Just One Night: Sex, Love & Stiletto Series (11 page)

“Sure,” he said giving her an understanding look.

The look he gave Sam was much less tender, but Sam didn’t bother to look apologetic. He lifted his hand and gave an annoying little finger wiggle at the other man.
See ya
.

Riley turned back around to face Sam once Brent was gone, and he realized he’d been wrong. She may have planned for this, but it didn’t mean she wasn’t a little pissed. Okay, a
lot
pissed, he amended as he took in the fire in her eyes.

“Okay, you’ve got your
minute
,” she said, emphasizing the last word.

Translation:
Make it fast
.

Don’t worry
. He would.

He jerked his head toward her father’s rarely used study, and her expression went slightly wary before she rolled her eyes and marched her tight ass into the little space at the front of the house.

After a quick glance confirmed they were alone, Sam followed.

“There’s no room in here,” she muttered.

Sure enough, Josh’s “office” was more of a Christmas storage/unused furniture/abandoned craft-supply storeroom.

He nudged her in anyway, shutting the door so it was just the two of them in the crowded space. The late-afternoon sunshine caught on her dangling earrings, and Sam focused on that. It was a hell of a lot easier than focusing on her face.

“What do you want, Sam?” she asked, her voice bored, her eyes uninterested.

He searched her features. Had he been wrong? Had Brent been something more than a tool to make him jealous? His gut said no, but his heart wasn’t sure he wanted the risk.

And his body … 
hell
. Maybe privacy hadn’t been what he and Riley needed right now. In fact, as he watched her chest rise and fall beneath her low-cut red sweater, he was suddenly sure that privacy was the
last
thing they needed.

“What’s the mute caveman thing?” she asked, lifting her eyebrows. “I told my mom I’d
help do the dishes, and then I need to get back to the city to do my edits due tomorrow—”

Dishes?
She was seriously thinking about dishes right now? He was ready to explode, and she was talking about goddamned chores?

Well,
he
had something else in mind. Something a whole lot more pressing than dishes.

Don’t do this, man
, he ordered himself. He’d promised Liam. He’d promised himself.

He was no good for her, and one of them was going to get hurt.

“Right. Okay then,” she muttered, trying to edge around him, her hand going for the doorknob.

Let her go
.

He couldn’t.

Sam’s hand found her wrist before she could turn the knob, and they both froze, their breath coming fast and heavy.

His thumb moved over her palm, and she gasped at the touch. He knew what she was feeling. They’d done a damn good job of avoiding physical contact over the years, and
this
was why.

“Sam—”

He moved then, pressing her into the door, his eyes locking on hers for a split second before his hand went around the back of her neck and he lowered his head.

And then he kissed her.

Holy hell, he was kissing Riley McKenna.

It was wrong, and a mistake and every kind of fucked up, and yet all he could think was
finally
.

She let out a shaky little breath, and his tongue swept in as he tilted her head back, lips twisting, tongues tangling as he moved against her, pinning her more firmly against the door.

Her hands moved to his shoulders, and for a heart-wrenching moment he thought she’d push him away. But then her fingers dug into his shirt, tugging him closer.

It was like he was a teenager all over again, finally getting his hands on the hottest girl in school.

Only the hottest girl in school was his best friend’s baby sister, and he was sure to fail at this, just like he failed at everything.

He pulled back just enough to search her face.

Both of them were gasping, and her hand went to his face, her fingers lightly brushing his lower lip. “It’s about time.”

He closed his eyes briefly. “You know this is insane.”

Instead of responding, she gazed back at him smugly, looking a lot more sure about this—about
them
—than he was. “Well, Brent’s probably just now getting to the train station. I bet I can catch him.”

Sam growled and kissed her again, hard and fast.

She kissed him back, just as hot, before her hand went to his chest and pushed. “So you’re going to be the guy? You’re going to help me with my article? I’m not in a serious relationship, and I can’t just write about any old guy and make it personal …”

No
.

Yes
.

