Slow Heat Read online

  bed. While the phone was ringing in her ear, two big, warm hands settled on her shoulders and started kneading, and before she could stop herself, she’d let out a low, heartfelt moan.

  “You’ve got an entire rock quarry in here,” he murmured, going right for her tight, tension knots and digging in as his mouth settled on the nape of her neck.

  Oh God, she was melting. “Stop. I can’t talk when you do that—”

  “Then don’t.” Reaching around her, he took the phone from her fingers and hung it up.

  “I was trying to get a roll-away bed.”

  “Roll-aways are pieces of shit.”

  “But—”

  “Shhh.”

  His fingers were long and strong and firm, and knew exactly where to press to turn her limbs into overcooked noodles. Unable to stop herself, she sank to the chair, closing her eyes at his soft, knowing laugh.

  “I make you weak in the knees,” he said silkily.

  “No, your hands make me weak in the knees.”

  He laughed again. “I might be buzzed, but not too buzzed to know that you are such a liar.”

  And then he pulled his hands free.

  She nearly cried at the loss, but got herself together. When she turned to look at him, he was headed for the bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt, which he shrugged off halfway there.

  She told herself not to stare but he truly had the most glorious physique. His back was all sleek, smooth, bronzed flesh, sinew rippling as he moved—“Hey!” she said as his pants dropped. He kicked free and kept walking, in nothing but black knit boxers. “What are you doing?” she squeaked, even as her gaze soaked up the fact that he had a tan line, and that the waistband of his boxers had slipped past it, revealing a tantalizing strip of paler, smooth, tight skin. “We’re not doing this, Wade O’Riley. Do you hear me? This is all pretend, remember?”

  “I remember. The question is, do you?” He sent her a cheeky grin over his shoulder.

  “Put your clothes back on!”

  “Taking a shower.”

  And then he dropped his boxers.

  Oh, sweet baby Jesus.“Don’t drown,” she murmured, watching the most excellent ass in all the land vanish behind the door. She heard the shower go on and leaned back in the chair, letting out a long, shaky breath.

  She was in big trouble.

  All the way around.

  Wade sobered up a bit in the shower. The nice alcohol daze couldn’t stand up to the pressing thoughts bumping around in his brain like bumper cars.

  Mark getting married.

  His father drunk-dialing him . . .

  There was also a disturbing ache in his bones, suggesting his body was damn tired, and maybe, just maybe at age thirty-two, also damn old. With Opening Day less than forty-eight hours away, that couldn’t be good, but that problem would have to get in line.

  He hadn’t meant to get toasted tonight, but Mark had been so goddamned happy and over the moon, and looking at him had made Wade feel just a little envious.

  Mark had a life. A real life, one that went deeper than nights out with the guys and the occasional hot woman in his bed, one that went past what ESPN had to say about his athletic prowess.

  One that wasn’t defined by what he did for a living.

  Feeling a little off his game, he got out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his hips, and opened the bathroom door.

  Complete darkness greeted him.

  “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 this. I’m sorry, Wade, but it ends here. It has to. Our last fun took me a year to get over.” And with that shockingly revealing statement, she rose, and then he heard her flop onto the bed.

  “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.