His mouth crushes against mine. With one hand, he grabs me by the waist and pulls me closer, while the other wraps around the side of my neck. The hand at my neck makes me feel so small—fragile, as if I’m something he wants to protect. The hand at my waist makes me feel powerful—as if I’m something he wants to possess.

And PC or not, I want to be possessed by Samuel Bradshaw. I want to taste his kind of pleasure, to be bound and at his mercy. It’s not just what he’s told me. I’ve heard the rumors, the whispers. I don’t know that I’ve ever craved something like that before, and with any other man, I probably wouldn’t.

When he breaks the kiss, our breathing is unsteady, louder, as if the air in the room grew heavier while our mouths touched and now it’s harder to breathe.

“I’ll go pour the wine,” I say. I turn toward the kitchen before I can lose myself in his eyes. His steps sound behind me, but I focus on finding two wine glasses and the corkscrew, and try to think of a safe subject. It’s not like I’ve never had a booty call before, but this is awkward. Because it’s Sam? Or because I need to prove to myself that I can have the one thing I’ve denied wanting for four years?

“Did you end up dancing with the governor’s daughter?” I ask.

“I did.”

“What do you think?” I pour the wine, watching the deep red liquid fill the glass. “Wife material? Think you’ll let her have your babies?” When I allow myself to turn, I nearly drop the glasses. He’s removed his tie and is wrapping it around his fist. Why didn’t I realize what nice hands he has? They’re big and strong, and . . . capable.

Something flickers in his eyes and is gone again in a breath before his gaze darkens. “I’m not interested in marrying anyone. My father will come to terms with that.” Again, I think, Heartbroken, Sam is heartbroken, but as far as I know he wasn’t even seeing anyone, and I’m not sure where I’m getting that idea. Maybe it’s wishful thinking. Maybe I just want him to be the kind of guy who gives his heart to be broken. Maybe I want to be the one to put it back together again.

* * *

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?”