Just …
hell.

“Why can’t you be a kindergarten teacher or something? Why do you have to be a goddamned
sex
writer?”

She smiled, her fingers lightly scratching his bare arms. He was more than a little tempted to take her right here and right now. But they were in a room with her father’s old radio and her mother’s nativity scene, and there was a fake Christmas tree one wrong move from digging into his ass.

“Riley—”

“Say yes, Sam,” she said, interrupting him. “Don’t make me do this with another guy.”

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on hers.

“Please,” she whispered. “I want it to be you.”

Shit
.

It was one thing to deny himself all these years. It was no more or less than he deserved.

But to deny
Riley
?

He couldn’t. Had never been able to.

“We’re going to regret this,” he said when he opened his eyes and gazed at her.

Her eyes lit up at the implicit acquiescence in his words.

“Maybe,” she said softly. “But we’re going to have a lot of fun doing it.”

Normally a first date with a new guy called for girl talk.

For years, Riley had been counting on Julie and Grace to tell her if her emerald silk dress with the plunging neckline was too trampy for a first date (yes), or if her new boot-cut jeans were too casual for a fancy dinner at Per Se (also yes).

Julie and Grace, and more recently Emma, were her dating mentors.

But tonight she was on her own.

Because there was no good way to tell even your best friends that you were about to end a ridiculously long sexual hiatus with …

Well, whatever Sam was to her.
Friend
seemed inadequate.

Especially after that kiss at her parents’ house.

Turned out no amount of daydreaming could prepare one for the real thing, because Riley had definitely not been ready for whatever it was she felt when he backed her against that door.

It had been planned, of course. She’d known that Brent would try to kiss her. And she’d been pretty sure that Sam would follow them into the foyer at her parents’ house. Right on both counts.

But she’d only meant to goad Sam into reconsidering her offer.
Stiletto
had taught her enough about machismo and male possessiveness to know that even if Sam wasn’t entirely sure that he wanted her, he wouldn’t want
Brent
to have her.

She’d been right.

Too
right.

Because no part of her had been prepared for how one kiss would make her want to end her sexual hiatus right there in her parents’ makeshift storage room. In the span of two minutes, Riley felt what she’d been waiting years to feel with other guys—that uncontrollable, take-me-now surge of want.

She got it now. She understood what it felt like to
need
another person.

Trouble was, she didn’t know what would happen after this. If the kiss had had that kind of effect, the next step just might kill her.

Because Riley was scared to death that just one night with Sam Compton wouldn’t be enough. That the longing she needed to put to rest would only be ignited when she slept with him, and she’d spend the rest of her life comparing every other man to him.

She understood now what Julie felt for Mitchell, and what Grace felt for Jake, and if her intuition was right, what Emma felt for Alex Cassidy underneath that layer of southern frost.

She just wished she knew how to shut it
off
.

Also on her list of Riley’s being an idiot?

Agreeing to let him take her
out
. There was to be no greeting him at the door wearing nothing but a negligee and a smile, with maybe a wee bit of wine to help with the nerves.

Oh no
.

No, no, Sam Compton apparently had a gentlemanly core beneath those sexy rough edges, because he’d insisted on a date.

And she still didn’t even understand why, because all he’d done was grumble,
something something, not a goddamned booty call
.

Riley slammed her closet door shut. A booty call was exactly what this was supposed to be. It was easier to put a booty call behind you. But a date?

Men and their morals.

She checked herself in the mirror. Short black skirt, stacked-heel boots, a red halter top.

And some very
decadent
black lingerie.

Too bad the lingerie didn’t have a Valium dispenser for her nerves.

This was about sex. Just sex. She needed to keep it clinical. Just phalluses and wombs, and …

“Oh for God’s sake, McKenna. Get it together,” she muttered, grabbing her purse off the chair and heading out the door.

