“Here, let me get you something else,” Patsy said. “On the house, darlin'.”
“No, that's fine,” I argued.
Chase reached for my glass and pulled it over to him. I knew my act had failed. They weren't buying it.
“Fine,” I laughed. “I'll just have a beer.”
“You know we don't serve any of that fancy IPA bullshit here, right?” Patsy said, amusement coloring her tone. “We drink real beer here in the country, not what you city folk are used to.”
“That's okay. Give me whatever you got,” I said.
I sounded less confident than when I'd ordered the whiskey, but hey, at least with beer, it wouldn't burn so much going down. Patsy, however, got to work on something else and put it down in front of me. I looked at it like it was a coiled rattlesnake, ready to strike, as apprehension filled my gut. Patsy and Chase both looked at me, a mischievous glint in their eyes.
“It's a Whiskey Sour,” Patsy said. “Go on, try it.”
Whiskey in the name didn't make me feel entirely confident, but I put the glass to my lips to show them I wasn't afraid – even though I really was. Tentatively, I took a sip and was met with a sour, lemony flavor and just a hint of sweetness. With wide eyes, I smiled.
“This is actually really good,” I said, hearing the shock even in my own voice.
Patsy gave me a knowing smile. “The lemon counteracts the whiskey, while the sugar tones down the lemon just a tad.”
“It's actually really refreshing,” I said. “I'm – shocked.”
Patsy winked and went to fill up the drinks for the guys at the end. Chase was on his second glass of whiskey – the leftovers of my glass.
“So much for just one drink,” I said.
“Couldn't let good whiskey go to waste,” he said. “That's almost a crime around here.”
I stared at Chase long and hard, his chiseled features softening. He stared down at the glass in his hand, a longing in his eyes I'd not seen in him before. Maybe the alcohol was making him emotional, or perhaps there was a memory here he was reliving. Whatever it was, it made me sad to see it.
An upbeat country song came on and a few women were out on the dance floor, shaking their drunken asses and having some fun. Hating to see Chase all mopey and blue, I grabbed his hand and pulled him off his seat.
“Come on,” I said.
“Where are we going?” he asked, looking a bit startled.
“To dance, silly,” I said.
Chase pulled his hand from mine and returned to the bar, clutching the remnants of the glass of whisky like it was a life preserver and we were out in the middle of the ocean.
“Nope,” he said stubbornly. “I don't dance, Abby.”
“You don't dance?” I exclaimed. “Not even with me?”
I started moving my hips as I ran my hands up and down over the length of my body. I swished to the rhythm of a song I'd never heard before in my life because country music had never been my thing. But, truth be told, it had a nice, poppy beat to it. I had to admit, it wasn't what I usually thought country music to be – they didn't mention a single thing about pickup trucks or cheating wives, so that was a plus.
Dancing was always something I enjoyed, no matter the music. It had been too long since I'd gone out dancing with friends, and honestly, I missed it. As the music filled me, I closed my eyes, turning on the dance floor and felt the beat moving through me. I didn't care who saw me or what Chase thought of me, I just danced for myself. Danced for finding my freedom again. At last.
When the song ended, a slower, older country song came on. Something that would need a partner. I turned toward Chase and contemplated asking him. His brown eyes were locked on me and he was leaning his back against the bar, his legs spread, and my eyes moved down his chest until it locked on his crotch.
A visible erection was almost too obvious for me to deny, and color rushed into my cheeks as I saw that he bulged against his tight blue jeans while he watched me. It was a large bulge at that – one that made me feel woozy even thinking about.
I joined him at the bar again, trying my best not to look at what he was packing in his jeans – and failing miserably. When I finally tore my eyes away and looked up at him, I felt the heat flushing my cheeks seeing the wide smile on his face. He'd finished his second whiskey and Patsy had another drink waiting for me. I drank about half of it down in one gulp, dying of thirst from just the little bit of dancing I'd done. Sweat dripped from my brow and I wiped it away, hoping it explained the color in my face.
“Have fun out there?” he asked, a sleepy grin on his face.
“It would have been more fun if you'd joined me,” I teased.
“Sorry,” he said and shrugged. “Like I said, I don't dance.”
“Party pooper,” I said, playfully punching him in the arm.
The alcohol was hitting me, but only a bit, and only in the right ways. It was loosening me up more and more, and I was feeling good. Maybe even more like my real self. I no longer felt awkward or intimidated by Chase and, judging by the way he looked at me, he could see it too. I noticed that some of that sadness I'd seen in him earlier had vanished from his eyes.
Seeing that made me feel good. Like, maybe, him coming out with me tonight was good for him too.
I didn't know what got into me, maybe it was the booze, but I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his. A playful peck and nothing more. Or, so I thought, anyway. As I pulled away, a smile on my face, Chase grabbed the back of my head and pulled me into him. He pressed his mouth to mine, his tongue pushing its way past my teeth.
My entire body relaxed into him.
“Chase,” I muttered against his lips.
I was so taken aback by his kiss, but I couldn't deny that it felt good, that it felt right. Electricity coursed through my body, and I felt lightheaded. I wanted to keep kissing him, so I did. I grabbed onto his beard and pulled him back to me, my hands trailing along his jaw line and down to his chiseled chest. The muscles worked under his shirt, tightening as I ran my fingers over them.
God, he was so strong and good and kind – everything Paul hadn't been. Chase was a good man, a decent man, and I wanted him so badly. I wanted to experience something, anything with him. Another celebratory act of freedom from my abuser. Another step to reclaiming my life and myself. I wanted Chase then, right there in the bar, and part of me didn't care who knew.
From the way his mouth fed on mine, the heat and passion in his kiss, I could tell that he obviously wanted me too. I took his hand, and he knew what I wanted. He stood up and, together, we walked toward the back of the bar. He led the way into one of the single stall restrooms, and as soon as the door was closed behind us, he had me pressed up against the wall, pinning me to it with his hard, toned body.
“Fuck, I have been trying to resist you so hard,” he growled, his lips pressing against my neck.
His beard scratched against my skin as he kissed his way down my neck, trailing his lips down to my collarbone. At the same time, his hands moved up my thighs. The very pronounced bulge in his jeans pressed into my belly, hard and demanding.
I whimpered as he pushed himself into me, lifting me up as if I weighed nothing. Chase held me up, my feet dangling above the floor. I wrapped my legs around his waist as my hands reached for his buckle. Nothing else mattered in that moment except our bodies. The heat between us. The fire burning between my thighs.
I needed him inside of me right that goddamn minute.
I slipped a bit, and Chase grabbed onto my ass, holding me in place against the grimy brick wall. When we struggled to get his pants down, he carried me over to the sink and sat me down on the lip of it, taking a small step back. I slipped my hands down his pants and felt him for the first time, which made that hunger inside of me explode to life.