That he was standing in front of Samantha’s bedroom door, rejecting her offer to come inside, made it official. Ethan “Ozzie” Sykes was…an…idiot.
“You’re an idiot,” Samantha confirmed with a frown. “I’m not suffering from PTSD or some shit. I’m a grown-ass woman who knows what she wants, and I want you.” His heart thrilled at the words even as she pointedly glanced down at the fly of his cargo shorts. “And you want me too. No use denying it.”
Nope. None whatsoever. His johnson was making its ever-intrepid presence known far and wide.
“I do want you, Samantha,” he admitted, reaching down to adjust himself into a more comfortable position.
She watched the maneuver with ravenous eyes, catching her bottom lip between her teeth and grinning up at him. God help me!
“But cooler heads have prevailed, and I realize that tonight isn’t the right time. For one thing, you were nearly knifed by a fat, bearded biker. For another, you’ve been up for going on twenty-four hours. Not to mention the fact that you lost someone you cared about.” She opened her mouth to argue, but he talked over any objection she might have made. “You did care about Marcel, even if you didn’t know him well. And I know you feel responsible for what happened to him, so add a heaping helping of guilt into the mix. Do you know what that all adds up to?”
She started to answer, but he did it for her. “A woman who’s vulnerable. A woman who’s looking for something to help her forget what’s happened. A woman who might have second thoughts in the cold light of day.”
Everything he said was true. Every word of it. What he didn’t say was that on the walk up the stairs from the first floor to the third, his conscience had started gnawing at him, taking huge bites that left gaping holes of doubt behind. There was a bigger issue working against him than the possibility of her taking off down the road after he scratched her itch.
And that was the chance that she wouldn’t.
She was a reporter bent on uncovering the truth. He was a covert operator whose entire existence was built on a lie. She lived in the light. The shadows were his stock in trade. She thought she knew him, thought him funny, smart, courageous, and hot—her words still echoed inside his head. But she didn’t know the first thing about him, not the real him.
He couldn’t follow her into that bedroom no matter how much he might want to, because there was no way to make it work with her in the long run. The long run would require him to tell her the truth about himself. The truth about Black Knights Inc. And that wasn’t his secret to share. Especially not with someone who could print that secret for the world to see.
It’s better to be friends, he told himself. Staying friends keeps her in my life while allowing me to keep quiet. Although, in truth, keeping quiet was beginning to grate on him. Every half-truth he fed her weighed heavier and heavier on his heart, his soul.
She eyed him for a long time, frustration obvious in the lines on her brow and the twist of her delicious lips. Then she shrugged. “I’m not going to talk you out of acting on this misplaced chivalry, am I?”
He shook his head, afraid to open his mouth. He wanted her so badly that one stroke of her hand, one lick of her tongue, and he would be dunzo. The need for her was an all-encompassing physical ache.
She blew out an exasperated breath. “Jeez. Have it your way. But I have two things to say on the subject.”
He lifted a brow, waiting.
“Number one.” She held up a finger. A finger he was fiercely tempted to suck straight into his mouth. “I have no regrets about what happened down there in the kitchen. And the cold light of day won’t change that. I hope the same can be said for you.”
“Regrets?” Was she insane? “Are you kidding? Having you nearly tackle me to the ground is pretty much a dear diary day for me.”
She gifted him with that gap-toothed grin, and he nearly fell to his knees battling the urge to drag her into his arms and kiss her until her smile turned into a gasp of pleasure. He knew now. Knew what it took to make her shiver, make her moan.
“Good.” She nodded. “So, then, number two is this. Thank you. Again.”
“For what?”
She shrugged. “For being you.”
And there they were again, offered so freely, so easily. The words it felt like he’d been waiting a lifetime to hear. Damnit all to hell and back! She’s trying to kill me.
When Samantha went up on tiptoe to press a sweet, chaste kiss to his lips, he had to curl his hands into fists to keep from wrapping his arms around her.
“Good night, Ozzie,” she whispered.
“Good night.” His voice was hoarse with unquenched desire.
The instant she closed the bedroom door, he slammed a hand against the doorjamb, his shoulders shaking, raspy air sawing from his lungs. He gave himself a couple of seconds to breathe, to ensure his injured leg wouldn’t give out on him, before he turned and headed to his own room. Alone.
It was a state he was used to. A state he’d been raised in since the moment his mother died and his father lost himself in the bottle and an endless string of women. Ozzie could still remember every detail of his childhood room. He had spent so much time there, avoiding his dad’s drunken rages or the looks of pity or, worse, affection in the eyes of the ladies who had shared his life for a week or a month or a year, until they left too.
Quietly opening his bedroom door, he realized the old memories, painful as they were, had done nothing to quench his desire for Samantha. He didn’t bother with the lights. Didn’t bother with his clothes. He fell onto his bed, stuffed his pillow over his face, and groaned loudly, hoping that would alleviate some of the lust riding him hard, spurring his body to hum with hot, fruitless passion.
It didn’t.
