Inside Out (6 page)

“See you later.” She smiled at him, and he took her hand, kissing the knuckles.

He gave her a look, showing her exactly what he wanted to be seeing later. Her pupils expanded, and she blinked quickly, licking her lips.

“You’d better. I want to get a long look at the tattoo you’re finally showing off a bit.”

He stood so close he caught the throb of the pulse point just beneath her ear. “All right.”

Elise leaned closer to Ella with a grin. “Well now, is it just me, or was there some major chemistry between you and Cope tonight?”

Ella laughed as she fanned herself with the napkin. “He really turned up the flirt on me, didn’t he? He’s never been like that before, not with me. He’s a lethal weapon. I’m sure I acted like a total idiot, but he makes me forget how to speak. Flusters me. I’m sure it’s just pity or bored reflex.”

Elise rolled her eyes. “Do you
really
think that? Deep down, doesn’t it feel different? Because from my perspective, it
looks
different. I’ve seen him flirt many times. Like, a lot, which, gah, doesn’t sound very good, but hold on for the point. Flirting for him is sort of automatic. He’s irrepressible that way. But he doesn’t really mean it. Watching him with you was
totally
a different thing. He meant it. Whatever he said, Ella, he meant. He did that murmur thing men do when they, well when they want to make you all tingly. God knows when Brody does it, I’m all gooey.”

Erin leaned in. “We talking about how Cope totally eye-fucked Ella at your house?”

Ella nearly choked on her drink. “He did not!”

Elise snorted. “He was an inch from you, oh yes, speaking to you in that sex murmur they do. He kissed your hand at the end!”

Her skin still felt the heat and pressure of his lips. “I do not deny that Andrew Copeland has major game. He does. Like a lot. But he sees me as a friend, nothing more.”

“Are you huffing paint? He does not eye-fuck women. Looks at ’em, likes to have sex with them, yes, but I’ve only seen him that focused on a few things in the time I’ve known him. Never, not once, was it about a woman.” Erin sipped her mineral water.

The music got louder, providing Ella with cover. Truth was, he’d been so sexy with the flirting he’d made her wet and achy. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had done that with mere words.

“I’m gonna dance,” she said, waving to one of the other women in their group who was motioning at the dance floor.

As it happened, one of her favorite dance songs came on, Whitney Houston’s “It’s Not Right.” Smiling, she headed out, people all around her, the music throbbing, the crowd bobbing. There was no fear, only the joy of moving and enjoying the music.

A man sidled up behind her, and she moved away, hating that aspect of going out dancing. But he followed, so she spun and found herself facing the aforementioned game-haver, Andrew Copeland. Well, all right then,
that
was a totally different thing than some stranger trying to rub his dick all over her in the dark. Her heart jumped and did a cheer with the rest of her body, all for him. Damn, he was ridiculously hot.

She smiled, and he gave her one in return, easing back into the space he’d ceded when she thought he was just some dude trying to cop a feel in the dark.

Women seemed to be drawn to him like he was a magnet. They crowded in, trying to get his attention, but he never took his gaze from her, as if no one else in the world existed for him. If he’d acted any other way, she’d have been uncomfortable on a different level. But those other women didn’t matter to him at all, and that made her feel ten feet tall.

Even hotter, he knew how to dance. He didn’t crowd her but lured her instead, until she found herself very close. His gaze was locked on hers, drawing her in. She couldn’t deal with how exposed she felt, so she spun again, facing away and breathing deep.

Until he was right against her, his body like a magnet as she arched her back to get closer.

Two martinis would be her alibi the next day when she realized what she’d done. Right then, though? Well, she closed her eyes and let the music pulse through her, let go of her fear and just danced. With him, against him, their bodies sliding against each other. His palm slid around her waist, cupping her hip bone a moment before moving around to her belly. The shirt hem had risen, and the heat of his bare skin burned against her stomach.

Every part of her was electrified as pleasure like she’d never felt rushed through her veins. The freedom of the moment, the lack of fear, the delicious sexual tension, the chemistry of music, vibration and movement putting her under their spell.

And she went willingly for the first time in years.

His forearm pressed against her belly and side, so hard and muscled. Whitney’s voice rose into the last chorus, and Ella turned, laughing, as it ended.

He leaned in quick and kissed her before stepping back and leading her to the table where the men had joined them. It was just a peck, she told herself, but she didn’t stop smiling because she was happy either way.

“You’re an amazing dancer,” he said to her as she slid into the booth.

“
Pshaw
. Thank you. You too.” Thank goodness it was dark and hot in there, or she’d be horrified by her blush.

“What other talents are you hiding?” He got very close as he spoke, his breath on her neck. He’d turned on the flirt again, made her drunk with it.

She laughed somewhat shakily. “I’m really not that interesting, I swear.”

“On the contrary, Ella, I find you fascinating. You want another drink?”

On impulse and because he flustered her, she blurted out, “Tell me one thing about yourself no one knows.”

He paused, clearly surprised by her question, and then shrugged. “Only if you do the same.”

“All right.”

“I love poetry.” He said it while his gaze danced away for a moment. Was he embarrassed? Did he not know that it made him even sexier?

“Like what?”

“It’s getting loud in here. Come with me into the bar. We’ll get drinks, and my ears won’t bleed.”

She shrugged and let him pull her from the booth. Once standing, she turned back to the table, leaning over Adrian to speak to Elise. “You want a refill?”

Cope wanted to punch Adrian in the face for the way he looked at Ella’s boobs. Yes, they were right there in his line of vision, and goddamn if they weren’t mouthwateringly gorgeous, but they weren’t Adrian’s to gaze at.

