“Sam,” I whisper. I step forward, lift onto my toes, and press my mouth against his.
He freezes for a minute, then slowly—so flipping slowly—he brings his hands to my hair and kisses me back. This isn’t how I imagined it would happen. He doesn’t deepen the kiss or draw my body against his. He doesn’t push me back on the bed and climb on top of me. He just kisses me back. Softly. Briefly. Then he pulls away and traces my jaw with his thumb. “What was that for?” His voice is low. Husky.
“The usual reasons a girl kisses a boy.”
I want him to talk again. Want to have that voice against my ear. I want to feel the heat of his chest against my body and have his hands all over me.
My eyes are so heavy with intoxication and exhaustion, I let them close. I feel the shirt slide over my head. I don’t want him to be dressing me, but the shirt’s soft and warm and smells like Sam, so I push my arms through the sleeves.
When I open my eyes, he’s pulling down the covers on his neatly made bed.
“Climb in,” he says. I obey, too tired to question him, and he draws the blankets over me. I don’t want to sleep, but the next thing I know, he’s waking me up. “Drink this and swallow these.” He hands me a couple of pills and a glass of water.
“What is it?”
He shakes his head. “Now you’re going to start showing some sense? Ibuprofen. I’m trying to save you from a killer hangover—no promises, but this should at least keep it manageable.”
“Thanks,” I mumble.
Brushing the hair off my face, he presses the softest, sweetest kiss to my forehead. And as I close my eyes and surrender to sleep, I feel the distinct sensation of falling.
When I open my eyes again, it’s dark, save for a thick swath of streetlight cutting across the room from the gap in the curtains. Sam’s asleep in a chair by the door, hands folded in his lap, half his face in the light, half in darkness.
I blink at the clock. Four a.m.
“Sam,” I whisper. Something flutters in my belly at the thought of him sleeping there all night, protecting me while I was too drunk to protect myself. I climb out of bed and walk across the room. “Sam?”
His eyes open and he straightens. “Are you okay?”
I nod. “I’m fine. You don’t have to sleep in the chair.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’d rather you sleep with me.” In an attempt to be bold and sultry, I straddle his lap and press a kiss to his neck. “I really like you.”
He winces. Cue the mortification. He isn’t just being a gentleman. He doesn’t want to share his bed with me.
“I thought . . .” I bite my bottom lip. “I thought you liked me too.” Stupid alcohol.
“I do like you, Liz.” He gives me a careful smile—the kind you give a child before you break the news that Santa isn’t real. “But you’re my friend.”
“What better way to lose my virginity?” Oh my God, why am I still talking?
His breath draws in with a hiss, then he shakes his head. “You’re my friend,” he repeats, ticking the reasons off on his fingers. “You’re drunk.”
“Not anymore,” I promise.
“And you’re a virgin.”
* * *
Liz
Present Day . . .
The memory fills me with old mortification. There’s a reason I haven’t pursued Sam in the last four years. I don’t want to be the desperate girl who threw herself at him. I don’t want to remember how his rejection made me feel.
Sneaking into this room seemed like a great idea when I was on the dance floor with him, his hard body pressed into mine, but alone in the quiet conference room, I’m pretty sure this could be the most reckless thing I’ve ever done.
What if someone catches us in here? Hell, what if he doesn’t come? What if he does? I’ve thrown myself at Sam before, and it didn’t end well. He has no idea how hard I took his rejection, or the decisions I made after I left his room that night.
I should leave. I should . . .
The door clicks and then Sam steps inside, his eyes raking over me.
“Hey,” I whisper. “You came.”
He closes the door behind himself, turns the lock, then stalks toward me.
Thank you! the girlie bits shout. Stupid brain upstairs was about to ruin everything!
“Are you sure you want to do this?” His voice is a low rumble that I swear I can feel right between my legs.
Hell yes, I want to do this.
But I also don’t. Because Sam’s no longer some unrequited crush. He’s a friend. And if this goes to hell, it’ll make my life exponentially more awkward.