More to Give (An Anchor Island Novel)

by Terri Osburn

“Are you sure about this?” he asked, clinging to the last remnants of sanity he had. “I can’t promise you anything, Callie.”

  “You forget,” she said, lifting his shirt and dropping a moist kiss on his abs, “we’ve done this before. I know exactly what you can do for me.” She kissed him again. “And to me.”

  Callie wasn’t playing fair. How was he supposed to think with her hands on him? With her mouth tempting him like that? She’d said sex only, and that was all he could give. Callie deserved more. She deserved everything.

  Sam didn’t have everything to give.

  “You deserve more,” he said, but speaking was growing more difficult as the blood quickly rushed from his head.

  “Then we’ll have to do it more than once.” Callie pushed his shirt up his torso. Without thought, Sam lifted his arms and helped her take it off. Her purr of appreciation shot straight to his groin.

  Cupping her face in his hands, Sam caught her gaze and held it. “You’re killing me, Callie. I’m trying to protect you.”

  “From what?” she asked, her eyes dropping to his mouth.

  “From me,” he said, before giving in and tasting her again.

  She was spice and sex, and the combination threatened to fry his brain. His body was already beyond saving. Her fingers were like matches to a flame as she slid her fingertips over his nipples, then replaced them with her tongue.

  If she kept this up, he was going to finish long before she got his pants off.

  The only way to save himself from embarrassment was to turn the tables. Forcing himself to interrupt Callie’s ministrations, Sam yanked on the bottom of her shirt, then slipped his hands under the cotton and up along her sides. Though he’d meant to remove the shirt with one swift movement, his hands found the undersides of her breasts and his intentions took a detour.

  Warm lace danced under his palms as her nipples pebbled behind the delicate material. He filled his hands with her, massaging, until Callie let out a moan, then laid her forehead against his chest.

  “Bed,” she mumbled, her breathing unsteady. “We need a bed.”

  Taking his hand, she led him out of the living room and down the hall. Another wall of windows brought the ocean into the bedroom space. It was an element Sam had added when he’d had Morty’s cottage redone.

  Sam had picked every item in this house. Personally oversaw each minute detail of the renovation. He’d even picked the blue-and-white linens that covered the California king in the center of the room.

  Common sense began to creep back in. This was crazy. It was the middle of the day. Sam didn’t even take holidays off. What the hell was he doing taking a Monday afternoon to have sex?

  Then Callie turned, smiled, and pulled the gray T-shirt over her head. Right. That’s what he was doing.

  As she returned to his arms, all supple and hot and ready, the winged beast in the living room called out his condom reminder once again. Sam didn’t have anything with him.

  “Do you have something?” he asked between long, wet, mind-blowing kisses.

  “My cousin left a box,” Callie answered, trailing her teeth across Sam’s ribs. She slid lower, and he forgot what they were talking about. “She thought I might need them.”

  Who thought she might need what? The top button on his jeans was undone now. Callie lowered the zipper, then pressed the denim over his ass as her tongue lit a fiery trail from his navel down.

  One slender finger dipped behind the band of his boxer briefs, scorching his skin and threatening to send Sam to his knees.

  “Bed,” he said. “Now.”

  Callie followed the order, shuffling backward, never breaking the contact between them. As she lowered onto her back, Sam followed, running on instinct and mindless desire. He pressed a thigh between her legs, and she hiked a knee over his hip. They rolled across the large mattress, playing some kind of sexual-king-of-the-hill contest.

  Every time Sam had Callie right where he wanted her, she’d push against his shoulder and take the top position again. When she took the lead for the third time and started working down his body, Sam decided to let her have her way. There would be plenty of time for both of them to have a turn, and giving in seemed smart when she started tugging his jeans off.

  The Levi’s hit the floor and Callie straddled his hips, sitting up with a triumphant look on her face. With a smile that promised all sorts of wickedness, she reached behind her and undid the lacy black number that was the only thing between his hands and heaven.

  As the lingerie landed somewhere beside the bed, Sam’s mouth went dry as his hands took what she offered. She was perfection. He massaged and tweaked, enjoying every sensation as it danced across her face. The waves of pleasure drove her to move against him, grinding in circles, then leaning forward far enough for him to take one nipple into his mouth.

  And then the phone rang.

  Sam froze, reality cutting through desire as if it had come crashing through the wall of windows. Callie ground harder.

  “Ignore it,” she said, her eyes closed and her hands on his to hold them in place.

  “We can’t,” he said, using every ounce of strength to remain still. “You need to answer it.”

  The only reason that phone would ring was because one or both of them was needed. Either Yvonne was looking for him, and that she would do only for a good reason, or Callie was needed back across the street.

  His ingrained sense of responsibility reared its ugly head. Sam could not ignore the call. No matter how much he wanted to. Removing his hands, he waited another second for Callie to move. After a brief hesitation, she climbed to the side of the bed, pressed a pillow against her naked breasts, and answered the phone.

  CHAPTER 18

  Callie wanted to scream into the phone, What do you want? but instead said, “Hello?” She could barely comprehend the words coming from the other end through the flood of humiliation washing over her.

