The list continued from there. Items four through twelve were... explicit. Detailed. The kinds of things I’d never written down before, never even fully admitted to myself. But something about Samuel made me want to be explicit. Made me want to catalog every filthy thought that crossed my mind when he walked past me in those ridiculous yoga pants.
I could have him. That was the maddening thing. After today—after the kiss at Shifflett’s, and the near-miss on the couch—Iknew with absolute certainty that Samuel wanted me as badly as I wanted him. All I had to do was reach out and grab it.
Literally.
But there was something delicious about the waiting. The anticipation. Every loaded glance, every “accidental” touch, every night we climbed into bed together and did nothing about the tension thrumming between us—it was torture. Exquisite, unbearable, addictive torture.
I wasn’t sure how much longer I could stand it.
The bathroom door opened and I quickly flipped my notebook back to the New York list. Casual. Innocent. Just a man making practical plans for his future. Nothing to see here.
Samuel appeared in the doorway with Purrsephone in his arms.
“Found her in the bathtub,” he said. “I think she’s plotting something.”
“She’s always plotting something.”
He crossed to the bed and deposited the cat on the mattress, where she immediately began making herself comfortable at the foot of the bed. Then Samuel straightened up, stretched—arms over his head, shirt riding up to reveal a strip of stomach that made my mouth go dry—and reached for the hem of his sweater.
I waited for him to grab his pajamas and head to the bathroom, like he had every other night.
He didn’t.
Instead, he pulled the sweater over his head in one fluid motion and dropped it on the floor.
I forgot how to breathe.
Samuel Bennett shirtless was... there weren’t words. Or rather, there were too many words, and none of them were adequate. Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. Defined chest with just the right amount of dark hair. Abs that suggested regular exercise without being aggressively gym-rat. A trail ofhair disappearing into the waistband of his jeans that my eyes followed of their own accord.
He caught me looking and his lips curved into a smile that was equal parts knowing and challenging.
“Problem?” he asked.
“No,” I managed. “No problem.”
His hands went to his belt.
I gripped my pen so hard I’m surprised it didn’t snap.
The belt came undone. Then the button. Down went the zipper. And then Samuel was pushing his jeans down his hips, stepping out of them, standing in the middle of my bedroom in nothing but black boxer briefs that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
He was half-hard already. I could see it. He wasn’t trying to hide it.
“You’re staring,” he said, reaching for the pajama pants he’d left folded on the dresser.
“You’re doing that on purpose.”
“Doing what?” He pulled on the pajama pants with agonizing slowness, letting them ride low on his hips. He didn’t bother with a shirt. “I’m just getting ready for bed.”
“You’ve been changing in the bathroom all week.”
“Maybe I felt like a change of scenery.” He climbed onto the bed, crawled toward me with a predatory grace that made my heart stutter. “What are you working on?”
I slammed the notebook shut. “Nothing.”
“That’s a very aggressivenothing.” He was close now, so close I could feel the heat radiating off him. “Anything interesting?”
“Just lists. Boring lists. Very boring.”
