Something Reckless(15)

His eyes flash in approval as I take his hand, leading him down the short hallway to my room.

Sam looks around slowly, then cocks a brow at me. “It’s . . . pink.”

I grin, kick the door closed, and drop my towel. “I like pink.”

He skims his gaze over me, his mouth hitching up into a lopsided smile. “It suits you.” He nods to the bed. “Lie down.”

“Bossy.”

“You have no idea.”

Grinning, I climb on top of my comforter—also pink—and prop myself on my elbows. “Why are you still wearing that towel? The only thing you should have on is a condom.”

He rakes his gaze over me—assessing, approving. Even the way he looks at me turns me on. He climbs into bed beside me and props himself up on one elbow. “Don’t rush me, woman.” The command and the roughness in his tone steal my breath. “You’re going to need to roll to your stomach if you want me to make those shoulders feel better.”

“It’s fine,” I protest, but he just shakes his head and nudges me onto my stomach.

The second his fingers start working magic on my shoulders, I’m glad he insisted. The muscles are sore from being held so long in such an awkward position, and the tension melts away at his touch.

I’m practically falling asleep by the time his touches turn to kisses and he rolls me over.



* * *





Sam


When Liz looks at me, her gaze is heavy but happy. “Are you going to make me beg you, Sam Bradshaw?”

“Beg?”

“Not that our shower didn’t leave me . . . satisfied, but . . .” She takes her lower lip between her teeth in a way that’s both cute and really fucking hot.

She shifts under me, then wraps her legs around my waist, bringing my dick to rest against her slick folds.

I groan. Condom. Get a fucking condom. Everything about this moment is an invitation—the way she’s looking at me, the heat in her eyes. I’ve never been so tempted to slide into a woman without protection. It’s not an option—now more than ever—but fuck, if it’s not tempting at this moment.

“Liz,” someone bellows.

We both stiffen.

“Lizzy?” It’s a guy, and he’s right outside her door. A drunk, belligerent man, in her house, at her bedroom door. My body tenses, shifting gears, ready to fight.

Liz seems to sense the change in me, and she wraps her hand around my wrist. “Relax. It’s just Connor.”

“Connor? As in, my sister’s boyfriend? That Connor?”

“As in your friend Connor. I think he’s drunk.” She’s already climbing out of bed, not worried about explaining to me why the hell Connor is showing up drunk at her bedroom door in the middle of the night. “I’m going to check on him.”

She starts opening drawers and pulling out clothes. So she can go see Connor.

I don’t want Connor to see her like this—freshly showered, her cheeks still flushed from coming. Or maybe I do. Maybe I want to make sure he knows. She’s here with me. Mine.

My jealousy is so irrational it catches me off guard.

I take her hand, stopping her from pulling on her pants, then I latch my mouth onto her neck. She moans as I kiss and suck, then cries out as I bite down.

I pull back, satisfied when I see I’ve marked her. Good.

“Liz? I need you.” He’s practically whimpering.

“I’m coming,” she calls. “Just a minute.”

Fucking Connor. I’m not letting her go out there without me.

Suddenly, I remember that none of my clothes made it to the bedroom with us.

Liz bites back a grin, apparently realizing my conundrum. “You’re not going out there anyway, so don’t worry about it.” Giggles lace her words.

“The hell I’m not. He’s drunk.”

“Sam?” Connor says on the other side of the door. “Is that you, man? Oh, shit. Did your sister send you here? I told her to stay out of it.”

I don’t know what he’s talking about, but I shoot Liz a pointed look. “I’m going with you.”

“Want to borrow some panties? How do you feel about pink?” This time, she lets the giggle free.

I snatch the towel off the floor where it landed earlier. “I’ll go get my clothes.”

I sneak out the door before she can protest, and pull it shut tight behind me. Connor’s sitting in the hall, eyes half closed, and I don’t bother explaining myself before I cross to the bathroom to pull on my pants and undershirt.

When I get back to Lizzy’s room, she’s dressed. If you can call it that. She’s in a worn-out Sinclair tee and nothing else, as far as I can tell.

I skim my gaze over her down to where the shirt ends at mid-thigh. I love the way it looks on her—stretched across her breasts, her nipples poking at the fabric, and the way it shows off her long, flawless legs. I don’t love the idea of her greeting another man in nothing but that. Especially Connor.