Player(49)

Three seconds. That was how long it took for the door to open. I knew because I’d started counting the moment the last knock sounded.

And there he was, standing in the doorframe, tall and dark and gorgeous. And smiling. At me.

The apartment behind him was dim. Music floated out to greet me, though it was too soft to make out. Something that sounded a little like instrumental hip-hop but with more soul. Slower, easier. Sexier.

Sex. Naked sex with naked Sam and naked me and—ohmygod, what am I doing here?

His face changed the second the thought entered my mind, his eyes determined, smoldering and decisive. And without a single word, before I could even register what happened, he swept me up in his arms and kissed me.

It seemed to be a favorite trick of his—to read me, understand me, and soothe every fear with a touch, a kiss, a word. He knew exactly what to say, exactly what to do. It was his version of a magic trick, and I was the lucky lady from the audience chosen to join him onstage.

By the time he broke the kiss, my wits were too scrambled to think of much at all. One of the many things I’d learned was that it was hard to be afraid when you were making out. And the escape from my skittering thoughts was impossibly enticing.

“You wore my favorite dress.” His voice was rough.

I wasn’t even sure I had one to use at all, so I nodded.

He thumbed my chin. “Don’t be scared, Val,” he said gently, with reassurance I felt all the way through me, calming me like a snake charmer would a cobra.

When he kissed me again, I sank into him, let my fears go. And they floated away.

I didn’t notice much beyond the places where our bodies touched—the shuffle of our feet, the click of the door closing, the rasp of fabric as he took off my jacket. I didn’t know where he put it.

I couldn’t have cared less.

Through his apartment he guided me, though I didn’t see a thing. My eyes never opened. Our lips never parted.

It wasn’t until he closed his lips and backed away that I finally pried my eyelids apart to meet his gaze.

This room was almost dark as well, the lights turned low, the music the same volume as it was in the other rooms. The furniture sat low to the ground, clean and simple, modern without being cold. Luxurious without pretension.

We stood in his bedroom, at the foot of his bed, which was swathed in dove grays, creams and whites, soft and downy and inviting.

I kept my eyes on his, my thoughts turning to the task at hand. My task.

“I…I don’t know how to start,” I said tentatively, quietly.

“Lesson one.” His hands ran over the curves of my shoulders and down my arms. “Don’t overthink it. What do you want to do, Val? What do you want to feel?”

My hands slid up his chest as I searched my mind. “Your skin,” I said, testing the words. “I’ve imagined what it’s like to feel your skin under my fingertips. How it would feel against my skin.”

“Then find out.” He took my hand and placed it on his chest.

I took a breath to slow my heart. Down his torso my hands skated until they reached the hem of his shirt, hesitating for only a beat before slipping into the space between.

Skin, warm against my palm, soft to the touch and hard underneath. Fingers sliding up the planes and valleys of his abs. His shirt hem hooked in my wrists, riding them as my hungry hands roamed higher. To the curve of his pecs, the disc of muscle, the hard tips of his nipples.

He reached back between his shoulder blades and grabbed a handful of shirt, pulling it over his head. A current of his scent followed the motion, more soap than spice. But I could smell the man underneath, a hint of something indistinguishable and wholly male, something that sank into me and twisted.

Sam’s hands were on my waist, my hips, moving but never interfering. My eyes could only scan the topography of his body, the cords of muscles that made the curves of his shoulders, his biceps, his forearms.

I had seen men naked before. But Sam wasn’t a man. He was a myth or a god, an ancient prince. A fable.

“Now what do you want?” he asked, his voice rough and low.

His callused fingertips caught the chiffon of my dress, and the fabric clung to them didn’t want him to let go. I found I knew the feeling

“Kiss me,” I answered, not knowing where to go next, “and do something you want.”

He drew in a breath. I leaned in, my hands resting on the swells of his chest as he brought his lips to mine.

I could have lost myself in that kiss like a ship in a hurricane, never to be heard from again.

He only released me to trail kisses across my jaw to my earlobe, down my neck. But it was his hands that drew all my attention as they trailed up my ribs and to my breasts. For a moment, he held them both, squeezed his fingers, his palms pressed them to each other, tested their weight and give and density. One thumb brushed my nipple, drawing it tight before disappearing on a track for my zipper at the back of my dress.

The vibration as it lowered echoed through my ribs in a shudder.

“I want your skin,” he said, closing his lips over the flesh just under my ear. His tongue swept, his teeth grazed. “I want this,” he whispered into the curve of my ear as he palmed my breast, “naked in my hand. Can I have it?”

“Yes,” I whispered, my nipple tightening even more against his palm, answering for itself.

“This dress. I love this dress.” His hand slipped into the gap of my zipper. With the snap of his fingers, my bra was unclasped and loose. “I’ll love it even better when it’s on the floor.”