by Lexi Ryan
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.
If my father only knew . . .
On the other side of the dance floor, my dad catches my eye and nods toward Sabrina, who’s talking to my mom. Dad’s told me more than once that I need to dance with her tonight. “Shit,” I mutter.
“What?” Liz asks, following my gaze to the redhead across the room. “Who’s she? She looks familiar.”
“Her name’s Sabrina.”
“Fancy,” Liz says. “Let me guess, she’s not the kind of girl who has a nickname like Rowdy?”
Not at all. “She’s a friend of the family, and the governor’s daughter.”
She draws in her breath. “That’s why she looks familiar. Wow. They could be sisters. She looks so much like her mom.”
“Dad would like me to woo and wed her to make sure he gets Governor Guy’s endorsement when he runs for the position.”
“Your dad wants to be governor?”
“He’s been laying the groundwork for years. He’ll run at the end of Guy’s second term.”
“So you should probably go dance with her,” she says.
I let my hand drift to her ass, and when I squeeze, her big blue eyes get bigger. “Probably,” I admit. “But I’d rather dance with you.”
Ever since Asia surprised me at my house on Thursday night and dropped the bomb of all bombs, it’s been as if the world was trying to eat me alive. Right here, though, with Liz in my arms and her sweet perfume filling my head, I feel . . . safe. Bigger. Like I can face my demons and come out stronger. Maybe it’s because she’s petite or because she’s always been my little sister’s friend, but the way Liz looks at me makes me feel like a fucking gladiator.
“Don’t worry about it.” She shrugs. “I understand family stuff. Truly.”
I join my hands at the small of her back and pull her closer. “I’m not done with you.”
Sighing, she leans her head against my chest. “Best news I’ve heard all night.”
“You’ll be around when I’m done humoring my father and his dreams of arranged marriages?”
As she laughs, her teeth sink into her lower lip. She traces invisible patterns on my dress shirt, in no hurry to leave my arms, thank Christ.
“I used to work here when I was in high school,” she says out of nowhere. “I helped serve at wedding receptions and Christmas parties.”
“I bet you rocked the uniform.”
She grins. “You know it. Nothing as sexy as a girl in a bow tie.”
“You could pull it off. In fact, I’m picturing you in a bow tie right now.”
She pulls back to look at me. “Odd fantasy.”
“I didn’t say you were wearing anything else.”
She lowers her voice a fraction. “There’s a small conference room outside of the ballroom and to the right. Meet me there after your dance.”
Then she steps out of my arms and walks away, and I’m left watching the way her ass swings in her skirt and wondering just what she plans to do in that conference room.
Liz is sweet. I’ve had to remind myself of that fact since she was fifteen and staying over with Della. I’d come home long after everyone else went to sleep and find her lounging in the family room in a sleep shirt with no bra underneath. I’d find her watching me when she didn’t think I noticed. A couple of years later, I was at Notre Dame, and she showed up at a house party looking for trouble. She got drunk and threw herself at me, and I turned her away. Because she was seventeen and I was twenty. Because she was drunk and I was sober. Because she was a virgin and I had experiences most grown men only get to dream about.
Now the rules have changed. She’s not seventeen anymore. And she’s waiting for me in the conference room.
My imagination doesn’t get far before my father is standing in front of me with the governor’s daughter, his politician face firmly in place.
“Samuel, you remember Sabrina.”
“Of course.” Offering my hand, I go through the
motions of the introduction and even dance with her, but my mind is on Liz, and I’m counting down the seconds until I can sneak out of here to meet her.
Chapter Three
Liz
Four Years Before . . .
There’s a party of epic proportions rumbling in Sam Bradshaw’s basement.
The room is packed—everyone dancing and talking at once. Everyone drunk. There’s a long wooden bar along the far wall where three girls in short shorts and heels are standing, dirty-dancing and grinding on each other. I’m so out of my depth.
I told my mom I was visiting a prospective college and drove to Notre Dame to see him at the house he rents with friends. This isn’t what I expected. I should’ve dragged Hanna or Maggie along. But I left them at home because I didn’t want them to stop me from what I’d planned—namely, seducing Sam and losing my virginity.
I’ve been searching for Sam in the crowd for half an hour, and with every minute that I don’t find him, the excitement that fueled my drive north leaks out of me. What if he’s back in New Hope for the weekend? Hell, what if he has a girlfriend?
I drain the rest of my drink—my third since I arrived, and whoever’s mixing them is making them strong.
“Hey, beautiful. Come dance.”
The request comes from a tall, dark-haired guy. Not over-the-top gorgeous but okay. Attractive on most scales, though only average to a girl who grew up with the Samuel Bradshaws of the world.
As I nod, the room does a little spin and shifts off-kilter, like an awkward toddler ballerina. Something in my mind warns me to slow down, but I ignore it and head to the dance floor with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Average.
The back corner of the basement is cast in shadows and the booming music makes my ears ache, but alcohol buzzes through my blood and dancing feels good.
