Page 35 of The Outpost (Jamison Valley 4)
“No matchmaking. Save it for your single friends or Michael.”
“I’m not matchmaking, but I’m not blind. That woman totally liked you and you’re no good at hiding a crush from me, big brother.”
Damn it. There was no point in pretending she wasn’t right. “I like her,” I admitted. “She’s smart and funny. We have a good time together. I just don’t see us having a future. The second she’s free to return to the city, she’ll be gone in a flash and never look back.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know it. Trust me, Maze. She doesn’t have a country bone in her body.”
“People change, Beau.”
“Not that much.” I couldn’t get my hopes up with this one. Sabrina was everything I’d ever wanted in a woman but fitting her into my lifestyle was the definition of square peg, round hole.
“You could move with her.”
I scoffed. “Me in the city? I’d hate it.”
Besides that, who else could do my job? Or be around to help Maisy with her motel remodeling projects? Or be a father figure to Coby? That kid needed me in Prescott. A lot of people needed me in Prescott. Which meant when Sabrina went back to Seattle, I’d be left behind.
“Well,” Maisy said, “I don’t think you should count her out yet. She might end up liking it here if you two got together.”
I shook my head. “I’ll do whatever I can to keep her safe, but our relationship is going to stay platonic.” Anything more would be asking for trouble.
I’d already gone too far.
Sleeping with Sabrina in my arms had been a huge fucking mistake. It was too easy to picture her there for good. It was the best sleep I’d ever had. When I’d left the outpost three nights ago, I’d known it was time to pull back. I was getting way too fucking attached.
My life was here in Prescott and Sabrina’s was in Seattle. This was temporary.
Which meant it was time to put some distance between me and the outpost.
No more staying the night. No more cuddling and sleeping together. No more kidding myself that she’d learn to love it here.
Because she’d never stay.
My eyes were closed but I knew Beau was moving in. The heat from his full lips intensified as they came closer and closer. My heart pounded louder with every passing second that his lips hovered above mine but didn’t touch.
I fought to keep my eyes closed, but eventually, I gave into the temptation and opened them. Beau’s gaze was waiting to lock with mine. His eyes were a hurricane of gray and blue clouds, darkening with every one of his heavy pants. The erection against my hip was swelling, hard and thick. I lifted my hips up further, wanting my body touching its entire length.
His tongue darted out and touched his lip, causing a wave of heat to pool between my legs. I desperately wanted to be the one to wet that soft, pink bottom lip. I slowly lifted my head, inching my face closer to his, but then he was gone.
Beau’s head jerked back a foot, recoiling from me like a spring. His arm yanked from underneath my neck. The hand that had lifted up my camisole to splay across my ribs was now held high in the air like he’d touched a hot plate. The desire in his eyes had vanished, replaced by disgust. The top lip I had been longing to feel against my own was now curled up on one side.
He didn’t have to explain. I knew exactly why he had retreated.
Beau Holt did not get involved with whores like me.
I pressed my face further into my pillow and groaned. That dream was getting old. Really fucking old.
I’d been having the same one off and on for the last couple of weeks. It was almost guaranteed that I’d have it after writing a sex scene in my novel, and since yesterday I’d written a doozy, it came as no shock that Beau had found my sleep. If only I had the ability to change that ending and feel his lips move against mine. Even if it were all in my head, I’d take it. I was beyond sexually frustrated—another side effect of writing sex scenes.
Beau’s presence always left me charged, so the fact that he’d been scarce lately should have cooled me off. But here I was, desperate for some relief.
It had been over a month since Beau had spent the night at the outpost. Not since the day he had forced me into the shower and out of my funk. The same night we had crossed some invisible emotional boundary, causing him to pull back and put some distance between us.
After I had crawled into his arms that last night, we’d talked in hushed voices, laughing and teasing one another. Minus the actual sex, it had been the most perfect postcoital cuddle of my entire life. It had been intimate and raw. Real and honest. The threads connecting our hearts had felt stronger, like industrial chains rather than loosely woven fibers.
The next morning, I had woken up alone, something I hadn’t done since I’d started sleeping with Beau on the floor. He had avoided my eyes and left not long after breakfast.
