by Jill Shalvis
Wade didn’t react, except to soothe her by running a hand up her arm.
“Sorry.” The wedding photographer smiled. “Can you two scoot closer to each other?”
No. Closer was a major league bad idea all the way around. If she scooted closer, she’d possibly jump him.
“Just shift into each other a little,” the photographer coaxed, gesturing to them with his hands. “Come on, give me a romantic shot.”
Sam looked into Wade’s face questioningly but she should have known better. Always game, he tugged her in. He wrapped an arm around her waist, then tugged a surprised gasp out of her when he bowed her back, low and deep. Leaning over her, he gave her a kiss.
For show, she reminded herself as her fingers ran up his strong, warm arms, past rock-hard biceps to his hard chest, which she held on to. For show, she had to remind herself yet again when he nibbled at the corner of her mouth, encouraging her to open to him. And when she did, he slid his tongue to hers in a lazy, sexy, fiery, perfect kiss that made it difficult to keep her balance.
Luckily he was fully supporting her. Far before she was ready, he pulled back, straightened her up, and shot a quick grin at the photog. “You get it?”
The photog winked and backed off, and by the time Wade looked down into Sam’s face she’d managed to collect herself.
“They’re going to be serving soon,” Wade said with clear relief, eyeing the servers bustling around, getting ready. “Mark promised me steak.”
Sam managed to find her brain. He wasn’t affected by that kiss, and so she refused to be. “Good to know you won’t be needing a Mickey D’s run.”
“Yeah, though I haven’t ruled it out for later.”
The music changed, quickened, and the dance floor began to fill up. He stood up, stripped off his tux jacket, and held out a hand.
She stared at his long fingers and felt her stomach tighten. “What?”
“Let’s dance.”
No. Hell, no. “Pass.”
“Why?”
“Uh, because I don’t want to?”
“You like to dance,” he said. “I’ve seen you at lots of Heat functions.”
He was right. She liked to dance. Not that she was necessarily any good at it, but she liked the feeling of letting go. Of not having a phone to her ear or an event in her head or a situation to make the best of.
But dancing with Wade would be a mistake. It was hard to fake anything on the dance floor. She’d forget that she was having a hell of a hard time remembering why she needed to guard her heart around him.
“You like to dance,” he said again slowly, understanding dawning. “But you’re afraid you can’t control yourself with me.” He grinned.
She rolled her eyes. Yeah, so she was worried that with her luck, a slow song would come on and then she’d have to be all pressed up against that body that already knew how to take her to heaven and back, and they were at a wedding, in a very romantic setting, and well . . . bad idea all around.
“This was all your idea,” he reminded her, tauntingly. “Your game.”
“Well, it was a bad idea. A stupid game.”
“Granted. But you have to see it through now.” He glanced beyond her, to where the wedding photographers were snapping pictures, and beyond that, to the waist-high white fence blocking the garden area off from the gawkers, which included paparazzi.
And their cameras.
With a grim sigh, she rose to her feet, took his hand, ignored his smirk, and followed him to the dance floor. “This is such a mistake,” she said.
“Since when has that ever stopped us?”
For Wade, dancing with Sam was more like a forbidden treat. She felt good against him, too good, making him forget certain basics—that he’d purposely lived his adult life fun and carefree, without worry and anxiety, and he couldn’t, wouldn’t, go back there. Not for anything, or anyone.
Sam included.
Life was meant to be fun and light. Period. Preferably with lots of sex and little depth. And that’s what this weekend should have been. Hell, the music was nice, the beat fast, and when she moved to it and smiled at him, he smiled back. And yet at the same time, he felt something tighten in his chest. Which wasn’t good.
Not one little bit.
Neither was the way he automatically held out a hand for her when the song slowed, when everyone around them stepped into their partner.
Sam stared at his hand for a long moment, and he honestly expected that she’d turn away and walk back to the table. Maybe even leave the reception.
It would have been the smart thing to do, after all he was exactly what she’d labeled him—a player. But here was the problem. For two incredibly smart people when they were on their own, they’d never seemed to be able to fully access their IQs when it came to each other.
“I can do this,” she finally said, as if she needed to believe it, and she stepped into him.
