But Liz doesn’t try to look irresistible. She just is. Smoothing a few locks off her face, I kiss her forehead. Because even with everything hanging over my head right now, even with Connor’s guest appearance, last night was amazing.
For maybe the first time ever, I’m thinking about . . . something more.
Chapter Eight
Liz
“Good afternoon, Miss Thompson,” Mr. Bradshaw, Sam’s father, says when he sees me walk through the bank doors on Monday. “How can we help you today?”
“Is Sam available?”
“He’s in the back office. Could I help you with something?”
“Um, no. I just needed to discuss something with Sam. Thanks.”
My stomach does a wild, fluttery flip-flop as I make my way to Sam.
When I step into the office, my first thought is that I have the wrong place, because the man behind the desk doesn’t look like the Sam I know. His face is covered in hard lines and tension, a study of stress and anger.
“It looks like you’re doing actual work in here,” I say, going for light. “Careful, someone might see you and ruin your reputation.”
His head lifts slowly, and as his eyes settle on me, it’s gratifying to see some of that tension leave his face, some of the anger leave his eyes.
But that doesn’t change what I see there. He’s working through something heavy. I have no idea what it is, but I know exactly how to help him.
He rakes his gaze over me slowly, taking in my button-up blouse, unbuttoned past my collarbone, my fitted black skirt, and my four-inch red heels. It was an outfit I chose very deliberately. It’s sexy, but not so overtly that it’s obvious I dressed for him—though I did.
I tug my lip between my teeth. I want more than his gaze on me. More than his hands, even. I want the weight of his body pressing into mine, the feel of his mouth on my skin. His eyes lift to mine, and tension fills in the air between us—the good kind of tension, the kind with snapping teeth and tongues and promise.
I reach for the door and shut it behind me. Sam lifts an amused brow, more of that anger melting away. It’s good to see the man I know back in that face. This other guy, the stranger, he scares me a little.
“Why are you here, Rowdy?”
Swallowing, I walk to behind his desk and go to the window that overlooks the side of the parking lot and the river beyond. I feel him move behind me as I pull the blinds shut. His fingers brush my neck, moving aside the few strands that have escaped the twist. My eyes float closed at the contact.
He steps closer. “You didn’t answer my question,” he whispers against my ear.
I turn to face him, but he’s too close, and even in my heels I’m staring at his chin. I crane my neck to meet his eyes. I wonder if he can tell that I’m practically trembling with nerves. With need. “I’m here to collect on your promise.”
“What promise?”
“The promise you made me at the wedding. The ideas you put in my head. You did not follow through on all the dirty things you whispered in my ear.”
He groans, low and guttural, and some of my nerves flitter away.
I grab his tie in my fist and tug him down an inch, two. “Don’t assume I’m like other girls,” I whisper against his lips.
“Oh, I know you’re not like other girls. That was never the question.” His lips are so close I can practically feel them brushing over mine as he speaks.
I want his kiss badly. Too much. So much that I step around him and away from the temptation to take it, because I don’t want to kiss him. I want him to kiss me. The distinction normally wouldn’t matter to me, but it’s different with Sam. Everything’s different with Sam.
Sinking back into his chair, he rests his elbows on his knees and drags a hand through his hair. “I’m going through some fucked-up shit right now.”
“And I’m here to distract you.” I push the papers on his desk aside and hoist myself up to sit in their place. Sam’s eyes immediately seek out the exposed thigh where my skirt is riding up, but I have something so much better for him to see. Leaning back on my hands, I part my legs, watching with satisfaction as his gaze follows my skirt higher up my thighs.
His eyes meet mine, as hot as I feel. “You came to my bank without panties?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Why don’t you check?”
He stands, gaze flicking to the door, then back to me. “The bank’s closed, but we’re not alone.” He touches my knee, and my eyes practically roll back in my head from the pleasure of his skin connecting with mine. His hand inches north so slowly; the swirling ache of want low in my belly causes me real pain.