Something Reckless(11)
“I’m good. Connor and I are just going to hang out for a while.”
“She’s seventeen,” Sam tells Connor, a warning in his voice.
Connor nods. “Noted.”
The door rattles as it slams behind Sam, and I look at my hands, embarrassed.
“Seventeen?” Connor says.
“Afraid so. Not for long, though.”
Then he kisses me again. His lips warm my cold skin, but the heat doesn’t spread any further. He isn’t Sam and he doesn’t light me on fire, but it’s a nice kiss.
When he pulls back, I frown at him.
“What’s that look for?” he asks.
“I guess I thought you’d run the other way when you found out how young I am.”
He smiles. “Being with you is way more appealing than being the good guy.”
Chapter Five
Liz
Knocking. Someone’s knocking at my front door. Thank you, sweet baby Jesus.
I texted Sam as soon as I got home. One sentence. Seven words. An invitation.
I have the house to myself tonight.
I’ve sat here for nearly half an hour, waiting, staring at my too-silent phone and wondering if I’d be better off drawing myself a bath and sinking into it with a dirty book and a large glass of wine.
Grinning, I peek through the peephole and see Sam on the stoop. The top buttons of his dress shirt are undone and his tie is loose around his neck. In one hand, he’s holding a bottle of wine.
As casually as I can, I open the door to greet him, but deep down inside, I’m like an ill-trained dog that wants to jump on him, lick his face, and hump his leg.
“Hey,” I say softly, leaning against the doorjamb.
His gaze skims over me, and my nerve endings fire to life in the wake of his appraisal. “You left.”
“You stole my underwear.”
His lips quirk into a grin. “Yes, I suppose I did.”
“Listen, there’s no shame in wearing women’s panties. Gender identity is really fluid these days, and if you prefer lace to cotton under your trousers, who am I to judge?”
He cocks a brow, apparently unfazed by my attempts to emasculate him. “Are you going to invite me in, Rowdy?”
Stepping back, I swallow and motion inside the house. “Come on in.” He offers the bottle of wine, and I take it. “Thanks. I’ll go get a couple of glasses.”
“Just”—I’m two steps toward the kitchen when he grabs my wrist and spins me around—“stop for a minute.”
“Wha—”
His mouth crushes against mine. With one hand, he grabs me by the waist and pulls me closer, while the other wraps around the side of my neck. The hand at my neck makes me feel so small—fragile, as if I’m something he wants to protect. The hand at my waist makes me feel powerful—as if I’m something he wants to possess.
And PC or not, I want to be possessed by Samuel Bradshaw. I want to taste his kind of pleasure, to be bound and at his mercy. It’s not just what he’s told me. I’ve heard the rumors, the whispers. I don’t know that I’ve ever craved something like that before, and with any other man, I probably wouldn’t.
When he breaks the kiss, our breathing is unsteady, louder, as if the air in the room grew heavier while our mouths touched and now it’s harder to breathe.
“I’ll go pour the wine,” I say. I turn toward the kitchen before I can lose myself in his eyes. His steps sound behind me, but I focus on finding two wine glasses and the corkscrew, and try to think of a safe subject. It’s not like I’ve never had a booty call before, but this is awkward. Because it’s Sam? Or because I need to prove to myself that I can have the one thing I’ve denied wanting for four years?
“Did you end up dancing with the governor’s daughter?” I ask.
“I did.”
“What do you think?” I pour the wine, watching the deep red liquid fill the glass. “Wife material? Think you’ll let her have your babies?” When I allow myself to turn, I nearly drop the glasses. He’s removed his tie and is wrapping it around his fist. Why didn’t I realize what nice hands he has? They’re big and strong, and . . . capable.
Something flickers in his eyes and is gone again in a breath before his gaze darkens. “I’m not interested in marrying anyone. My father will come to terms with that.” Again, I think, Heartbroken, Sam is heartbroken, but as far as I know he wasn’t even seeing anyone, and I’m not sure where I’m getting that idea. Maybe it’s wishful thinking. Maybe I just want him to be the kind of guy who gives his heart to be broken. Maybe I want to be the one to put it back together again.