“Sam!” she screams this time. “Sam! Sam!” Then again and again until my name becomes more of a piercing screech than a word.

Groaning, I roll over and smack the snooze button on my alarm clock with more force than necessary. I’m not interested in examining why I’m dreaming about Liz Thompson when I don’t even talk to her anymore. The dreams are frequent and increasingly frustrating, and my cock doesn’t give two shits that I shouldn’t want her, so I take my dick in my fist, close my eyes, and imagine Liz tied up like she was in my dream.

I tighten my grip and imagine cradling her ass in my hands as I drive into her so hard the walls rattle. I can practically hear the breathy little noises she makes when I’m touching her. And though my hand is a piss-poor substitute for being inside her body, the fantasy makes jacking off more satisfying than usual and has me coming hard and fast before the alarm sounds again.

Chapter Two

Liz

Once upon a time, I believed there was nothing I loved more in this world than a dirty-talking man—the scratch of his beard against my neck between quiet suggestions in my ear, the low rumble of his voice, the heady intoxication of knowing where the night was going, knowing he wanted the same things I did.

But I was wrong. Because while a lot of men can talk dirty, I can count on one hand the number of men I’ve met who can do it well. In my dating escapades of the last eight months, I’ve learned there are two kinds of dirty talkers in this world: the ones who use language like foreplay and make my knees turn to putty, and the ones who talk dirty by channeling bad rap lyrics.

“I wanna put it in you, baby,” my date says.

His name is Harry. And he is—hairy, I mean. He’s the kind of guy who wears his polo shirt unbuttoned so thick tufts of wiry chest hair stick out. I’m not opposed to chest hair, but I am in favor of grooming and trimming where appropriate. If that’s the condition of the stuff on his chest, can you imagine what’s happening under his briefs?

“You want me to put it in you, don’t you?” He sounds so sure of himself.

No, hairy Harry, I don’t want it anywhere near me. But I don’t say that. He’s between the ages of twenty-three and thirty-four (or so says his profile), has a steady job, loves his family, and is looking for someone to settle down with, preferably in New Hope. These are all the qualities I’m looking for in a man, and I’m supposed to be giving him a chance. I want to give him a chance.

Hot bodies and stellar bedroom skills have always been my priorities when choosing what men to date—which probably explains why I’m twenty-four and haven’t had a single romantic relationship that lasted longer than three months.

“Hmm,” I reply, dodging a second beer-flavored kiss. “Sorry, I don’t have sex on the first date. Ever.” Anymore would be more accurate than ever, but I don’t think God cares about lying when it’s done to avoid regrettable sex.

We’re in the back hallway at Brady’s. I met Harry here for a drink, and he cornered me after I finished in the ladies’ room, which was an expert seduction move on his part because nothing says “sexy” like the smell of urine and stale beer.

His breath is hot and sticky against my neck, his hand inching up my shirt. I grab his wrist to stop him, and decide to give a mental count to ten before pushing him off me. He seemed nice online. Maybe nerves are the reason behind tonight’s metamorphosis into a douchecanoe.

“You want me to take it slow, baby? I can take it slow. With me, you’ll want it to last all night.”

Yeah, I doubt that. “Listen, Ha—”

“If you’d excuse me?” a deep voice asks.

I push Harry back so I can see over his shoulder and find myself looking at Sam Bradshaw. Sam God-Between-the-Sheets Bradshaw. Sam Knows-What-I-Look-Like-Naked Bradshaw.

The look on Sam’s face says he has witnessed more of my private time with Harry than even I wanted to witness. I’m not sure mortification is a strong enough word for what I’m feeling right now.

I lift my chin. “Did you need something?”

Sam points behind me. “Restroom.”

“Oh. Right.”

Sam gives Harry a once-over then looks at me, smirking a little. “You two kids have fun.”

Now there’s a man who knows how to talk dirty. Sam pushes through the swinging door into the restroom. He’s all broad shoulders and swagger. And there’s not a tuft of chest hair in sight.

Harry clears his throat. “You know him?”

Biblically. “He’s an old friend.”

He nods toward the back exit. “Wanna bounce, baby?”

I’m trying, I really am, to keep an open mind about men who don’t look like Sam Bradshaw—men who don’t turn me on like Sam Bradshaw—but a thirty-something white dude with a gut shouldn’t try to talk like the frat guys down the road at Sinclair University.

“I’ll take you back to my place,” he continues. “Show you what I have to offer.” He winks at me—to make sure I’m picking up on the double entendre, I guess.

I shift uncomfortably. “Sorry, Harry, but I meant it when I said I don’t have sex on the first date.”

Of course Sam would choose that moment to appear again. Sam, for whom I’ve put out on two different occasions and with whom I’ve gone on a grand total of zero dates. He grunts softly, flashes a knowing grin, then heads toward the barroom and leaves me alone with horny, hairy Harry.