled and very capable hands, but between that and the pent-up sexual frustration, I’m about to explode.

Some things just aren’t meant to be, I guess, no matter how badly we want them.

Maybe Leaving Amarillo is one of them. Maybe Gavin and I are, too.

“Have a good night, Gav. And for the record, I was going to keep my heart out of it this time.” With that I hop off the counter and readjust my dress before throwing open the door to reveal a startled and relieved Levi Eaton.

“Oh shit,” he mutters under his breath. “My bad, guys. I didn’t realize—”

“It’s fine, Levi. Take care of business. Someone should.” I pat him on the shoulder and saunter away from what was either about to be the best or the worst thing that ever happened to me.

6 | Gavin

SHE’S EVERYTHING I ever wanted and the one thing I was never supposed to have. Now she’s all I can think about. The scent of her, the taste of her, the feel of her.

Watching her storm off, away from me, which is probably the safest direction for her, I can’t help but replay the past few minutes. Partially because my dick is still hard and there’s a steady ache in the center of my chest as if she just left and took my heart with her.

She was going to keep her heart out of it? What the hell was that supposed to mean?

She doesn’t dance with McKinley anymore, for which I am extremely grateful. Pummeling the absolute shit out of him at Robyn’s dream wedding would piss Dallas off immensely. Dixie didn’t seem at all concerned about him and Cassidy, which was also a relief.

Sure as hell could use my kit about now, though. Between trying to conceal my raging hard-on and the testosterone that surges every time I see another man so much as glance in her beautiful fucking direction, I’m pretty amped up.

I pull out my phone and text Cal to ask if I can use the kit at the bar after hours. My boss is kind of an asshole, but I’m the best employee he’s got so he bends the rules for me a bit.

My bartending job at the Tavern is a condition of my probation, and since the court didn’t specify where I could work, just that I had to, I of course took the most incongruous job possible for someone facing hard time for driving under the influence and reckless endangerment.

Mama always said do what you know. I know bars. I know addicts and alcoholics. Like it or not, a lifetime with one taught me how to handle them. They’re my kind of people. I don’t know what that says about me and I try not to think about it much.

The truth is, I’m a user just like the rest of them.

Maybe not of crack or meth or heroin, but I use what I need to get high and I’m as addicted as any of them. Or I was. Now I’m sort of in remission, I guess, self-imposed and somewhat court-ordered remission.

An attractive blonde in a tux much more revealing than mine offers me a tray full of champagne glasses. I shake my head and ignore the come-hither look she’s attempting to drill into my skull.

You don’t want to board this crazy train, sweetheart. You can’t hold a candle to the competition. Move along.

It takes a full minute, but she gets the message and moves on to the next group of people standing near the open bar.

Champagne wouldn’t even begin to take the edge off this kind of pain.

Dixie Lark was like my exact brand of heroin, the perfect combination of everything forbidden. She cured me and destroyed me with one taste. The worst part? All those years, I think I knew she would be. When Dallas laid down the “do not touch my sister or I will end you” law, I didn’t even argue. She was beautiful and full of life and light where I was shrouded in darkness. People like her shine from within; they don’t need the spotlight. People like me will wither and die without it, without attention and glaring lights forcing their demons to run and hide.

Touching her would’ve tainted her and I never wanted that. I could’ve admired her, loved her, worshipped her from afar for the rest of my life and just been happy for the brief moments of being in her presence.

And then she had to go and push it, push me, want me the way I’d always wanted her.

Now I live in a constant state of purgatory.