As Dust Dances

God, he had an ass on him.

He wasn’t wearing his usual uniform of black suit trousers and shirt that fit him like a glove and showcased his lean, strong physique. He was wearing dark jeans that cupped his muscular ass and a red plaid shirt over a Kaleo T-shirt. He looked good in red. He usually wore darker colors but the red made his hair look blacker, his skin more golden. Dressed like that—indie, relaxed—he looked younger.

I felt more than a tingle of heat between my legs as I studied him standing at the bar. His rugged, sharp profile was somehow more familiar to me than any other person’s profile on the planet. I imagined walking up beside him, sliding my hands down his fine ass and reaching up on my tiptoes to press a kiss to his neck. Breathe in the scent of soap, spicy aftershave, and Killian. Run my tongue along the rim of his ear. Feel his heavy, warm heat lean back into me, the rumble of his groan vibrating through me—

Oh, fuck.

I shook off the thought, knowing my cheeks were probably rosy red. My whole body was left needy and wanting. I crossed my legs under the table and looked anywhere but at Killian, hoping my peaked nipples weren’t visible through my bra and way-too clingy dress.

My gaze landed on a booth a few down from ours because there was a group of young women laughing and shooting hungry looks at the bar.

At Killian.

A roar of possessiveness I didn’t know I was capable of shot through me as I watched them. In fact, I think they were eyeing him and the bartender.

To be fair, they were both very juicy eye candy.

But Killian was my eye candy!

Shit.

I slumped back in my seat.

No, he wasn’t.

And I shouldn’t want him to be.

What a clusterfuck.

“Here.” Killian was suddenly back and pushing a half pint of lager toward me.

The smell of hops filled my nostrils as I reached for it, unable to look him in the eye for fear he’d see my sexual frustration. “Thanks.”

He slid back into his side of the booth and I could feel him staring as he reached for his own pint. “Crowe will be coming on soon.”

“Right.” I took a drink, thinking he was politely telling me to hurry up.

“You okay?”

“Sure.”

“Is that why you’re not looking at me?”

Reluctantly, I met his gaze. “I’m looking at you.” God, Skylar, act normal! I gave him a crooked smile that was meant to be teasing and probably looked panicked. “And I’m not the only one.”

Shit, why did I say that?

Why would you draw attention to the pretty girls eyeing him?

Moron!

He quirked that damnable eyebrow. “Sorry?”

Well, you’ve done it now. “The girls behind you. They were watching you at the bar.”

Killian didn’t say anything. He stared at me inscrutably. I was beginning to consider rolling myself out of the booth when he said, “The bartender asked if we were here together.”

My gaze flew to the hot bartender right as he looked up from pulling a pint. He offered me another small smile.

I looked at Killian. “What did you say?”

“Well, he didn’t ask in what way we were here together, so I told him ‘aye.’ He drew his own conclusions. I’m sure you could clear it up if you were that way inclined,” he drawled casually before taking a sip of beer.

But his eyes never left mine, and there was nothing casual about the way he was looking at me.

I felt a deep, throbbing tug low in my belly and had to pull my gaze from his or I was going to launch myself across the booth.

“I’m not that way inclined,” I mumbled, and sipped the lager.

Liking the taste, I took a bigger pull.

“Skylar?”

Oh God, why did I have to love the way he said my name? I cleared my throat. “Uh, yeah?”

His eyes roamed over my face as if he was searching for something, and then he shook his head. “Nothing.” He then took a huge swallow of lager and as I watched his Adam’s apple move with the gulp, I imagined running my tongue over it.

Oh, hell.

What was the matter with me?

Usually, I could keep my wayward thoughts about Killian O’Dea suppressed. They were there but deep, deep in the back of my mind.

Was it this place? Was this venue turning me on?

“Skylar?”

“Hmm?” I drew my eyes back to his face.

His features were so taut, he looked almost angry. But his eyes were hot, not hard. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

My breath puffed out and I couldn’t help but admit, “You don’t want to know.”

We shared a frustrated look and then tore our gazes from each other. Why would Autumn do this to us? It was her fault. We’d been alone together a lot and had been very able to ignore the sexual tension between us.

So why was it so freaking hard now?

I blamed him. Usually he was a master at hiding his emotions, but he was looking at me like he wanted to see me naked.

“Maybe we should go in.” I threw back the rest of the pint, feeling it slosh unpleasantly in my stomach.

“Another beer to take in with us?” He slid out first.

To get through the next ninety minutes alone with Killian? Probably not a bad idea.

Once he’d bought us fresh pints, Killian led me through the double doors at the back of the bar. The walls were timber clad and painted a shiny white. Posters covered most of them. But it was the stairs that made me stop.

I grinned and looked up at Killian who smiled back down at me. “The Steps of Fame.”

Every step had a year painted on it, and next to it the artists who had played King Tut’s that year.

“1993, Oasis, The Verve,” I mumbled as we slowly walked up. “1997, No Doubt . . . 1999, Biffy Clyro.” I nudged him. “One of your favorites.”

He pointed as we walked up to 2004.

I shook my head in awe. “Kasabian. The Killers. Oh man, this place is like porn for music lovers.”

Killian laughed. “Weird analogy but okay.”

I giggled as he pushed open a door at the top of the stairs and we were hit by the loud thrum of an amp growling.

The room was tiny. When they said King Tut’s was an intimate venue, they weren’t kidding. If you got stuck at the door, you wouldn’t see the band because the small stage was tucked at the far right of the room.

We walked farther in, the room not too crowded since Saul Crowe was still an up-and-comer. He was younger than I was expecting, maybe nineteen or twenty, with a mop of thick, curly blond hair and a baby face. He was sitting on a stool with a guitar in hand. He had a mouth organ resting around his neck and a pedal attached to a single drum at his feet.

The amp purred behind him. Behind that, painted on the walls was King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut signage.

We stood in among the smallish crowd where I could see.

“I, uh, wrote this next song when I was fifteen and going through some shit,” he mumbled into the mic.

As he shifted on his stool getting ready to play, I felt Killian lean into me. My breath caught.

His own hot breath whispered across my ear. “Do you want to play here?”

Surprise flashed through me, momentarily distracting me from how ridiculously sexy it was having him whisper in my ear. “What?”

He smirked at my shocked expression. “I can get you booked here.”

My heart pounded at the thought as my gaze flew back to the small stage. I looked back at him like he might be Santa Claus in disguise. “Really?”

Killian’s eyes were soft, too soft, too warm on me. “If it’ll make you happy.”

What . . . ?

The sound of the mouth organ pierced the room, jolting us out of our intense staring match.

The kid was good.

Then he sang in a growling, heavy rock voice that was a complete surprise. The kid was better than good. He was excellent. And a momentary distraction from the man beside me.

But only momentary.

Because after an upbeat rock song with a hard country-folk edge, he played a beautiful acoustic ballad.

Not merely beautiful.

Sexy.

How a nineteen- or twenty-year-old kid had the experience to speak of love and attraction the way he did, I didn’t know, but as he sang of “running his tongue down her spine” and “his little death from her moonlit kisses,” I stopped thinking about how impressed I was with him.