I relax into my movements, lose myself in the bass and the crowd. Time falls away as I lose more and more of my inhibitions with the help of the alcohol.
The guy works his hands up my shirt, and I don’t even care. Maybe I should. But I came here looking for Sam, and I’m disappointed. I want to prove I’m mature enough to come to a party like this and have a good time, so I let the guy touch my stomach, let him slide his fingers farther north.
Just as his hand closes over my breast, he’s yanked off me. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Sam.
As if someone jumped on the accelerator to my heart, my pulse speeds into high gear. I bite back a smile at the aggravation in his voice, stupidly happy he’s jealous.
Too late, I realize his angry words aren’t intended for the guy feeling me up. They’re intended for me.
“Is she yours?” my dancing partner asks.
I scowl. “Are you kidding me? I don’t belong to anyone.”
“She’s not mine,” Sam says. “She’s seventeen.”
The guy’s eyes go wide and he throws up his hands and backs away, muttering something about jailbait.
Sam made me a pariah at this party. Fantastic.
I spin on Sam. “What was that?”
He arches a brow. “You smell like a liquor bottle. How much have you had to drink?”
“I didn’t come here looking for a new daddy, so stop trying to protect me.”
“Someone needs to,” he mutters. “What do you think you’re doing here?”
I push past him. The crowd swallows me as I work my way to the other side of the basement, straight to the bar. The girls have vacated the smooth wooden surface, and now it’s as if waiting for me.
“Want some help up?” A blond guy grins at me, as if seeing me dance on the bar would make his night.
“Yes, please.” I give him my hand and flash a look over my shoulder to make sure Sam isn’t here to boss me around and tell everyone I’m a child.
The second I climb on the bar, I’m hyperaware of my short skirt. Guys gather beneath me, no doubt to a great view of my purple silk panties, but I make the best of it and dance to the music, running my hands over my stomach and hips as I find the beat.
There are catcalls, and part of me likes it—the attention, feeling important, even if it was for something as trivial as my body. When you feel stupid all the time, it’s nice to be appreciated for something. Anything. It doesn’t take long for another girl to climb up to join me. We dance together, much to the delight of the guys watching.
“Body shots!” one of the guys in the crowd calls. Then others join in to an increasingly insistent chant of, “Bo-dy shots! Bo-dy shots!”
The next thing I know, the girl shoves a shot glass in her cleavage. “Be gentle,” she croons so the guys in the crowd can hear.
I know what they want—what they expect—and before I can think too much, I duck my head and wrap my lips around the glass. The guys howl their approval, and I come up with it slowly, shooting it back without the help of my hands.
“My turn!” the girl says, lifting another shot in the air. She turns to the crowd. “Where should she put it?”
“Between her legs!” someone answers. A chair is hoisted next to me on the bar. It doesn’t quite fit, and I have to balance it on three legs as I position the shot between my thighs.
As quickly as I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into, I remember Sam saying someone needs to watch out for me, and I pull my skirt a little higher.
My partner in crime giggles as she lowers onto her knees. “I’m not really into girls,” she whispers, “but you are pretty hot.”
Then she licks my inner thigh, and it shocks me so much that I lose my balance. Both the chair and I fall off the bar and into the crowd. Someone catches me, but I hit several people and drinks on my way down. It seems like there’s beer everywhere, including streaming down my shirt and covering my legs. Gasping at the cold, I pull the wet fabric of my shirt off my skin.
“Shit,” someone says. “Are you hurt?”
Turning toward the voice, I find myself looking into the face of Sam Bradshaw, his eyes on my soaking wet shirt. “I’m okay.”
“You’re covered in beer.” His gaze roams over me one more time before he lifts it to my face. “You really are rowdy, you know that?”
Even though I’m covered in goose bumps, his closeness makes me feel warm. I probably smell worse than I look, but I have Sam’s attention. Finally.
He grabs my hand and pulls me away from the guy who caught me. “Come on, Rowdy. Let’s get you out of here.” His smile’s so gentle, so comforting, I want to curl into it. Then he walks away and I have to think really hard to remember that I’m supposed to be following him.
I let him lead the way up the stairs, my eyes on his back the whole time.
He opens a door on the landing and nods inside. “In here.”
My drunken heart skitters and stumbles at the sound of his voice and the idea of following him into his room. I follow him inside and close the door.
Sam took me to his bedroom.
My stomach’s a mess of nerves—fear, anxiety, and excitement, all wrapped in my crush on him. I pull off my beer-soaked shirt and drop it to the floor as Sam looks in his closet.
My head spins, and some of the happiness that comes from drinking too fast begins to fade, replaced with a faint sense of shame. I was trying to loosen up, to fit in, to find the courage to approach him, and I became another reckless drunk girl.
When he turns back to me, T-shirt in hand, my face is hot with shame. His eyes widen for a moment as he takes me in, then he averts his gaze. “Put this on,” he says, offering the T-shirt.
“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 v
oice 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.
