Second, his fingers at my breast worked, massaged, and caressed while his thumb brushed over the nipple. His hand felt greedy, rough, and fantastic.

Third, his free hand reached around, gripped my bottom, and squeezed as he brought me against him.

Fourth, he kissed me.

And, oh God, parts of me tensed, clenched, braced in a completely new way, a way that made no sense at all, but sent all the amorous butterflies diving straight to my pelvis and heat to my lungs. I was abruptly starring in the music video for Beyonce’s Naughty Girl and desperately trying to figure out how to get all Beau’s clothes off.

He dominated, pushing me against the wall, his hands under my sheath, on the bare skin of my hips then into my lace underwear, grabbing my bare ass. Nothing about him was soft. He was hard edges, solid granite everywhere I touched. And I touched him. I touched him in a fevered frenzy because I didn’t know what the hell was going on or when it would stop. I hoped never. Peripherally, I heard my wizard’s staff clatter to the ground.

I’d always thought of Beau as a really, really nice guy. But he didn’t kiss like a nice guy. He kissed with dangerous and punishing hunger, his mouth greedy and demanding. He bit me, my bottom lip, then soothed and tasted the abused flesh with his tongue while grinding his hips against mine, his hard length growing against my belly.

“Fuck, Jess…” He growled, pulled his mouth from mine, his breathing labored. He bent to bite my jaw, lick my ear, suck the soft skin into his hot mouth while one hand pushed my little gray dress up to expose my breasts. The fingers of his other hand danced around the hem of my panties but moved no further. I felt his hesitation and I clawed him. I dug my nails into his shoulders and bucked instinctively, wanting him to touch me.

In response he tugged the cup of my bra down. Then his wet mouth was on the center of my breast. Then his tongue swirled over my nipple as a tortured-sounding moan rumbled in the back of his throat. Then I panted because it was fantastic.

I reached for his white shirt, drawing him closer, then roughly pulled it off. He acquiesced as my fingertips fumbled for the hem of his boxers then delved into his pants. My hand closed around his hard length, and he sucked in a startled-sounding breath, releasing it raggedly as I stroked him.

“Oh, God…” he breathed, his eyes moving back to mine. I’d expected to find them dazed with desire, instead he looked a little shocked, panicked even. “Wait, wait a minute.”

He reached for my wrist, and I saw his intentions clear as day. We were moving too fast. He was going to put on the brakes.

But the thing was, I didn’t want brakes. I wanted acceleration. I wanted velocity. I wanted reckless, heedless, crazy, passionate sex with Beau. And I wanted it right now, against this wall, at the Green Valley Community Center, while children trick-or-treated and Mrs. Sylvester traded recipes for blueberry muffins, ignorant to the fervent and erotic moment on the other side.

I stroked him again, pressing my chest to his and lifting on my tiptoes to bite his neck. He shuddered, moaned, his hips instinctively jutting forward and into my palm even as his fingers tightened around my wrist and gently tried to force my withdrawal.

Instead I rubbed my body against his, my thumb circling the head of his erection. With my other hand I brought his fingers back to my panties, pressing them against my center, and nipped at his parted lips.

His breathing was labored, and he moaned again, cursing. His eyes were squeezed shut like he was trying to separate himself from what was happening, like he was trying to strengthen his resolve, like he was losing control.

Abruptly, and with an audible growl, he yanked my hand out of his boxers and turned, walking ten steps further backstage and away from me.

I felt the loss of his heat first, then the loss of his touch. I didn’t try to pursue him because I felt dizzy and disoriented and out of breath. Instead I leaned against the wall at my back, closing my eyes, my body humming and protesting the loss of promised comprehensive sexual fulfillment. I don’t know how long I stood there, gulping air and trying to figure out what had just happened and why it ended.

“Goddammit…” I heard him say, again like a growl. His voice closer than I’d expected.

I opened my eyes and found him standing a few feet away, shirtless, hands on his hips. His chest visibly rose and fell as he breathed. His gaze flickered over my body then to the floor of the stage. Numbly, I adjusted my bra to conceal my breasts and tugged my tiny dress down to my thighs even as I allowed myself to devour his muscled torso, the ridges of his stomach, the plane of his hard chest.

“Jessica, you have got to stop looking at me like that.” He sounded irritated, desperate, catching me off guard and pulling my eyes back to his.

I was surprised to find that his teeth were clenched, his eyes flashing; however, despite the fact that he’d just reprimanded me for how I was looking at him, Beau was giving me an extremely hot look. Regardless of his words and the fact that he’d been the one to end our frantic grope-fest, he appeared torn. He appeared to be struggling.

He appeared to want me very, very badly.

I stared at him mystified as this realization paired with the reality of the last twenty minutes caught up with the here and now. He was watching me as I was watching him. My stare was undoubtedly one of inviting and anxious expectation; whereas his glare oscillated between blatant desire peppered heavily with longing and then fierce frustration.

I waited silently, witnessed his resolve waver, his eyes lose focus as they moved beseechingly between mine. He was still breathing hard.

He took a step forward as though he were pulled, stumbling in a daze, had no choice; words tumbled from his lips in a rush, “Jessica, I’m not who you think I am and — fuck me — but I want you, I’ve always wanted you, and I can’t do this without you knowing—”

“Duane, you dummy. Are you back here?” A man called from my left, and I heard the telltale sound of boots on steps.

My eyes bulged. My jaw dropped. My breath caught in my throat. And my head whipped to the side and toward the newcomer.

It wasn’t that I feared getting caught in a heated moment, not at all. The cause of my intense shock was the sound of the approaching voice.

It was Beau’s voice.

The steps slowed, then stopped, Beau once more calling out to us, “Should I… uh, do you need some privacy?”

My body jolted as understanding punched me in the stomach. I turned my attention back to the man of my dreams.

Except he wasn’t.

My companion was most definitely not Beau Winston — hero, world’s sexiest, nicest guy. No, no, no. This man was not Beau. This man was Duane. And this man had just done fantastic things to my nipples.

As soon as our eyes tangled, Duane winced — almost like I’d sucker punched him — and he turned away. I watched his chest rise and fall with an expansive breath just before he reached for his shirt and pulled it on.

He cleared his throat then called out, “Yeah, a little privacy would be nice.”

“Who’s back there with you? Is it Tina?” Beau’s deep, velvety chuckle met my ears, and my stomach twisted painfully.

I felt like I was going to be sick. My eyes drifted shut, the back of my head hitting the wall behind me. My chest seized. I was so stupid. I wished for a black hole to open up under my feet and swallow me, send me to the other side of the universe.

“None of your business, asshole. Go away,” Duane answered his twin; his voice sounded thick, gravely, and I felt his eyes on me though mine remained firmly closed.

“Alright, alright. Fine. Tell Tina I say hi, but we’re leaving for Bandit Lake in twenty minutes.” Beau's response was paired with the sound of boots descending the stairs.