He pulled her in closer, and could tell that she tried to lose herself in the music, but he’d seen her slow dance before and she’d been a whole lot less stiff. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s something.”
“You can move,” she said so begrudgingly that she made him laugh.
“Yeah?”
She let out a small smile. “Yeah.”
“How’s that a problem?”
She didn’t answer, and he returned her smile and pressed his mouth to her ear. “You want me bad. One of these days you’re going to admit it.”
“Just because you look damn fine on the dance floor doesn’t mean I want you.”
“But you do.”
She had no response to that. Nor did she protest when he drew her in even closer so that she was flush against him.
“Smooth,” she managed. “For a jock.”
He laughed softly against her temple, because cool as she sounded, her body trembled. “How about this?”
“What?”
He pulled her in even closer, still moving to the beat, a different one now, one that matched the same beat of his pulse and the blood pounding through his veins as he slid a hand nice and slow up her slim spine.
“Oh, boy,” she whispered, telling him she was in as much trouble as he.
“Tell the truth, Sam. This feels good.”
She paused. “It’s okay.”
“You are such a liar. A gorgeous one though, I’ll give you that.” His hand skimmed down again, just beneath the hem of her short, fitted jacket, low on her back, against the silk of her blouse. He slid a finger just beneath the waistband of her skirt and got bare skin.
In his arms, she shivered.
God, he wanted to be alone with her. He wanted that more than anything. “Maybe the elevator will get stuck again—”
“Wade.” She shook her head. “I . . .”
“I know.” Beneath her jacket, low on her spine, his fingers continued to play with her warm, and getting warmer, skin. “Bad idea, right?”
“The worst.”
“The paps are watching.”
“I think we’ve given them plenty,” she said, and when the song ended, she pulled free, met his gaze, her own hooded. “I’m sorry, Wade. I’m maxed out on the pretending. Excuse me a minute, okay?” And with a shaky smile, she walked off the floor. She passed by their table, grabbed her purse, then headed toward the building.
Don’t do it, he told himself. Don’t follow her. The food is coming . . .
Shit.
He followed Sam through the back door, into the huge, upscale kitchen area where the servers were quickly and efficiently—and frantically—working to get the food out to the guests. Wade looked at all the delicious steak, then to Sam’s quickly retreating back. Dammit. “Sam—”
She didn’t slow, leaving him with a life-altering decision. Steak or the woman?
With a grim sigh, he went after her, through a maze of kitchen areas and stopped, momentarily stymied by a restroom door clearly labeled Women a
s it swung shut in his face. Well, hell. He shoved his hands in his pockets, thought forlornly of the steak probably heading to his table right this second and sighed. “Sam.”
He got the big nothing, and put a hand on the door. “Is there anyone in there with you?”
A server ducked past him, then skidded to a stop, clearly recognizing him. “Wow,” she said breathless. She wiped her hands on her apron and grinned. “Wade O’Riley.”
“Hey,” he said. “How’s it going?”
She watched him take his hand off the door. “It’s a single stall,” she told him. “You don’t have to knock to go in, if it’s unlocked, it’s unoccupied. Help yourself, though the men’s restroom is just around the corner. Hey, did you know you’re even cuter in person?”
He was never quite sure what to say to stuff like that, but she didn’t seem to need a response.
“I got to see game two of the playoffs last year,” she said. “You guys were robbed, but my boyfriend says you’ll take it this year. I think so, too. Your position is my favorite. Catchers are tough, real badass.” She grinned. “You fit that bill, don’t you?”
Again, no idea what to say to that.
“Will you sign an autograph for me?”
Finally, something he had an answer for. “Sure.” He patted down his pockets but he didn’t have a pen.
“Here.” She pulled a ballpoint from her apron, and then turned her back, exposing the clean white cotton back of her server uniform. “Be sure to write ‘Love, Wade’ real big cuz it’ll drive my boyfriend bonkers.”
He’d had far odder requests, so he dutifully signed the back of her shirt, and with a happy wave at him, she was off.
Alone, he eyed the restroom door. Fuck it, he thought, and let himself in.
The server had been right, it was indeed a single stall, which was open and empty because Sam stood in front of the sink staring at herself in the mirror.