  It seemed there’d been a delivery that Jack didn’t know what to do with. Callie let him know she’d be right over, then ended the call without saying good-bye. Sam shuffled around behind her. She wanted to stay there, hugging the pillow with her head down until he left, but the shuffling stopped. No footsteps left the room.

  Reminding herself she’d endured worse, Callie turned to find Sam staring out the wall of windows at the waves crashing in the distance. She knew exactly how the sand felt. If only she could be washed away from this scene.

  “I was wrong,” Sam said, and Callie pulled the pillow tighter, as if it could protect her from what would come next. “I thought the Anchor had the best views on the island.” He turned to face her. “But this is better.”

  She’d expected anger. Assumed the cold and distant Sam would reappear and tell her all the reasons that what they’d been about to do was wrong. To reject her again.

  Instead, she found a Greek god standing in her bedroom in nothing but a pair of jeans, looking like the answer to a prayer. A very dirty, explicit prayer.

  “The view is pretty good from here, too,” she said, relieved that the warm and willing Sam was still with her. Callie wanted to pick back up where they’d left off, but Jack was expecting her. She had a job to do and should never have let her libido get the better of her.

  That didn’t mean they couldn’t finish this another time. Or was the moment gone?

  Unsure of what to do next, Callie scooted down the bed until she could reach her bra where she’d tossed it on the floor. “Duty calls,” she said, her voice still ragged and breathy.

  Grabbing her shirt from the other side of the bed, Callie continued to hug the pillow, which was asinine, since he’d been kissing her breasts only moments ago. But awkwardness brought with it a strong sense of modesty. If only Sam would move or say something else.

  And then he did.

  “Come here, Callie.”

&n
bsp; As if drawn by an invisible thread, she obeyed, crossing the small space to reach him. Sam took the pillow, tossed it on the bed, and pulled her against him. The live wire that had been sizzling beneath her skin went into overload.

  Callie slid her arms around his middle and laid her cheek against his warm chest. His heart rate was racing like hers was. This wasn’t over.

  Sam held her there, his chin on the top of her head and his strong hands lingering at the small of her back. “We need to work on our timing,” he said. Pulling back far enough for her to look up at him, he asked, “How about dinner tonight?”

  “You want to take me out?” Callie asked.

  Dropping a chaste kiss on her forehead, he said, “I was thinking we could stay in.”

  That sounded promising. And then a thought occurred. “Are you suggesting I cook?”

  Sam chuckled, and she felt the vibration throughout her entire body. She seriously hated Jack right now.

  “How about if I bring something with me? If I remember correctly, you have a weird penchant for British food. Dempsey’s fish and chips are excellent.”

  A budding warmth that had nothing to do with their current state of undress developed somewhere behind Callie’s breastbone. He had paid attention all those years ago. She put an immediate wet blanket on that thought.

  Callie didn’t want or need romantic gestures. What she wanted was sex. With Sam.

  “I’ll have the wine ready to pour,” she said, sliding her breasts against his chest to remind herself this was entirely physical.

  To her delight, Sam groaned, kissed her until her bones felt like pudding, then leaned his forehead against hers. “Dinner at six,” he said.

  And sex by six fifteen, Callie thought.

  The rest of the day was torture. Callie and Sam worked side by side, removing wallpaper from the dining room walls. Olaf had yet to finish with the furniture, but enough space had been cleared to give them room to work. And since Olaf was off helping with the festival, the pair worked alone, accompanied only by a small radio set to the local station.

  As Van Morrison sang about going into the mystic, Sam reached for a high spot on the wall, revealing a wide expanse of abs as his shirt came up and his jeans rode low on his hips.

  Callie nearly jumped him right there.

  They’d discussed a plan of attack going forward on the project, which was contingent upon signing on more workers. Bernie had maintained enough of a crew to handle the exterior but wasn’t willing to transfer to the indoor tasks, and neither, it seemed, were his men.

  Apparently, dedication to Morty went only so far.

  That left them back at the campaign to improve Sam’s reputation.

  “How is this circus act you suggest going to change anything?” he asked, and not for the first time.

  “We’ve been over this,” Callie said. “Win over the kids, and we win over the adults. Win over the adults, and we get our workers.”

  “Not everyone has kids,” he argued, saying the word kids with extra derision.

  Callie took a break from scraping to stare at her gorgeous helper. “What is your problem with children?”

  “I don’t have a problem with children,” he said, peeling a large section of paper off the wall in one piece. “I just have no desire to entertain a bunch of them.”

  She wasn’t signing up for babysitting duty herself, but Callie liked kids well enough. Though she couldn’t remember the last time she’d played with one.

  “Cecil will do most of the work,” she said. “All you have to do is ask him questions. You’re the straight man, and he delivers the punch lines.”

  “Speaking of,” Sam said, dropping his scraper to his side, “where the hell did you find that bird? He’s like a freak of nature.”

  Now he’d crossed a line. “Cecil is not a freak of nature. And don’t you ever say that around him. He’s sensitive.”

  “He’s a bird.”

  “He has feelings,” Callie said. “And I got him from the circus.”

