Page 92 of Two-Step
“Wait.”
I freeze at Iris’s breathless word. She pushes herself up, panting above me, her brows knit in distress. “Beau, wait.”
Chapter Eighteen
IRIS
“I can’t do this,”I manage, my voice shaking. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this here.”
Beau yanks his hands from my pants so fast, the elastic snaps me like a rubber band.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, but he’s shaking his head. Hard.
“No, I’m sorry.” And with one wholly impressive ab curl, he’s sitting up with me straddling his lap. His hands rest gently on my shoulders. “I went too fast. Are you okay?”
“Oh… yeah. Yeah... Yes,” I stammer. “I—I’m more than okay.” Other than losing the ability to speak coherently. “I just… have to be careful.”
Beau’s hands settle lightly on my waist as though he’s steadying a tower of glasses. One false move and everything shatters. That’s how I feel too. Like I’m dangerously close to screwing up this whole day.
“We haven’t… known each other long,” Beau says, choosing his words carefully, and watching my expression as he does. “But I wouldn’t hurt you, Iris. I hope you know that.”
“Oh, I know that,” I say with immediate certainty. “I just have to be careful with, well, what people see.”
A crease forms between his brows. “You have to be careful what I see?”
I lay my hands on his cheeks. “No.” I laugh lightly, hoping he’ll understand. “Not you. Other people. If someone came along on the trail while we were… and recognized me, it would be…”
The crease between his brows becomes a frown. “It would be bad.”
I nod. “It could be. Especially if there were pictures.” I suppress a shudder at the thought. Because Moira would come unglued. She’d flay me alive. Add to the fact that she has no idea that I’m here and no idea I’m spending the day alone with my substitute dance instructor—my veryhotandconsideratesubstitute dance instructor whom I couldn’t stop thinking about evenbeforethe kissing—and if I survived her wrath, I’d never hear the end of it.
But there’s no reason to worry about that now because there aren’t going to be any pictures of Beau with his hand down my pants because his hands aren’t going to be down my pants.
Yet, I’d like to note for the record, that I’m very much in favor of Beau’s hands down my pants. I’m no expert in hands down the pants, but taking into consideration how incredible his kisses and caresses and cuddles all feel, I sense that his hands down my pants would have led to something extraordinary.
And I’ve never had extraordinary. I haven’t even had ordinary. Not from someone else, I mean.
Sure, from a small collection of reliable and discreet battery-powered personal items that live in my bedside drawer, but that’s it.
Before today, I didn’t even know I wanted to have ordinary. But with Beau, I do.
I do.
I do.
I definitely do.
Just not in the middle of a state park.
But I don’t think I can ask him if he wants to come back to my place. Especially considering that my place is a five-mile hike and a one-hour drive away. And he has a class to teach.
And I probably shouldn’t be asking him anyway. Maybe I can no longer tell myself that Beau isn’t interested—that bulge I’m straddling certainlyfeelslike he’s interested—but that doesn’t change my own obstacle. Time. I may spend a lot of time wanting Beau, but I don’t have much to do anything about it.
Today has been amazing. Maybe it’s best to just leave it at that without complicating things with sex. Even extraordinary sex.
All of these thoughts take about two seconds to process, but I’m still sitting in Beau’s lap (I don’t want to move). And my hands are still on his cheeks (I don’t want to let go). And my eyes are fixed on his mouth (I don’t want to look away).
He reaches up and runs the back of his fingers down my cheek. “I get it.”