She was just locking up when she remembered that she hadn’t washed the sheets. Hell, she hadn’t even made her bed. And there might or might not be a candy bar wrapper …

But maybe that was better. If it didn’t look like she was trying too hard—or at all—maybe he wouldn’t catch on to the fact that
she didn’t know what the hell she was doing
.

Fifteen minutes later she paid the cabdriver and stepped into the Lower East Side bar he’d picked out. She’d never heard of it and had been half terrified that he’d choose some snotty, upscale place that was all wrong for him just because he thought
she
wanted it.

But the bar was perfect. The worn wood floors kept it approachable, and the minimal lighting made it sexy without being over the top.

It was the ultimate first-date spot.

Oh God
.

She was on a first
date
with Sam Compton. The thought almost had her backing out the door.

Then she saw him.

Sam sat at the far end of the bar, wearing his usual jeans and the black sweater her sister had bought him for Christmas. He was nursing what she assumed to be some sort of whisky, looking completely at ease and not at all like he was about to make a run for the bathroom the way she wanted to.

He shot a look over his shoulder, and then his mouth kicked up in the corner before he turned back to his conversation with the bartender.

Riley instantly relaxed.

It was Sam. The same old Sam. She could do this.

“You look surprised to see me,” he said, pulling out a bar stool for her as she settled next to him. “Did you think I was going to chicken out?”

“Nah, but I was a
little
terrified you were going to show up in a borrowed suit while ordering fancy champagne.”

He snorted. “You overestimate your charms, McKenna. However, I
did
put on deodorant. You’re welcome.”

Riley fanned herself with the bar menu she’d snatched up. “You must have to beat the women off.”

She froze as soon as the words escaped. “Oh God.
You’re
not seeing anyone, are you?”

Sam gave her a dark look. “You really think I’d agree to your stupid sex plan if I was seeing someone else?”

“You mad I ruined things with Angela?”

“Nah. Wasn’t really going to work out anyway, you know?”

“Um, yeah. I’ve had one or two of those,” she said dryly.

“Brent?” he asked.

She shifted nervously. “Um, Brent was …”

“A tool to make me comply with your plan?”

“I
knew
you knew,” she muttered, before turning to order her drink. She wasn’t exactly thrilled to have used Brent, but she’d assuaged her conscience slightly by setting him up with one of
Stiletto
’s copy editors.

One of
Stiletto
’s very
cute
copy editors, who was just vain enough to not mind that Brent occasionally checked his reflection in silverware.

It didn’t really surprise her that Sam had figured out her plan. What
did
surprise her was that he’d known about it the whole time, and still let himself go along with it.

Interesting
.

“So you’re not seeing Brent, and I’m not seeing anyone,” he said as the bartender placed the Manhattan in front of her.

Riley tapped the tip of her nose with her finger. “Nothing gets by you.”

He let out a long-suffering sigh. “I’m glad to see that you’re not any less difficult to get along with when you’re about to sleep with a guy.”

Her pulse skipped into overdrive. She’d sat with Sam so many times like this over the years, that she’d almost—
almost
—forgotten the reason they were here.

She felt him studying her.

“You’re jumpy,” he said. “For someone who does this for a living …”

“Now hold on there,” she snapped. “I don’t
do this
for a living. I
write
about sex for a living, I don’t
have
sex for a living. There’s a huge difference.”

“Is there?”

You have no idea
. “Yes. One’s a journalist and one’s a hooker.”

“You’d make a terrible hooker,” he muttered.

“Taking that as a compliment.”

“Wasn’t meant as one. You’d be an awful prostitute because you’re too mouthy.”

She gave him a hooded look. “Mouthy’s a bad thing?”

Sam merely rolled his eyes. “Leave it to the sex journalist to pounce on double entendres.”

Riley refused to let herself scowl. He wasn’t at
all
acting like a man overcome with lust. Instead he was acting like a slightly disgruntled friend who’d been asked for a favor. In fact, she’d seen
this
version of Sam a number of times before. For example, when he’d grudgingly
helped her move. Or when he came over to fix her garbage disposal because her landlord was in Russia.