  “You what?” Sam stared as if Callie had claimed she’d given birth to her colorful pet.

  “His owner was old and had trained Cecil from birth to be part of his circus act,” Callie explained. “I happened to know the man’s son, who couldn’t keep the bird after his father died. He said the bird had an attitude problem and his wife refused to live with it.”

  Sam leaned against the wall. “So you took him?”

  “Honestly?” she said. “I was seventeen, and I thought he would annoy my mother.”

  “Did it work?”

  Callie shook her head in the negative. “They were made for each other. But I fell in love with him, too. Which is why I took him with me when I moved out. I knew she’d make him meaner. He can be very sweet when he wants to be,” she added. Which was true. Cecil had seen Callie through many dark days.

  Sam didn’t argue or say anything at all. He simply returned to the task of scraping wallpaper. But nearly a minute later, he said, “I’ve never had a pet.”

  It was Callie’s turn to stare in amazement. “Never?”

  He gave a noncommittal shrug. “Mother believed all pets were dirty and useless.” With a quick glance, he added, “My father was never around, so I have no idea how he felt about them. My guess would be that he agreed with her.”

  The image of a poor little Sam sitting all alone on some fancy staircase, sad and forlorn and longing for a puppy, popped into Callie’s mind. Every little boy should have a puppy.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “but that’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Sam snorted. “I wouldn’t go that far. And if I ever got one, it wouldn’t be a parrot who thought the world revolved around him.”

  “That parrot is going to save our asses,” Callie said. “I suggest you be nice to him.”

  By five o’clock, when he and Callie had called it a day, Sam’s arms were sore and the rest of his body was still riding an adrenaline high from earlier in the day. The untimely phone call could have been the slap of reality that put an end to anything happening between him and Callie. And for the first few minutes after, that was exactly what it had been.

  But then he’d slid on his pants and walked to the window while Callie dealt with whatever crisis needed her attention at the inn. As he’d stared out at the surging waves, Sam hadn’t been able to think of one reason why they shouldn’t enjoy each other. Callie was right about the lack of conflict due to their positions as employer and employee.

  They had a history. A complicated one, yes, but maybe the complications were all in the past. Callie wouldn’t be staying on Anchor. And as of right now, Sam wouldn’t be leaving. At least not for two more years, unless Lucas pulled a legal miracle out of thin air and broke the terms of the will.

  If there was one thing Sam had mastered in the last six years, it was ignoring the past. That meant focusing on the now, and the now Callie was offering was a whole lot better than any now he’d experienced in too damn long.

  He’d been honest with her. Let her know marriage was not an option where he was concerned. And that was exactly how she wanted it, too. They were two consenting adults, both aware of the rules and limitations involved in falling into bed together. Sam had been out of this game for far too long, as proven by the fact that he’d nearly lost himself before they’d even gotten started.

  Tonight would be different. This encounter wasn’t about consolation or giving in to some adolescent-like urge and ripping each other’s clothes off. He might not have a heart to give, but Sam could give Callie pleasure, and that was exactly what he intended to do.

  But first he needed to do a bit of research.

  “Thanks for meeting me here,” Sam said as he joined Randy at the bar in Dempsey’s. “I know this was short notice.”

  “Not a problem. Will is over at Tom and
Patty’s, helping stuff goodie bags for Beth’s shower, so I’m on my own for dinner.” Randy nodded toward the dining room. “Should we get a table?”

  “Afraid I wasn’t clear,” Sam said. “I’m not staying to eat. I need some answers.”

  A dark brow floated an inch above the other. “Answers about what?”

  Sam tapped the bar, feeling like an idiot for even asking the question, but he needed to know if Callie’s guess was correct.

  “I hear the natives don’t like me. Callie says they won’t help out at the inn because of me.” He looked Randy in the eye. “Is that true?”

  The big guy screwed up his mouth, staring at the bottle of green tea before him. “I can’t say for sure about them refusing to work at the inn, but it’s true that you’re not the most popular business owner around here.”

  “Because I brought in my own crew to handle the Anchor?”

  “What?” Randy said, meeting Sam’s eye again. “Nobody cares about that.”

  “Then what the hell is the problem?” Sam struggled to keep his voice down. “What did I ever do to these people?”

  “You haven’t done anything, and that’s the problem.” Randy leaned back on his stool. “In case you haven’t noticed, this village is on the small side. Makes for a tight-knit community. But you refuse to be knitted in, for lack of a better term. The islanders believe you think you’re better than they are.”

  Sam heard the words I am better than they are spoken in his mother’s haughty, Southern-belle voice in his head. That was exactly what Eugenia Cumberland Edwards would say, and Sam hated that she’d ingrained the sentiment in his brain. He wasn’t an idiot or a snob. Sam had avoided becoming part of the community because he knew that was Morty’s intention, not because of some egotistical illusion that he was better than anyone.

  The ridiculous requirements of his uncle’s will were there only because Mortimer Cumberland had been certain that, given time, Sam would become part of the island and never want to leave. The idea that he could be manipulated and have his life’s ambition altered so easily was what had driven Sam to keep his distance. To not get involved.