about this—about them—than he was. “Well, Brent’s probably just now getting to
the train station. I bet I can catch him.”
Sam growled and kissed her again, hard and fast.
She kissed him back, just as hot, before her hand went to his chest and pushed.
“So you’re going to be the guy? You’re going to help me with my article? I’m not
in a serious relationship, and I can’t just write about any old guy and make it
personal …”
No.
Yes.
Just … hell.
“Why can’t you be a kindergarten teacher or something? Why do you have to be
a goddamned sex writer?”
She smiled, her fingers lightly scratching his bare arms. He was more than a little
tempted to take her right here and right now. But they were in a room with her
father’s old radio and her mother’s nativity scene, and there was a fake Christmas
tree one wrong move from digging into his ass.
“Riley—”
“Say yes, Sam,” she said, interrupting him. “Don’t make me do this with another
guy.”
He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on hers.
“Please,” she whispered. “I want it to be you.”
Shit.
It was one thing to deny himself all these years. It was no more or less than he
deserved.
But to deny Riley?
He couldn’t. Had never been able to.
“We’re going to regret this,” he said when he opened his eyes and gazed at her.
Her eyes lit up at the implicit acquiescence in his words.
“Maybe,” she said softly. “But we’re going to have a lot of fun doing it.”
Chapter Eight
Normally a first date with a new guy called for girl talk.
For years, Riley had been counting on Julie and Grace to tell her if her emerald
silk dress with the plunging neckline was too trampy for a first date (yes), or if her
new boot-cut jeans were too casual for a fancy dinner at Per Se (also yes).
Julie and Grace, and more recently Emma, were her dating mentors.
But tonight she was on her own.
Because there was no good way to tell even your best friends that you were about
to end a ridiculously long sexual hiatus with …
Well, whatever Sam was to her. Friend seemed inadequate.
Especially after that kiss at her parents’ house.
Turned out no amount of daydreaming could prepare one for the real thing,
because Riley had definitely not been ready for whatever it was she felt when he
backed her against that door.
It had been planned, of course. She’d known that Brent would try to kiss her. And
she’d been pretty sure that Sam would follow them into the foyer at her parents’
house. Right on both counts.
But she’d only meant to goad Sam into reconsidering her offer. Stiletto had taught
her enough about machismo and male possessiveness to know that even if Sam
wasn’t entirely sure that he wanted her, he wouldn’t want Brent to have her.
She’d been right.
Too right.
Because no part of her had been prepared for how one kiss would make her want
to end her sexual hiatus right there in her parents’ makeshift storage room. In the
span of two minutes, Riley felt what she’d been waiting years to feel with other
guys—that uncontrollable, take-me-now surge of want.
She got it now. She understood what it felt like to need another person.
Trouble was, she didn’t know what would happen after this. If the kiss had had
that kind of effect, the next step just might kill her.
Because Riley was scared to death that just one night with Sam Compton
wouldn’t be enough. That the longing she needed to put to rest would only be
ignited when she slept with him, and she’d spend the rest of her life comparing
every other man to him.
She understood now what Julie felt for Mitchell, and what Grace felt for Jake, and
if her intuition was right, what Emma felt for Alex Cassidy underneath that layer
of southern frost.
She just wished she knew how to shut it off.
Also on her list of Riley’s being an idiot?
Agreeing to let him take her out. There was to be no greeting him at the door
wearing nothing but a negligee and a smile, with maybe a wee bit of wine to help
with the nerves.
Oh no.
No, no, Sam Compton apparently had a gentlemanly core beneath those sexy
rough edges, because he’d insisted on a date.
And she still didn’t even understand why, because all he’d done was grumble,
something something, not a goddamned booty call.
Riley slammed her closet door shut. A booty call was exactly what this was
supposed to be. It was easier to put a booty call behind you. But a date?
Men and their morals.
She checked herself in the mirror. Short black skirt, stacked-heel boots, a red