I stop in front of him. I slide my hands up his chest, tracing the lines I’d only imagined last night. I rise on my toes.
And I kiss him.
No hesitation. No teasing. Just hunger.
He groans low in his throat as his hands find my waist, pulling me flush against him, the flannel bunching in his fists. His mouth slants over mine, deeper, hotter, rougher, like he’s been waiting for this as long as I have.
It’s not careful.
It’s not sweet.
It’s inevitable.
My fingers tangle in his hair. His grip tightens on my hips. And I know without a doubt that this is the point of no return.
Sam’s kiss turns urgent. He’s no longer asking, no longer teasing. Just taking.
His hands slip beneath the flannel, fingertips brushing along my bare waist. The contact sends sparks skittering across my skin, lighting up every nerve ending. And then his hands move higher, cupping my breasts.
I gasp against his mouth, but it only fuels him. He takes advantage, deepening the kiss with a low groan that vibrates in my chest. His mouth claims mine like he’s starving for itand starving for me. And I give in willingly, melting into him, completely lost in the taste and heat of it all.
But then?—
He breaks away.
Abrupt. Breathless.
“Shit,” he mutters, backing up a step, running a hand through his already-tousled hair. “I’m sorry.”
My lips feel bruised, kissed raw, and my heart is doing its best to beat its way out of my chest as I blink at him, trying to wrap my head around what just happened.
“It’s okay,” I manage. “I understand.”
But his eyes stay locked on mine, stormy and unrelenting. “No, darlin’. I don’t think you do.”
He steps forward again, his voice rough around the edges.
“One more second,” he says, “and we’d be right back in that bed. And not for round one and two. More like round three, four, and maybe five.”
My breath catches. “Oh.”
“Yeah,oh.” His mouth curves, but there’s something serious in his gaze now, something that makes my pulse race for a whole different reason. “And that’s not who I am.”
I snort before I can stop myself.
He raises an eyebrow. “Something funny?”
“You’re a world-famous country star,” I say. “You’re telling me you’ve never had a one-night stand?”
“Oh, I’ve had ‘em,” he admits, without shame. “But that’s not what this is.”
His hand gestures between us, slow and sure.
“When I take you to bed,” he says, voice low and deliberate, “I want you to know exactly what it means. Just how serious I am.”
Holy. Crap.
I’m pretty sure I forget how to breathe.
