I turn my chair to face the dance floor, like his, and sit. He looks over at me, and his gaze snags on my crossed legs—at the spot where the hem of my skirt meets my bare thighs.

Sam’s always been a good-looking guy, but tonight, in his suit and tie, his face smooth, his eyes smoky, there’s something about him that makes my mouth water. Or maybe it’s that my lady parts are on high alert since our texts yesterday.

“Hey,” he says, then turns his gaze back to the dance floor. His eyes might be there, but his mind isn’t. He’s somewhere else tonight. How sexy is a man with a broken heart?

Is there a ladylike way to say, “Hey, you seem a little down. Want me to ride you until you can’t remember her name?”

I’ve known Sam since we were kids. He’s a few years older than me and he moved away while he completed his undergrad. When I was in high school, I crashed one of his parties and tried to find my way into his bed. He was a junior at Notre Dame with a reputation for being a player. I was a senior in high school, dumb enough to admit I was still in possession of my V-card.

But even bad boys have a code of honor, and that night, Sam followed the code to the letter.

“Wanna talk about it?” I ask.

He swings his gaze around to meet mine, and the intensity of the feeling in his eyes almost pushes me away. That’s what it’s supposed to do—shut people out, make them back off. This isn’t the happy-go-lucky Sam I’ve always known.

“About what?” he asks, the dare in his eyes.

“The girl who broke your heart.”

He lifts a brow. “Is that what the gossip mill is saying? That my heart is broken?”

No. That’s what every inch of your face is saying. “That’s the rumor,” I lie. There’s no rumor, only my suspicion.

He releases a noncommittal huff then really looks me in the eye for the first time all night. “Do you think I’m the kind of guy who gets his heart broken, Rowdy?”

“Liz,” I correct him, surprising myself. I’ve never minded the nickname he gave me when I was fifteen. And I’ve never minded Lizzy, either. But tonight, I want Sam to call me something else. Something more mature. “And there’s nothing wrong with getting your heart broken. It just means you’re human.”

Something flashes in his eyes—hurt or defiance, or maybe both.

“Do you want to dance, Liz?” He emphasizes my name, and I like how it sounds on his lips—slow and sensual, like a lazy morning spent naked in bed.

I follow him to the dance floor, completely aware that he hasn’t taken my hand or given me so much as a smile. When he pulls my body against his, it doesn’t matter. This is what I’ve been waiting for since last night. Maybe for four years. The feel of his hard chest, his hands on my back, so warm I can feel their heat through the thin fabric of my dress. It’s almost as if his heat is marking me.

“Let me help you forget her.” When he stiffens, I pull back to see his reaction. Surprise only shows in his eyes for a split second before he covers it with a smile. His crooked grin says, I know what you want and I’m going to give it to you. Even knowing he’s using it to hide something, his smile sends a little shimmy through my insides that settles as a thrumming pulse between my legs.

“Hey, Rowdy,” he whispers against my mouth. “You’re not still a virgin, are you?”

I hesitate at the question, then tug at his tie to bring his body closer as we move. “What if I was? Would it be so terrible, being my first? Isn’t there some old-fashioned part of you that would enjoy that, Bradshaw?”

His smile vanishes, and that gives me a small amount of satisfaction, but aside from that, I can hardly make out his expression in the flickering candlelight. “I said I don’t do strings.”

“I’m no innocent.” Not since that weekend I surprised him at Notre Dame. Sam may have turned me down, but I didn’t spend the night alone. “And I never offered strings.”

“Are you sure? Because while I don’t do strings, I do enjoy . . . restraints.” He brushes a thumb over my bottom lip.

My breath catches and my pulse picks up speed. “If you’re trying to scare me off with talk of bondage, it’s not going to work. I’m not a little girl anymore, Sam.”

His gaze dips to my cleavage and rests there for a moment. “I can see that.”

“And I can take anything you can dish out.”

“Have you ever sucked dick with your hands tied behind your back? Ever been on your knees and let a man guide your mouth just where he wants it?”

My pulse triples at his words, and my girlie bits go wild. They’re pathetic, really, but who can blame them? They’ve waited four years for this, and I’ve made them suffer through some seriously subpar male attention in the meantime. “You talk a big game.” I tuck my hips to rub against him. My sober, intellectual self would be offended by the idea of Sam seducing me with talk of a blowjob. But I’m not sober, and if he’s trying to turn me on, it’s working.

“It’s not just talk,” he says, his voice low, promise in his eyes.

Yes, even bad boys have a code of honor, and tonight I plan to find a loophole in that code.

* * *

Sam

Liz leans her head on my shoulder, and the smell of her shampoo fills my nose—something flowery and feminine. Damn, she smells good. And she feels good in my arms.

I didn’t want to come to the wedding tonight, and I was attempting to bail out when Dad gave me that look. That “You will not disappoint me or this family” look. I barely know the bride, but her parents are friends with my parents, and, being a Bradshaw, I’m expected to keep up appearances at all costs. Smile when you’re supposed to smile, show up when you’re supposed to show up and, above all, don’t fuck up.