Fallen by Erin McCarthy Page A

temptation under his nose all night long.
    But Gabriel laughed. “I wasn’t going to chug it or anything, I promise. I haven’t had a drink in years.”
    “That’s good.” God, what was she supposed to say? They practically had to yell to be heard over the music anyway. “But we didn’t have to come here if it’s uncomfortable for you.”
    “I’m fine. I’m in control, Sara. It’s not even uncomfortable for me.” Strangely enough, Gabriel found there was truth to that. It wasn’t the alcohol that was tempting him. Even though he could smell beer, could see plastic cups filled with wine, tubes of shots, and containers filled with the infamous New Orleans hand grenade in the hands of people all around him, he didn’t have the urge to drink. What he had the urge to do was to touch Sara. To sweep his fingers across her soft skin, to move his body in closer to hers, to press his lips along the corners of her ripe mouth, and close his eyes while they brushed, connected, and reached for a tactile solace, a reminder that they weren’t alone.
    They were both lonely. It was obvious. He had known that about himself, fought the sense that he existed removed from the world around him every day, and Sara wore the same fear in her eyes. She had a naked vulnerability, hidden behind her strength and determination, but when she looked at him, it was there. She liked him. Desired him. Was afraid of her feelings.
    So was he.
    And yet they were in a crowded bar and it felt like it was just the two of them. He leaned on the bar next to her stool, indulging himself by letting his knee brush against hers. She sat up straighter, moving her leg away. Then shifted it back, as if she had decided to defy her initial instinct.
    “If you want to leave, just let me know,” she said.
    “Not until I see you dance.”
    Sara rolled her eyes. “Then you’ll be standing there awhile. I’m not going to dance.”
    “Why not? You obviously want to. Your foot has been tapping to the music since you sat down, and you’re practically bouncing on the stool.”
    It was a Bon Jovi song playing, which was not music that particularly moved his soul, but Sara seemed to like it.
    But she shook her head. “No. I’m not going to dance by myself.”
    “There’s other women out there already.” At least a half dozen women, and one random guy, were flailing around in front of the small stage.
    “No. Quit it.” She tucked her blond wavy hair behind her ear and straightened her spine.
    But then the band starting playing AC/DC and Sara made a sound, her shoulders wiggling rhythmically to the beat. Gabriel felt her struggle, her desire to stay reserved, to hold herself in control, and it bothered him. He was wondering what she would do if he just pushed her out onto the floor, when the problem was solved by a woman wearing a purple and gold feather Mardi Gras wig. She shimmied over, grabbed Sara’s hand, and gave her a big, friendly “get out here” nod as she tugged her off the stool.
    Sara protested, but the woman was determined, and thirty seconds later, she had Sara next to her out on the dance floor. For a second, Gabriel thought Sara would bolt and head back to her stool, but her shoulders relaxed and she swayed to the music, laughing with her new companion.
    Then she was dancing, hair sliding forward, hips moving in her short denim skirt, arms out at her sides. Gabriel stared, his mouth dry, as the lights from the stage turned and reflected over Sara, as she gave herself up to the rhythm of the music. Her smile was full, genuine, and she glanced back at him, shrugging in amusement.
    It was arousing to watch her come alive, to shrug off her reticence and embrace the entertainment. To put herself on display and not worry what everyone was thinking. Gabriel suspected she was never like this, not anymore. Not since her mother’s death.
    She was beautiful, tantalizing.
    He hadn’t had sex in seventy-five years, and his body wanted her