He stepped over just a bit until Adrian looked up and discovered he’d been caught. Cope flipped him off, and Adrian waggled his brows before going back to look. Annoyed, Cope hooked a finger through one of her belt loops and tugged. She turned with a grin and let him pull her to him.

“Ready?”

She nodded, and he sheltered her against his body and pushed through the crowd, keeping people from crowding her too much. Just to be safe, he kept an arm around her waist, liking how she felt.

The volume level dropped back down to only partially insane once they reached the back bar. One arm to either side of her, he bracketed her with his body as she moved forward. It shielded her from the crush of the crowd and kept her against him.

She rattled off drinks to the bartender, who nodded, looked down at her tits and grinned as he went to work.

“Pablo Neruda,” he said softly in her ear, partly to answer her earlier question and partly to snag her attention again.

She froze a moment, not knowing what he meant, until she remembered the poetry conversation.

Leaning her head back, she caught his gaze. “Really? I admit I don’t know all of his stuff. I had a world lit course a million years ago.”

“I’ll have to remedy that. Now it’s your turn.”

“I told you, I’m not that interesting. But I do enjoy poetry too. What little I know if it.”

“Really?” He tossed money on the counter before she could pay. She frowned and, without thinking, he brushed his thumb over her bottom lip. “You’re far more beautiful without the frown. It’s my round anyway.”

Her expression was a cross between consternation, anger and appreciation. There was a story there, he could tell. Question was, should he pursue it now, or wait?

“I like to pay my own way.”

“Next round you can.”

She lost some of the tension in her face and nodded. “Thank you.”

He grabbed the beers, and she got Erin’s water. Again he sort of shielded her with his body as he muscled through the crowd. It was . . . delicious to feel protected by a man as big as Cope was. He was so much, just took up so much space. He seemed more serious with her of late, and it drove her mad. Sometimes she allowed herself the opportunity to obsess over whether he was actually showing romantic interest in her, especially after the things Elise and Erin had said earlier. Mainly she just told herself he was flirting like he did with everyone else. Nothing more.

When they got back, he followed her into the booth, his body pressed against hers until she felt faint with his nearness. God, what a fabulous night this was!

“Which poets do you like?”

“Mary Oliver. ‘Wild Geese’ is a poem that breaks my heart each time I read it. It’s so beautiful, achingly so. Marge Piercy, love her fiction too. Edith Wharton.” She hadn’t had much time to explore things like poetry, but Mick would e-mail her poems, song lyrics, he’d write her letters with photographs and dried flowers tucked between the pages. She smiled, thinking about how her brother had always known when she needed those little check-ins from him the most.

Cope slid a fingertip down the tender skin of the inside of her forearm, snagging her attention. “I like that smile. What are you thinking about?”

“My brother Mick. He’s the one who introduced me to Mary Oliver. He’s one of those people you love getting letters from.”

Cope’s smile warmed her in a way not at all connected to sex. It was understanding, open and interested in what she was saying.

In order to be heard over the music and dull roar of people shouting to speak to each other, he had to lean in close, his breath against her neck and ear. “Oh, like with ticket stubs and funny newspaper articles tucked inside? Sometimes just a photograph of a beach or a tree?”

“Exactly! He can go months without a word, and then one of those. Usually just when I need it most. Who’s your letter sender?”

“My dad’s brother, my uncle Ted. My mom always jokes that he’s an old bum, but he sails all over the world. Or he did. He worked on crews on every boat imaginable. He’d send the family these letters. Once every six months or so a packet of them would arrive filled with sand or shells, these small-town news stories, drawings and sketches. It was like Christmas when that packet arrived.”

They talked, shared and laughed for some time. Long enough that Ella forgot anyone else was around but for the moments they’d been jostled by their friends getting in and out of the booth. He’d stayed so close, reaching out to touch her often, leaning in to speak quietly in her ear as he explained something.

Cripes, she was going to combust at this rate.

On one of those rare moments when she took the time to look around at their friends gathered, she caught sight of Erin. Ella wanted to stay and talk with him more, but Erin was looking tired. She tried to hide it, but Ella saw through it. Ben and Todd would soon enough too.

“Erin looks tired. Back me up when I suggest we go back to Brody and Elise’s,” she murmured, and Cope squeezed her hand quickly in answer.

“Why don’t we go back to Brody and Elise’s? Getting loud and warm in here. We forgot the cupcakes over there anyway. They’re in my car, and it would be a sin to let them go to waste.” Her car was back at the house because they’d taken a limo to dinner and then to the club.

Elise turned to look at Erin and then back to Ella, nodding. She stood, and Brody with her. They were so beautiful together, Ella thought, right, in synch. “You know my opinion on cupcakes.”

“I want pizza.” Brody joined with the others of his tribe—the tribe of giant men—and they eased the way out of the club onto the sidewalk outside. She breathed deep, letting the relative silence and the freedom from the crush of people slide through her, calming her.

“Wait.” Cope touched her to stay her movement. “Now I want to look at your ink. I wanted to do so at the house, but you got rushed off.” She bit back a moan when he circled her, tracing the blossom on her shoulder. “It’s so beautiful against your skin. I can’t wait to see the whole thing.”

She blushed, gripping her coat tight against her belly. Taking the shiver of pleasure as a sign she was cold, he chuckled and helped her shrug into her coat. Something like that from another man might have bothered her. It might have felt like manhandling. With Cope, from Cope, it was nurturing without feeling coercive or paternalistic.

“Limo is going to be pretty full,” Cope said casually as they walked toward the lot next door. “I drove. You want to catch a ride back with me? I haven’t had a drink in hours, so I’m fine to drive.”

Had they been talking for hours? It seemed like ten minutes. And did she want a ride from him? Really? Was that a trick question?