* * *
Sam
“Think you’ll let her have your babies?” Tonight, her innocent question is salt in a fresh wound. I’m not the kind of man women see as the father of their children.
Shit. A few days ago, my biggest problem was trying to figure out how I was going to tell my parents—my conservative, model-citizen, bank-owning parents, with political aspirations—that I fucked up, and that my life was now inextricably tied to a woman I wasn’t even sure I liked.
I was scared out of my mind, but I pulled her into my arms—this woman I hardly know and might not even like—and stroked her hair and promised it would be okay. I’d take care of her. I’d make this right. I held her and turned my problem over and over in my head like a puzzle that needed solving. As soon as she told me, I acted. I got her out of her shitty apartment and into a nice little condo, and gave her a nest egg to hold her over until she could find a new job. But I still hadn’t figured out how to tell my parents that this soon-to-be-ex-stripper was the one I’d be bringing home for family dinners.
Two days ago, she took that problem right out of my hands when she showed up at my place and told me it was over. She said it was for the best. And when I asked her to reconsider, she called me a selfish bastard. And maybe I am. Because I’d do anything to get her to change her mind.
“Hey.” Liz snaps me back to the present. She’s still holding a glass of wine in her hand as she lifts it, brushing her knuckles across my cheek. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
I wrap my fingers around her wine glass and, without taking it from her hand, bring it to my lips. My breathing slows. Something releases inside me at the feel of her fingers under mine, and the softness in her eyes. The taste of the wine slows my racing heart.
After three long swallows, I take the glass from her hand and put it on the counter. “I need you naked and wet.”
* * *
Liz
Naked and wet. Yes, please.
God, I love the way his eyes continually rake over me, as if he’s trying to make sure I haven’t gone anywhere and at the same time he wants to take me all in, memorize me.
“Shower with me?” he asks.
I blink and nod to the hallway.
After a few steps in that direction, he turns back to me. “You coming?”
To the shower. My stomach somersaults with nerves and anticipation. This is really going to happen.
I follow him, conscious of the ache between my legs with every step. Maybe I should stop this before it goes any further. He’s made it clear how he feels about romance, about forever, and I can tell he’s only here to distract himself from something else—probably from someone else.
But I can’t focus on that when there’s something more captivating keeping my attention. Namely, the sight of a Sam Bradshaw stripping in the middle of my bathroom. He’s turned on the shower, and the sound of the water hitting the tiles fills my ears as he sheds his dress shirt and tugs his undershirt off over his head.
Lord have mercy, this man’s body is just insane.
His chest and shoulders are broad and sculpted, his waist narrow. A trail of light brown hair draws a path over his belly before disappearing under the waistband of his pants. I want to follow it with my fingers, then my mouth. I want to see if that muscled torso is as hot as it makes me feel.
When he turns and catches me watching him, he smirks. “Like what you see?”
“You should be shirtless more often. As in, as often as possible.” I shake away my awe. Before tonight, I had only a vague idea of what might be under his clothes. Now that I’m up close and personal with his hard body . . . I want more.
I reach for the button on his pants, and he stops me.
“Not yet,” he says. Then with a single sweep of his hand down my back, he’s unzipped my dress and it’s falling to the floor, pooling around my feet. My breasts are swollen, their peaks tight with need under the dark lace of my bra. “Jesus, Liz. You take my breath. You always have.”
That makes something flutter in my belly. Something stronger than lust and more dangerous. Something that pushes me closer to this edge I’m clinging to so precariously. I can’t fall. Not for Sam.
I reach back to release my bra, and he grabs my hands and stops me. His eyes flash to mine. “I want to do it. Don’t get used to your hands being free. They won’t be for long.”
As he steps forward, my hands instinctively go to his chest, desperate to feel him while I can. He releases the clasp then slides his hands under the straps and over each shoulder, letting it fall to the floor. Then he shifts his hands so they’re cupping my ass. He bows his head, his lips hovering just above mine. “How do you want it? Soft? Hard? Slow or fast?”