“Sam?” He wondered if she ever felt off herself. Probably not. She had her shit together. She was cool as ice, baby, ice, and never doubted herself.
And she sure as hell didn’t want a guy like him. Because what was it she’d said? He wasn’t keeper material. “Princess?”
“Shh. She’s sleeping.”
He padded toward the voice, tripped over something, and hit the floor. Reaching out, he realized he’d fallen over his own shoes. “Marco…”
“Polo,” she said on a sigh. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah.” He followed the voice to the small, narrow couch and stood above her, blinking through the dark. “What are you doing there?”
“Trying to sleep. You should try it.”
“Okay.” But he didn’t move. “Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“You being here with me, it’s really just pretend, right?”
“Take the bed, Wade.”
“Yeah. Just pretend,” he said, nodding. He’d known it, but he seemed to keep forgetting.
“You’re still wet. You’re dripping on me.”
“Sorry.” He crouched at her side and put out a hand, which settled on her belly. She was warm and soft and wearing something silky smooth. He bent his head and nuzzled his face against her throat. “You smell good,” he whispered. “You always smell good.”
A small, inarticulate sound escaped her, and for a beat he went still as it reverberated through him. Then he pressed his mouth to the sweet spot right beneath her ear, listening as she made the sound again.
It wasn’t annoyance, not that breathy little sigh. Nope, even drunk, he knew it was arousal. To make sure, he used his teeth this time, a light grazing over her flesh and she shivered. She moaned, too, though she did her best to suck it back in, but it was too late. “I heard that,” he said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You moaned.”
“I did not.”
God, she was so soft. He flicked his tongue at her earlobe, and then sucked it into his mouth, giving it a little nip, too, one that had her hissing in a breath as she lifted a hand, running it down his bare back as if she needed to touch him.
It did him in, and he shifted, kissing his way to the very corner of her mouth. “Admit it, Sam. You want me.”
She admitted exactly nothing, but dug her fingers into the small of his back.
“I want you,” he confessed, and nipped her jaw. “Bad enough to be getting rug burns already.”
“Then stop.”
He could. He should. But her breathing had accelerated, and beneath his hand, her abs quivered, softening for him now in a way she never did.
And he got it. “This in the dark thing, it’s right up your alley.”
“What’s all that alcohol in your brain talking about?”
He kissed her jaw, loving how she arched her neck to give him more room, and that her breathing had become the loudest thing in the room. “You like this because it’s anonymous.” He kissed her. “Nothing too deep.”
Another shaky breath escaped her and her hands finally came up to cup his face. “You’re one to talk.”
“Admit it. You want me as bad as I want you.” His mouth was so close to hers that his lips lightly brushed hers, barely touching until, with a hungry little sound, she tightened her grip, gliding her fingers into his hair, pulling his mouth down to hers.
The kiss went from sweet to wild in less than two seconds, egged on by her frustration and his own inexplicable loneliness and the way she held on to him, letting out the sexiest little murmur, as if there was nothing, absolutely nothing better than his mouth on hers.
But he had a point, and he was trying to make it. Sure the alcohol had slowed him down some, as well as the utter sexiness wrapped around him now, which went by the name of Samantha McNead-but he managed to get it together and slowly pull back.
Her mouth tried to follow his, and he groaned, his thumbs stroking over her jaw. “Just admit you’re into this little game, Princess. And then we can have our fun.”
“There is no game. This is just our job, what we both as consenting adults agreed to do.” She sat up, nearly bumping heads with him in the dark. “But I didn’t agree to
“You lose,” she muttered, and tossed him a blanket, which hit him in the face.
He sighed as he fell back onto the couch. Hard as a rock.
And all alone.
Chapter 8
The tradition of professional baseball always has been agreeably free of chivalry. The rule is, “Do anything you can get away with.”
Sam woke up to the sound of rustling and squinted at the clock. One in the morning. The rustling was Wade. She could see his tall, built outline walking to the door. “What are you doing?”
“I’m hungry.”
Of course he was.
“I ordered a pizza and I hear the guy coming.”
Sure enough, a soft knock came at the door. The room service waiter handed Wade a box of pizza and Wade handed him some cash.
Sam sat up, nose wriggling at the scent of melted cheese and sauce, and, if she wasn’t mistaken, pepperoni. Her stomach rumbled. “Smells good.”
Wade switched the light on in the bathroom, which bathed the room with a soft glow. His broad shadow gleamed in the pale light, his hair rumpled from sleep. In nothing but dark blue knit boxers, he slouched on the couch, opened the box, and sank his teeth into a big piece. Moaning, he closed his eyes. “Oh, yeah.”
Sam’s mouth watered.
He took another bite and she couldn’t take it. “Um, hi.”
He looked up and took in her cream spaghetti-strapped silk nightie. His eyes darkened. “Hi.”
“You going to share?”
“If you are.”
She weighed the danger of letting him into the bed with the promise of the mouth-watering pizza. She wasn’t afraid Wade would push himself on her. Rather she was afraid she’d push herself on him. But then her stomach told her brain to shut up, and she scooted over. With a grin, he joined her, fluffing the pillows against the headboard to make them both comfortable before offering the box with an innocent smile that didn’t fool her one little bit. “You were going to share before I made room for you,” she said.
“Maybe.” He made sure that they were skin to skin as he polished off his first piece and looked at her. “Hope you haven’t forgotten that you owe me.”
“For…?”
“Coaching you at the game.”
“Let me guess,” she said dryly. “Monkey sex?”
