Dirty Sexy Saint (Dirty Sexy #1)(12)
Her chest heaved with frustration, and Clay couldn’t say that he minded the slight trembling of her unbound breasts beneath the T-shirt. She had great tits, generous and full enough to squeeze in his hands or cushion his thick cock as he tunneled his shaft between that soft flesh. Yeah, he’d spent the better part of last night tossing and turning on his couch, fantasizing about all the dirty, filthy ways he’d like to f*ck her. The way her nipples would taste in his mouth, the feel of her long, gorgeous legs clutching around his hips as she came on a soft, sweet moan…
“I won’t let anyone dictate who I spend the rest of my life with,” she said, clearing those distracting thoughts from Clay’s mind. “Especially not my father.”
He forced his gaze to remain on her face. “So, you ran away from home?” he said, his tone light and teasing.
“Yes,” she said, suddenly looking defeated. “I’m twenty-six years old, and that sounds so…juvenile. And yet it’s one hundred percent accurate.” Sighing, she combed her fingers through her wavy hair and winced as they caught on the still-tangled strands. “I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve relied on my parents for everything.” She didn’t meet his gaze. “Honestly, I should have left a long time ago, and I hate that I’ve let them run my life for this long.”
His coffee had gone cold, and he absently traced a finger around the rim of his cup. “So, now that you’ve left home, what do you intend to do?”
“I didn’t have a plan beyond getting away,” she admitted, then worried her teeth along her lower lip as her serious gaze met and held his. “I still don’t. And I know this is more than I have a right to ask…but can I stay here until I can figure things out?” she asked quickly, the words tumbling from her lush lips. “I won’t be in your way. I can sleep on the couch, and I swear you won’t even know I’m around.”
Oh, f*ck no. This woman was already wreaking havoc on his self-control. He couldn’t imagine her crashing in this tiny apartment, filling it with her scent, using his shower, tempting him with her mere presence.
But before he could nix her idea, she quickly continued on.
“My father did cut me off. Completely. I have no money, no place to stay, and I can’t even pay for a hotel room or a meal.” She winced in embarrassment, and her hands fidgeted in her lap before she set them back on the table. “Obviously, I didn’t think things through last night, but I don’t regret leaving home, and I’m determined to make it on my own. I can work at your bar to make some money until I save enough to find a place of my own, which shouldn’t take long. Please?” She raised those big eyes to him.
Was she f*cking kidding? No, the look in her wide blue eyes was completely serious and so damned determined. A part of him admired that fortitude of hers, but one look at her perfectly manicured fingernails and the soft skin on her pampered hands, and he knew she was the last person he’d ever hire to work in his bar. Within a few hours, her hands would be chapped and dry, her nails chipped, and her uncalloused feet would be screaming for relief.
She’d be an entertaining novelty to all his regular customers, and with all that wavy blonde hair, those big, guileless blue eyes, and her killer curves, she’d pose a major distraction to every man who entered the bar. As the new girl, she’d be the focus of rude comments and bold, assertive hands that wouldn’t hesitate to test her limits.
The younger crowd at Kincaid’s was rowdy, mouthy, and after a few drinks too many, they were *s who didn’t give a shit that Clay had a hands-off policy when it came to the women who worked for him. Tara and his other bar waitresses could handle the more aggressive advances. But Samantha? She’d be like fresh, tasty meat to a tank full of hungry sharks. She’d never survive.
She really needed to go home. “Samantha, I don’t think—”
“Clay, please,” she interrupted him before he could say no, her voice as soft and pleading as the look in her eyes. “I just need someone to give me the chance to prove myself.”
And she was asking for that someone to be him.
He scrubbed a hand down his face and along his taut jaw. Her words were an echo from Clay’s own past, hitting him where he was the most emotionally susceptible. Please, Jerry, just give me the chance to show you what a hard worker I am, a teenaged Clay had begged. I swear, you won’t be sorry.
Jerry had given him that chance, had believed in him—the bastard child of a known crack whore—when no one else would. And that one kind gesture had completely changed Clay’s, and his brothers’, lives.
He didn’t believe a job in his bar would alter Samantha’s life in quite the same way, but he understood how difficult it was to ask someone for help when you were at your lowest. And for Samantha, this was rock bottom.
His gut told him he was about to make a monumental mistake in aiding this woman, but considering how resolute she was, he didn’t doubt that if he made her leave, she’d try and find some kind of work elsewhere, and there was no telling who would try and take advantage of her. And where would she live with no money or credit cards that worked? No phone or vehicle? Who would make sure that she stayed safe in this rough area of town?
Fuck. His Goddamn conscience wouldn’t allow him to turn her away and leave her to her own devices. A woman like her, who’d grown up in the lap of luxury, hadn’t spent her youth honing her survival instincts like he and his two younger brothers had. She was too vulnerable, too defenseless, and too trusting. And there were too many people out in the world who wouldn’t think twice about exploiting her naiveté.