Sam gestured to my tote bag. “What are you reading today?”
I’d worked my way through Keith Richards’ memoir and Arnold Steinhardt’s account of his experience as the first violinist with the Guarneri String Quartet this week. There was one more I wanted to read, and I’d been carrying it around for months, waiting for the right mood.
“It’s part biography of Johnny Cash,” I said, holding up the paperback. “And part his love letters to June Carter Cash. I’ve been waiting to read this one. It’s an intense, messy story. This sort of thing does a number on me. I mean, I cried like a baby when I watchedImmortal Beloved.That scene—when she realizes? Oh my God.” I pressed my hand to my mouth and shook my head. The tears were already prickling my eyes. “It wrecked me. I think of it every time I play Beethoven.”
Sam frowned and plucked the book from my fingers. He paged through it, stopping occasionally to skim the images of handwritten letters. “Sunshine . . . I don’t want you to be upset. Why don’t you save that one for another day?”
“It’s not that I’m upset,” I said, digging into my waffle. “It’s that they go through some pretty heavy shit and find a way to love each other in the end, and that gives me all the feels.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “I thought that was my job.”
“Different feels,” I said, but that eyebrow didn’t budge. “Enough with the faces. Eat your omelet.”
Now that I knew the drill, selecting outfits for Sam’s events was much easier. I’d borrowed another fifties-styled retro cocktail dress from Ellie’s closet, paired it with some shiny red flats, and twirled in front of the bathroom mirror. The full skirt lifted from my legs, briefly exposing the scrap of satin underneath.
I’d been saving all my rare pieces of lingerie for Sam to ruin.
“We don’t have to go anywhere,” he murmured as he caught me around the waist. “We can stay right here.”
“Oh no,” I said. “Not after I spent ten minutes on the smoky eye.”
“All right,” he grumbled. He stared at my reflection in the mirror, his brows furrowed. “Is this a little low cut?”
“And that’s suddenly a problem for you because . . . ?”
He turned, walking me back to the vanity until I was seated on the cool marble. Pushing my legs open, he leaned into me, his hands on my hips and his mouth on my neck. “Because sometimes I get possessive, too.”
His hands moved under my dress until they connected with my panties. He traced the silky edge, back and forth over my center until I was panting for more friction. He gripped the fabric at my hips, and when I expected him to tear, he inched my panties down my legs instead.
“Let’s leave these here,” he said.
“You don’t want to hang onto them?” I asked, already half drunk off the idea of attending a posh party without my skivvies. I couldn’t explain why, but that sent me straight into hyper-aroused territory every time, and Sam knew it.
“I have tospeakin front of two hundred people, Tiel,” he said. “I’m not capable of doing that with panties in my pocket. I might not be able to do it just knowing you’re sitting there, bare-assed.”
Somehow, he managed. He discussed the role of sustainable preservation in keeping history and culture alive, and methods to approach the craft in a way that honored the original builders while also evolving to incorporate high-value technological advancements.
I tried my damnedest to listen but every time Sam’s eyes met mine across the room, I felt electrified. No one else seemed to notice that his glances were scorching and filled with promise, or that I wanted to part my legs and show him exactly how much he’d turned me on.
He kept his hand on my thigh through dinner, and that was a new brand of torture. He smiled at me, fully aware that his fingers were awfully close to the hot zone.
When the plates were cleared, I draped my arm over his back and urged him toward me. “Hey,” I said, and he grinned in response. “You mentioned on the ride over here that you were really jazzed to see this place. So I’m wondering, do you have a huge architectural boner right now?”
“Would you like to find out?”
“Actually, yeah. I’d also like to rip your clothes off and ride your cock until I see stars and lose the power of speech, if that’s okay with you.”
He barked a surprised laugh and squeezed my leg. “That’s a really sweet idea,” he said. “But you’re only doing that if I tell you to.”
“Maybe I don’t want to take orders anymore,” I said, pouting.
“But you do,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Let’s see if we can get out of here without anyone noticing.”
Of course, someone noticed. An older gentleman struck up a conversation with Sam, and as it became obvious they’d be chatting for awhile, I stepped away to get a drink. It allowed me to watch him from a distance, observe the way he used precise gestures when he was talking about his work and twisted the ring on his thumb when he was thinking. He didn’t acknowledge the purposeful glances women sent him as they wandered past, but he did scan the room every couple of minutes, and he smiled when our eyes met.
I could tell he was attempting to wrap up the conversation, without much luck. When he looked at me again, he sent me a frustrated stare, and I sucked my martini’s olives off the spear to distract him.
Except one of those olives missed my mouth and landed right between my boobs, and he observed the whole thing. My eyes wide with shock, I saw Sam abruptly excuse himself and rush toward me.
