for so desperately wanting a man who didn’t want her enough to act on it.
He nodded once, continuing to stare at her with hot eyes, and she turned away
before she could beg him, just once, to forget about her last name. To forget
about whatever idiotic nonsense kept him from reaching for her.
Then he was reaching for her, turning her toward him even as he walked her back
against the door, pinning her there with his body.
His eyes locked on hers for a heartbeat before his mouth moved over hers, a little
roughly as his lips pushed hers apart. Riley’s purse dropped noisily to the ground,
and she started to put her hands around his neck, only to have him grab her
wrists, pinning them above her head as he continued his relentless assault on
her mouth.
It was the kiss of a man who was done depriving himself—a man who’d take what
he wanted, consequences be damned. Riley let him take what he wanted.
“Keys,” he said against her ear before his lips moved down her neck.
Keys? She could barely remember her name, but when he released her hands,
they were definitely not holding the keys she’d had minutes earlier.
She bent over to pick them up, relieved when her hands didn’t shake as she fit
the key into the lock.
This was it. Sex. Making love. Hell, it didn’t matter what she called it. She was
finally going to figure out what all the fuss was about.
And then her hands did shake. Oh God. What if she was bad at it?
Sam was on her again the second the door closed behind them, his mouth sliding
up her neck, his hands moving over her hips, but despite the fact that he felt
good—really good—she couldn’t concentrate.
Why was it so hard to breathe?
Come on, McKenna. Get your freaking head in the game.
She could do this.
She hadn’t just read all the best tips and tricks—she’d written them. There was
no woman as well versed in sex in all of New York than Riley McKenna.
But she was book-smart about sex. Not street-smart.
Riley had always figured she’d fake her way through the first time—relying on
others’ experiences rather than her own.
But this was Sam. He’d held her when she cried over the death of her grandma,
bailed her out of trouble more times than she could count, and listened to her in
the sort of intent way that made her feel important.
Faking in any way with him felt wrong.
His hands went to the hem of her shirt, sliding behind to palm her warm back.
She arched against him instinctively, but when his fingers found the back clasp
of her bra, she stilled.
Her hands clawed at his shoulders. “Wait.”
Sam froze.
He pulled back to look at her, and she braced herself for exasperation, but there
was only patient concern as his eyes searched hers. And then, as if sensing she
needed some extra nudge to reassure her to trust him, he gently tucked a strand
of hair behind her ear. “Tell me.”
She knew then—knew that he was the right one. Knew that he was the one and
only reason she’d never wanted anyone else to touch her.
“Riley?”
“I’m kind of new at this.”
His brow furrowed and he shook his head slightly to show he didn’t understand.
She tried again, gesturing between their two bodies. “This.”
“Making out against the door?” he asked, clearly still struggling to follow.
She took a deep breath. “More like … new at what comes out after the making
out.”
After all, it wasn’t like she hadn’t kissed guys over the past years, it had just never
been interesting enough to get to the next stage.
Sam took a half step back, and Riley moved around him to go to the fridge. She
almost grabbed an open bottle of pinot grigio for courage but reached for the
water pitcher instead.
“I don’t think I’m following,” Sam said, his eyes never leaving her as she poured
a glass of water that she didn’t drink.
You only wish you weren’t following.
She put her palms flat on the table and gave it to him straight, no bullshit. “I
haven’t had sex since I was twenty.”
No reaction. Not even a blink.
“And I think I was pretty bad at it,” she said, because if she was going to drop
bombs, she might as well be efficient and drop them all at once.
“You’re twenty-eight,” he said after a painfully long silence.
“Correct.”
“You’re telling me you haven’t had sex in eight years?”
She let her silence answer for her.
He ran a hand over the back of his neck, wordlessly taking the glass of water
she’d poured for herself and drinking it himself in three gulps as he watched her.
“Okay. Why?” he asked finally.