Slow Dance at Rose Bend

blue eyes so bright, so intense, so seeing, that she dipped her gaze to the strong column of his throat.
“If someone hasn’t told you on a daily basis—several times a day—why you’re special, then you need new friends, Cherrie.”
She closed her eyes, tried to block out his voice...tried to block out the yawning, empty hole that had opened up in her chest and threatened to swallow her whole. She felt, rather than saw, his head lower. Cool, silken strands of hair grazed the corner of her mouth, her cheek.
“Should I tell you?” he asked, his breath stirring her curls, whispering over her skin. Not waiting for her answer, he continued, “I’ve just met you tonight, and already I can tell you’re creative as hell, gifted. You’re kind, even loving. Because Daryl and Belinda wouldn’t put up with you if you weren’t, much less invite you to an event as important as their daughter’s engagement party. They wanted you here with them as the person they love most starts a new phase in her life. I know you take no shit, which is a wonderful thing, because someone would have to be willing to take their lives—or their balls—in their hands if they dared disrespect you.”
She snickered, and his low rumble of a laugh vibrated through her.
“You’re stunning,” he said softly, after their laughter ebbed. “Not beautiful or lovely. Those words are too anemic to describe the fire that damn near burns off you. They can’t capture the soulfulness of your eyes, the haughtiness of those cheekbones or the sin of that mouth. Those gorgeous tattoos tell me you’re bold, not afraid to push a limit. And these curves...” He huffed out a gust of air, his hold on her momentarily tightening, and she sucked in a breath. A beat passed between them filled by the wail of the guitar and croon of the lead singer’s voice and the abraded rhythm of his breath.
Her? She’d stopped breathing when he’d commented on her soulful eyes.
“These curves threaten to make a grown man weep in gratefulness that you’re not one of those women who commit the unforgivable act of covering them up. And that tells me you’re confident, that you own who you are. And that, Cherrie Moore, is sexy as hell.”
Damn.
At some point during his listing of her attributes, she’d lifted her head, stared at him. Her thunderous heartbeat filled her ears, echoing like waves crashing against a shore. Desire lit his eyes, and the sight of it threw kindling on already snapping flames. How long had it been since she’d experienced true, uncomplicated need?
Too long.
There’s nothing uncomplicated or simple about this man.
Cherrie hushed the pushy, know-it-all voice that dared to interfere. As bold as he’d called her, that might be true in one area of her life—her art, whether it was the silver she designed, or the pieces inked on her body. But when it came to her relationships... She’d always been safe.
No.
Scared.
She loved her parents—God, she loved them. But Terrel and Gladys Moore shared a special connection that had always made Cherrie feel like a third wheel on a date. Her father was one of those lucky people who’d found love twice in this lifetime. He’d worshipped Cherrie’s mother, and when she died just before Cherrie turned ten, he’d been a ghost, a shade of the laughing, robust man he’d been. Until Gladys came along. She’d breathed life into him again.
Growing up and witnessing that kind of love had ignited a hunger for something that essential. But it’d also instilled in her a bone-deep fear of it. The thought of loving someone to that degree terrified her, because what happened when they left?
And in Cherrie’s experience, they always left.
Her gaze roamed Maddox’s face, dropping to the sensual lure of his mouth. But this time, she was doing the leaving. In two weeks. That’s how long she had here in Rose Bend before she returned to Chicago. Why shouldn’t she take, indulge? This vacation was about freedom for her. Freedom to ride. Freedom to be herself without condemnation.
Freedom to lose herself in the temporary pleasure of this man’s eyes, mouth and body.
“Cherrie?”
She watched his lips form her name. Absorbed the impact of it as it trembled through her.
Lifting her gaze to his, she whispered, “We’re going to have sex, aren’t we?”
“No.”
Shock and humiliation jolted through her, and she stiffened, heat pouring into her face. This was what she got when she took a chance. And this was exactly why she didn’t.
“Sorry, I misread the signs,” she said, stepping back and away from him.
Or she tried to. His hands slid to her waist, tightening, holding her in place. And that only sparked the anger kindling inside her.
“Cherrie, look at me.” He didn’t wait for her to comply, but pinched her chin and tilted her head back. She should’ve been irritated at that, too, but then his thumb brushed her bottom lip, pressing into her flesh. As if testing its buoyancy. The words charging onto her tongue skidded to a halt, and she stared at him. Just as he’d requested. Or ordered. “You didn’t misread anything. And you’re too beautiful a woman to not be able to tell when a man wants you. Yes, we’re going to have sex. From the moment you walked through the door of my bar, all I’ve been able to think about is touching you, discovering what secrets this lovely body hides. But...” He nudged her chin higher, and the pressure on her lip eased into a light caress. If she didn’t know they were talking about a vacation fling, she might’ve even called the touch...reverent. “But I want to know you, Cherrie. Not just what makes you shake in pleasure, but you. So yes, we’re going to have sex, but not tonight.”
Need, panic and confusion swirled in her head. No-strings sex for a two-week Berkshires fling. That’s what she wanted; that’s what she could handle. Getting to know him meant strings as deceptively delicate and titanium-strong as