There were times last night when he hadn’t been gentle. And his memory wasn’t always clear.
Sam had an excellent memory, a native ability that had been honed by training. He could remember a map he’d seen once well enough to navigate by it, he could remember a face no matter how long ago he’d seen it; once he’d driven a route, he never forgot it.
But bits of last night were shrouded in such heat and electricity it was as if he’d shorted parts of his brain. He remembered his dick plowing her endlessly, but he couldn’t remember what his hands had been doing. Holding her down? He had strong hands, all of him was strong. Had he somehow used that strength against her?
He’d never muscled a woman before, but he’d never before in his life been as excited. Had he somehow hurt her? The thought made his insides roil.
Second in his little list of nightmares was that he hadn’t hurt her but had somehow…disgusted her. Because otherwise, why was she avoiding him? Those little blackout moments might not have been violent, but maybe she thought he was some kind of sex maniac or sex addict. The kind you read about on the internet. The kind who go to 12-step programs.
Hello, my name is Sam and I can’t keep it down.
Because, well, if she thought he was a sex maniac, he could understand why. His dick hadn’t gone down once all night. Not even a bit. It was like he was plugged into her and as long as she was around, he was aroused.
Neither thought was a happy one, though having her believe he was sex crazy was marginally better than having her think he was violent.
“Because if it is,” Harry continued in his calm voice, “if this is the same woman, then you’re pretty much the dickhead I always suspected you were. Because clearly, the lady isn’t answering. Her phoneorthe door. And she might not be answering because you’re calling every five minutes.” He shrugged and spread his hands in a “don’t knock the logic” gesture.
Mike’s sharp gaze went from Harry, then back to Sam. “So…the mission is to protect the hottie from across the hall. Who’s not talking to you. Looks like fucking her once wasn’t enough…”
The rest of the sentence was choked in Mike’s throat, right behind Sam’s forearm, pressing him against the wall with it. It had happened without any thought, without any planning, in an instant out of time. The words came out of Mike’s mouth and Sam launched himself. He hadn’t even felt his feet as he jumped Mike, throwing him so hard against the wall his head bounced. It wasn’t planned or premeditated. He just found himself trying to punch Mike through the wall by his arm across Mike’s throat. Dimly, he was aware of Mike turning red, his hard punches that had no effect, Harry’s shouting, Harry pulling at his arm…
The noises grew louder, finally penetrating the wild static in his head. Bits of him were coming back. He started feeling Mike’s punches, Harry’s hold.
They wouldn’t have made any difference except for the fact that a little sense was seeping back into his head together with the voices, and he realized that he was doing his damnedest to throttle his own brother.
He dropped his arm, stepped back.
“Hey man,” Mike wheezed, voice raw. He bent forward, hands on his knees, drawing in breaths in loud whoops.
“Sam…” Harry growled. Harry shook him once, then released him. All three of them had spent their childhoods gauging men on a rampage. Harry instinctively knew the storm had passed and that a little bit of sense had come back into Sam’s head.
Jesus.
Sam’s hands were shaking. What the fuck was he doing? This wasMike, his brother. And he’d wanted to kill him.
Except no one talked about Nicole that way, as if she were just some casual fuck. Particularly not Mike, who had women tripping into and out of his bed nightly. Mike was a “love ’em and leave ’em” kind of guy. So was Sam, except for now.
When he’d been loved and left.
Sam and Mike stared at each other, both breathing heavily. Mike owed Sam an apology. And Sam owed him one. Sort of.
Who was going to go first? Their gazes were unwavering, stances hostile. Two old bull moose on a tear. Damned if Sam would be the first to break.
The aroma of good whiskey filled the room.
“The hell with this,” Harry said, thrusting shot glasses of whiskey into their hands. “Back off, both of you, and drink up. Maybe alcohol will knock some sense into your hot heads.”
Mike had relaxed his stance, got his breath back. “But it’s ten o’clock in the morning,” he observed. Mike was a carouser, but he had his standards. No alcohol till after midday, he always said.
“It’s afternoon in New York,” Harry said, and Mike nodded, curling his hand around the heavy crystal glass.
Sam blew a breath out. Another. Looked with disgust at Harry holding the bottle, pouring so fast the whiskey gurgled. “Go easy, man. That stuff costs two hundred bucks a bottle.”
“Yeah?” Harry perked up. “Then I’ll take the bottle home with me. It’s wasted on you two.”
They stood, knocking back the whiskey with satisfied sighs, the tension lowering as the level of liquid dropped in the bottle.
Silence. Mike and Harry looked at Sam. There was no censure in their gaze, no recrimination, which was awful, of course, because Sam had acted like an ass. And he’d attacked his brother. They should be ganging up on him, chewing his ass off. But they weren’t. They just stood there, silently, two strong men saying nothing at all, letting Sam stew a little.
