Staying On Top(38)

It would be simple to get up, walk through the bathroom connecting our rooms, and wake him up. Take what I wanted and banish all of the lame, exhausting, self-centered thoughts to the back of my head.

So what if my dad basically told me to sleep with him? So what if I was lying to him about whose side I was on or what we were doing?

And if I would never see him again once I got what I wanted?

His problem, not mine.

Except it felt wrong. It had never really felt wrong to take part in Dad’s shit. It was how things were, and I did it because he was my father and he asked. And I liked it, sometimes. The being close to him. Sharing something with someone, especially because I didn’t have anyone else.

The root of my discomfort wasn’t sleeping with Sam. It was that helping my dad take the rest of his money felt wrong, too. Before I’d gone to St. Moritz, he’d been the guy I’d watched on television for the past four or five years. Cocky, handsome, talented. He had money to burn, like all of Dad’s cons, which always eased any potential guilt.

The difference between Sam and people like Miss Daisy—other than the fact that I knew him now—was that even if he played a game for a living, he had worked his ass off for that money. He wouldn’t be able to earn more, not indefinitely, and once his career ended, what would he do?

It’s not your problem, Blair. And you know what else isn’t your problem? Whether or not it hurts his feelings that you slept with him and then stole from him.

Holy Jesus, now my brain had joined forces with the rest of me.

Maybe I was overthinking this whole thing. I wanted him. He wanted me. He’d never been a guy who wanted a serious relationship, and I was incapable of having one.

Who cared about the rest of it?

I tossed the covers off my legs, shivering when my feet hit the cold floor, and paused in front of the bathroom mirror to smooth my hair and swish mouthwash over my teeth. I took a deep breath, then pushed open the door that connected to Sam’s room.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

His deep baritone slid from the shadows and I jumped, covering my mouth to stifle a shriek. “What are you doing?”

“The same thing you’re doing, I imagine. Coming to see if I could make you change your mind about offering yourself to me.” He took a step forward.

I took a step back. We repeated that dance a few more times, until we were both in the bathroom and my ass was pressed up against the vanity. His features were soft but visible in the orange night-light glow, eyes bright with a restrained desire that shot straight down my spine.

“Well?”

I licked my lips, unable to look away from the intensity of his gaze, unable to verbally give him the go-ahead because talking about feelings and emotions and sex didn’t come easily to me. Instead, I reached up, looped my arms around his neck, and crushed his lips to mine.

Sam didn’t waste a moment going slow. Maybe he was afraid I’d change my mind, or maybe he’d been lying awake imagining all the ways we could fit together the same way I had been.

His tongue parted my lips, searching my mouth until it found mine, then tangled with it. Strong hands grabbed my ass and he groaned into me.

“Yes. Better than I thought,” he murmured, then lifted me up onto the counter.

The proof of his excitement pressed into my crotch, tightening the fabric of my pajama shorts and rubbing in a way that ripped an involuntary whimper from my throat. He felt so good against me I couldn’t imagine what he would feel like inside me—and I wanted to know.

I reached out, running my fingers over every muscle, down every ab, delighting as they tightened under the scrape of my fingernails. His hands left my rear and lifted my tank top over my head, leaving me naked from the waist up, shivering in the cool nighttime air.

My hips bucked and my hands fisted in his hair when his hot lips closed over my nipple. Again, no warm-up, no pretense, just breath and tongue and a firm nip of the teeth until my senses fled, leaving me grinding helplessly against him. When he moved to torture my other breast I struggled with his shorts, finally shoving them down over his hips and taking his hardness in my palm.

My strokes distracted him from his mission to drive me completely insane and his fingers hooked in the waistband of my shorts, dispensing with them, too.

He growled. “No underwear? God, I wish I had stayed in bed and let you come to me.”

Fingers teased the backs of my thighs then swirled inward, hitting places that made me shudder and bite my lip, then moving down to dip inside me. I’d been wet with anticipation before I’d come in here but now he slipped one finger, then another, in and out of me with ease.

“Christ. I don’t want to wait.” He paused, seeming to want some kind of go-ahead from me, even though it was painfully and embarrassingly obvious that I was more than ready.