The restroom was as luxurious and elegant as the rest of the hotel, the walls painted in muted beachy colors, the tile floors and counter as sparkling and clean as the kitchens he’d just walked through to get here. “You owe me a steak,” he said, and came up behind her to meet her eyes in the mirror’s reflection. “Medium rare. Actually, make it two, with a baked potato, loaded. No veggies required.”
“This is the women’s restroom.”
“I know.” He looked around. “Not nearly as mysterious as I’d have thought. Where’s the lesbian party?”
She choked out a laugh that had him taking a second, longer look at her. She was seriously unnerved, and he had an idea that he was a fairly big part of that unnerving. He knew she had a lot going on: the high-powered job, a demanding family that, given the phone call he’d taken for her earlier, was about to become a lot more demanding.
But his tough-on-the-outside Sam was holding on to a surprisingly soft, tender, bruised heart on the inside, and it did something odd to his own heart. Setting his hands on her hips, he stepped close so that her back brushed his chest. He pressed his mouth to her neck, a motion that tugged a surprised breath out of her, just a little hum of helpless arousal that turned him upside down.
But though he was a lot of things, he wasn’t stupid, and he raised his head to meet her gaze in the mirror. “So. What are we doing in here?”
“I don’t know about you,” she said. “But I’m running a poll with my bad and good side.”
On whether to give into this attraction. “Do I get a vote?” he asked.
She didn’t so much as blink, and taking that as a yes, he reached out and hit the lock on the restroom, because his vote was for the bad side, every time.
Chapter 10
[A knuckleball is] a curve ball that doesn’t give a damn.
—Jimmy Cannon
Sam listened to the bolt on the bathroom slide home and resisted the urge to let out a half hysterical laugh. “Wade—”
“Do you remember what I said last night?” he asked. “What I need to hear from you?”
“Y-yes.” God, listen to her stutter. With a low laugh, she tossed up her hands and faced the truth. “I want you. Dammit . I don’t want to, but I do.” She blew out a breath. “There are a thousand reasons why this is stupid, a million, but—”
He whipped her around, cupped her face and kissed her—probably to shut her up.
It worked. Oh, good Lord, did it work. She’d been standing there staring in the mirror at a woman she didn’t recognize because she’d buried herself so deep behind the professional image that just a simple dance with a sexy guy, a guy who most definitely wanted to strip her out of her professional image, had terrified her.
So where was the ice princess now? Because she couldn’t find her, not when she’d been standing in here alone wondering where the hell the good parts of her life had gone, and sure as hell not now that she was hauled up against the very warm, very hard body of the man she’d been fantasizing about for months.
“God, Sam,” he murmured huskily against her mouth. “God. Kiss me back.”
In that very beat it all tumbled together, her fear, her restlessness, her loneliness, and it turned into something else entirely.
Sheer, unadulterated need.
So much that she shook with it, and she dropped her purse to wrap her arms around his neck, for the first time in her life, doing as he asked.
She kissed him back.
It wrenched a rough groan from deep in his throat and this time he whipped them both around, pinning her to the wall as he kissed her, kissed her like he’d never kissed her before, as if she was so much more than the woman he’d happened to get caught on an elevator with, or a woman he was merely pretending to care for.
He kissed her as if she meant something to him, and it wrenched her heart wide open as she gave him the same back, what she’d never given before, which was to say everything.
He pressed into her, using the wall as leverage to free up his hands, which made great use of their liberation as he slid his fingers into her hair, angling her head to better suit him while he continued to devour her. Then suddenly he lifted his head, looking deep into her eyes, his dark and slumberous and sexy as he stared at her.
“What?” she whispered.
“Nothing. I just wanted to see you, see if you’re half as gone as I am.” His gaze swept her face and softened. “You are.”
“I’m—” She closed her mouth on the lie, instead giving out a miserable nod. He let out a low sympathetic laugh before he came at her again, settling his mouth firmly over hers while she sank her fingers into his hair and clutched at him.
Yes. Yes, she was just as gone as he was, crazy as that seemed. She had no idea how long they went at each other, all she knew was that her toes were curling, her hips rocking to his, and she’d never, ever, felt as far “gone” as she did in that moment, like if he so much as touched her skin to skin she was going to burst into an instantaneous orgasm.
