In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(15)

She could not meet his eyes. “Ah, yes. The very one.”

He nodded. “Congratulations. Sounds like a dream job. I know San Anselmo. Spent time there when I was a kid, with family. Beautiful place, right on the coast. When did you say you were leaving?”

“Thursday,” she said. “I’m speaking on Saturday.”

His gaze was unwavering. “Okay. Help me out, Sveti. Explain why you’re here. You’re not here to put me out of my misery. You’re here to ratchet it up as much as you humanly can, right?”

She forced air out of her chest. “No.” Her voice was a breathless squeak. “But if it’s too awful to endure, you can just throw me out.”

He was shaking his head before she finished. “Too late for that,” he said. “Just tell me what’s expected of me. You don’t want a boyfriend. That’s crystal clear. So what do you want? A sex toy?”

She winced. “No, I want . . . I want . . .” She floundered for words. “I want a friend who . . . who—”

“Who f*cks you,” he finished. “You want my f*cking services just for the night? Or do you want them extended until Thursday? My calendar’s clear. I can f*ck you nonstop until Thursday, no problem. Or is that too long term? Is a forty-eight-hour f*ck commitment too scary?”

She lunged for the door. “Never mind, if you’re so disgusted—”

“Oh, no.” He seized her from behind and startled warmth jolted her body. She’d been primed to shove his arms away, but instead, her fingernails dug hungrily into the thick muscles of his forearms.

As if she were punishing him. Or claiming him.

“You’re not going.” His voice rasped against her throat. “Your fate is sealed. Just tell me what you want. Help me not to screw this up.”

She inhaled, hungrily. Aftershave, soap, cologne, beer, the faint, salty tang of his sweat. “I want more of what happened today,” she said. “More of what happened in Bruno’s office. I thought you wanted it, too.”

His arms tightened. “Sure I do. But what happened today was me trying to seduce you into being my girlfriend, and hopefully more in the future. That was me going out on a limb. If you don’t want that, the vibe changes. I can no longer afford to really give a shit. You get me?”

“Yes,” she said. “But you don’t . . . want me to go?”

“No, I don’t want you to go.” He pulled her closer, his breath warming her neck. “You’re cold. Where the hell’s your jacket?”

“I’m okay,” she whispered.

“Can I get you a beer?”

She didn’t care for beer, but a drink might relax her. She nodded and followed him into the kitchen. Which was clean, for a single guy.

He pulled out a longneck bottle, popped the cap, and handed it to her. She put it to her lips, trying not to grimace at the sour taste.

He gave her a wry smile. “That good, huh? You prefer a lighter beer? I think I’ve got a lager in there somewhere. A Corona, maybe.”

“I’m not much of a beer person,” she said. “But it’s fine.”

That smile activated the long, sexy grooves that flanked his mouth. She’d found an actual printed picture of him once, in a pack that had documented Edie and Kev’s son Jon as he learned to walk. Jon was toddling adorably in the foreground while Sam grinned down at him, beer in hand, sexy eye crinkles on full display. Oh, God, that smile.

She’d stolen the picture. Sneaked it home, to pore over, like a brainless schoolgirl. To say nothing of the insanely large collection of Sam JPEGs on her cell phone. If he only knew how many there were, he would probably be afraid of her. And justly so. The crazy, obsessed girl.

Sam took a swallow of his beer, his gaze traveling over her body with the slow deliberation of a man who had every right to examine.

“A beer looks wrong with that dress,” he commented. “You should have a champagne flute, or a martini glass. You want some brandy?”

She gulped another mouthful of beer, nervously. “This is fine.”

He reached to pull out the pins that anchored her hair, and unraveled it, spreading it over her shoulders. “That’s better,” he said. “I’ve been wanting to do that for years.”

He reached out with the hand that held his beer bottle, and with his extended pinkie, he hooked the shoulder strap and tugged it down.

They stared at her bare shoulder and the dangling strap. She couldn’t breathe. He raised the bottle, condensation dripping down the brown glass, and touched her chest with it, right over her breastbone.

She dragged in a breath. “Cold,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “You’ve been so cold. But check this out.” He trailed the edge of the bottle over her cleavage. A merciless smile curved his mouth as she shivered. “Look what it does to your nipple. The contradictory effect of all that coldness. That’s how it’s been for me.” He gently tugged until the soft fabric snagged on her taut nipple.

“Please,” she said raggedly. “It’s too cold.”

“Don’t worry.” His voice was suede soft. “My mouth is hot. I’ll fix it. Suffer a little first. God knows, I have.” He seized her hand. Kissed her palm, her knuckles. “Pull the dress down. Show me your tits again.” His deep, raspy voice sparked shivers along the surface of her skin.