Crazy (The Gibson Boys #4)(38)

He pops an invisible collar. Cheers erupt from the back of the room. He lifts the hem of his shirt just enough to show a sliver of skin, and I wonder if this happens regularly. If it is, where the hell have I been?

I get situated in my chair and watch as he grabs the bill of his hat with one hand and his junk with the other. He thrusts his hips forward a couple of times before twisting his hat on backward. His eyes find mine immediately, and he grins.

Raising a brow, I grin back. He laughs. I can’t hear it over the roar of the music, but I wish I could.

He dances down the bar, gyrating and rolling with the beat. A whistle breaks out through a lull in the lyrics, and Peck tugs on the neckline of his shirt. His hips tilted forward, hat on backward, tongue sticking out of his mouth makes me crazy.

I can only imagine him doing that in that stupid white towel. Or less.

Knowing how hard his body is was one thing. Now I have to know that he can move the damn thing? Having knowledge of both of those delicious pieces and not being able to partake in them shouldn’t happen. It’s not fair.

I squeeze my thighs together as Peck dances back down the bar. He stops in front of me, towering over my perch in the chair.

“Not bad,” I mouth.

He points in my direction and then bends his finger, curling it for me to join him.

I lean back. “What? No,” I say, shaking my head.

His grin grows wider. He squats down, extending a hand my way.

The crowd loves this, goading me to join him. Blood roars through my veins as he looks at me with a sexiness that I’m not even sure he realizes he possesses.

“Peck …”

He reaches forward and takes my hand. His palm is hot and sweaty and such a turn-on that all resistance melts. I climb onto the top of the bar, ignoring Navie’s shocked face a few feet away, and stand next to Peck.

My brain gives up trying to process the sensations ripping through me at the speed of sound. It switches on autopilot as my endorphins take over.

Peck’s eyes are glued to me as he turns me to face him. I can feel the heat off his body.

The song hits the chorus. Peck puts a hand on my shoulder, leans back, and pops his hips toward me.

“Come on, Dylan,” Navie yells behind me. She’s seen me dance before. I’m not great at it, but I’ve danced a time or two on top of a bar.

I take a deep breath. Go big or go home. I shake my head. Don’t think of home. Home is him in the kitchen with a towel. Think of this.

With a teasing little shrug of my shoulders, I turn away from him. He dances up against me as I sit back and shake my ass against him.

A muffled groan hits my ear as his hands plant on my hips. We move together, in sync, his solid build up against me. His fingertips dig into my skin, slipping beneath the hem of my shirt and touching my body. My head rests against his chest.

The lights are hot as I breathe in the scent of his sweat mixed with his cologne and try to not lose all control.

He takes my arm and throws it behind me, over his neck. My fingers touch the dampness of his skin. He rolls against me. I press back. We move in a circle and end up facing the other way.

The crowd roars as I bend forward and shake my ass his way. He bites his lip for effect, making me laugh, before pulling me against him once again.

“Damn, Dyl,” he whispers in my ear. But I’m not sure if I’m supposed to hear it. Instead, I look at him over my shoulder and wink.

“That’s enough,” Machlan shouts.

It’s only now that I hear the crowd. I’d forgotten they were there.

It takes everything I have to press away from his body.

The crowd boos as we separate.

The back of my shirt is damp from his body, and the eyes of the crowd suddenly feel heavier than before. I look at Peck. His hat is skewed on his head, his cheeks pink from the dance. An effortlessly sexy smile breaks out across his face, and I forget all about the crowd.

“That was awesome,” he says. He doesn’t wait for my reaction. Instead, he hops down as the song comes to an end and takes my hand again. I give it to him without hesitation and let him help me down.

Our breathing is ragged as I stand in front of him. Someone walks behind him and claps him on the shoulder, making some comment that I don’t quite register.

His eyes are so blue, the color of the angry sea, as he looks down at me. A mixture of confidence and vulnerability dances across his face as he watches me for my reaction.

“You don’t dance too bad,” I say.

“You either.”

I bite my lip to keep from smiling a big, lopsided grin. My hand is still encapsulated by his when he looks down at them.

“Guess I could let you go now,” he jokes.

“I mean, you can,” I say. “Or just keep me close in case your fans want an encore.”

His eyes light up. “Maybe I can instigate them into it.”

“I have a feeling you could do that with very little effort.”

He raises our interlocked fingers between us. We both watch as he separates our hands.

The energy between us thickens, preparing for the next interaction. The trouble is, I don’t know what I want that to be.

I mean, I do know. I want him to pick me up and set me on the bar and grind against me again. That’s the hedonistic answer. That’s the response of a woman who hasn’t felt this light and amazing in a very, very long time.