“In other words, you can’t remember.” He rolled his eyes and pivoted toward the bar, again motioning for my refill. “And we prefer to be called orch dorks, thank you.”
With his attention directed away, I was free to gaze at him. He was in his element here, of that I was certain. This was his territory. He wasn’t standing back, waiting for me to give him some backstory on the band or venue, pointing out the best corner for sound and service, or introducing him to friends. He looked like a king gazing out over his court.
“You should give out wristbands or hand stamps so the women who’ve serviced you can find each other in a crowd. They’d probably form a support group,” I said. “At least a hashtag.”
He turned back, slowly dragging his eyes from the bar to me. He didn’t seem altogether pleased with my comments. “Ahashtag?”
I was uncomfortable here, and it was showing in my words. I felt out of place, as if I’d stumbled into the cool kids’ club and they were waiting for me to leave so they could get back to their regularly scheduled minion crushing.
“There’s enough of them. A couple hundred, right? You can’t be into four digits without getting seriously chafed. Do you have a balm for that?”
Sam stared at me, cool and still while I struggled to restrain all of my fidgeting. “Why are you asking?”
“I know you. I know what you like.” I gestured toward the artificially busty brunette who was lingering near our table. My boobs at least had the decency to be somewhat uneven, and they’d never knowthatlevel of perky. “Maybe you’d rather be with someone else.”
He glanced at the brunette, offered an incendiary smile then a quick head shake, an obvious “you are flawless but not tonight” command, and bent toward me, his arm braced on the edge of the table. “Do I need to remind you that your tits are incredible? Or that you’re absolutely fucking gorgeous?”
His hair looked darker under the club lights, but fine threads of auburn still shone through. It was brilliantly styled but I wanted my fingers in there. I wanted the imperfect Sam, the one who didn’t offer fake, overly animated smiles for every minor celebrity who stopped by the table for a bro-hug. The one who didn’t shave on the weekends, and wore ancient sweatshirts and jeans with thick, retro glasses to watch movies at my apartment.
“That isn’t a definitive statement.”
“It’s quite definitive,” he said. “And I don’t think you know everything, Sunshine.”
“Then maybe you should teach me something.”
His eyes widened and lingered on my lips. “Maybe you should tell me what you’d like to learn.”
I opened my mouth but the words stuck together in a choked groan. I wanted to know what his tattoos meant and what his tongue would do to me. I wanted to taste him, all of him, and I wanted to memorize the way he looked when he pushed inside me and when he orgasmed. I wanted to feel his weight on me, and I wanted to see his lips form the dirtiest words imaginable.
I wanted itall.
But I wanted a lot more than one night with him, and that wasn’t part of his protocol.
“I’m getting shots,” I announced, yelling despite the narrow distance between us.
“No,” he said, cringing. “I don’t want to wake up on the floor again.”
“That hasn’t happened in a long time.” I brought my hands to either side of his face. “But I’ll take better care of you tonight.”
Sam grabbed my elbows and held me in place. “Is that a promise?”
He brought his lips to mine, and I expected a quick, innocent kiss, but the moment we met, it changed.
A quiet growl sounded from his chest and his arms locked around my waist, and I couldn’t resist the slide of his mouth over mine.
There was something subtle and dangerous about Sam, like a jaguar sizing up its prey. He was polished and refined, but beneath it lived a fierce, chaotic current. The primal gentleman. For the first time, I realized he could absolutely destroy me if I let him.
When we broke apart, I exhaled a breathy laugh, and Sam said, “Yeah, I’m going to get those shots now.”
Some tequila, some dancing, and a lot of overly auto-tuned techno music later, I was ready to leave the posh side of Boston nightlife. I gave it a try; it just wasn’t my scene, and I wasn’t convinced it was Sam’s scene either. He liked being there, being seen with the right people, but this wasn’t him.
Eventually we hopped a cab downtown only to discover the act I wanted to see was sold out. Rather than wandering around Massachusetts Avenue to find another show in the area, Sam insisted we head to the next on my list of top choices.
The cab swerved to avoid some pedestrians spilling onto the street near Boylston, and the force sent me sliding across the seat and careening into Sam.
“You just keep crashing into my life, don’t you?” he murmured.
“Trying to get rid of me?” I asked, my hands braced on his chest.
