by Sara Desai
His walls crumbled. With nothing to contain his emotion, he succumbed to desire. “I know I made a mistake letting you go the other night.”
And then he kissed her. The world around him faded to the singular sensation of her lips on his, as soft and gentle as her words had been cold and harsh. All that mattered was the warmth of her body, and her sweet sigh of surrender as she melted against him.
So it was all the more shocking when she slapped him across the face.
• 14 •
“WHAT the—” Sam’s stunned expression would have been comical if Layla hadn’t been so fixated on his soft, lush mouth.
“You didn’t ask.” She seized his shirt in both hands and dragged him down for another kiss. “And I’m angry with you.”
Their mouths crashed together. Tongues tangled. He kissed her as if he wanted to consume her, devour her alive. Fierce kisses, hard kisses, desperate, wanting kisses. He tasted like chocolate and smelled like sin.
“Sam . . .” She pulled away. “I can’t breathe.”
“Neither can I.” He wrapped his arms around her and drew her in for another hungry kiss. Hot, hard, and wet, melting her to the side of the Jeep. His tongue worked past her lips to plunge into her mouth, every stroke tugging at things low and deep in her belly.
Her hands moved to his chest, sliding over his pecs and the ripple of abs beneath his shirt. Harman was perfect but Sam was real, his body hard from his fight training, muscles thick from use. He hissed out a breath when her fingers grazed the top of his belt, his infamous self-control giving way to her curious hands.
“What are we doing?” he murmured as he drew her earlobe into his mouth, his five-o’clock shadow rough against her sensitive skin.
“I don’t know, but don’t stop.”
“No chance of that.” He shifted against her, his arousal as evident from his ragged breaths as the growing hardness pressed against her hips.
When he thrust a thick thigh between her legs, she rocked against him, reckless and wanton in her need for release. She was dying, burning, her body on fire. She’d never felt anything like the toxic combination of anger and lust that pounded through her veins. It made her head spin, drove logic away.
“Get in the Jeep.” He reached behind her, pulled open the passenger door.
“You want to do it here? Like in Titanic?”
“Are you kidding me?” His voice dropped husky and low. “I’m taking you home where I can have you all to myself.”
“In that case . . .” She handed him the keys. “Since I don’t know where you live, I’ll let you drive.”
Moments later, Sam peeled out of the parking lot like fire was licking at their heels. He drove with one hand on the steering wheel and the other in her lap, his fingers threaded through hers. She’d always thought of herself as an aggressive driver, but Sam tore up the streets. By the time they arrived outside a boutique building in the Mission, her heart was pounding so hard she thought she’d break a rib.
Sam grabbed her when they reached the lobby. She caught a glimpse of mint-and-cream-patterned wallpaper, freshly painted woodwork, and a pastel painting of an old-fashioned streetcar, before he pinned her against the wall beside the elevator and kissed her. She scraped her nails over his chest, tearing a button from his shirt just as the elevator door slid open. Sam palmed her curves, kissed her harder as he backed her into the elevator and slammed his hand over the button to close the door.
“You want to do it here? In the elevator?” Layla was game for anything so long as it meant she got to take off his clothes. “Fatal Attraction style or Fifty Shades Darker?”
“Upstairs.” He angled her head to deepen the kiss. Layla moaned into his mouth, grinding her hips against the bulge in his jeans. Sam answered with a groan, his fingers sliding under her shirt to stroke the bare skin of her stomach, and then higher.
Desperate to move things along, Layla pulled her shirt over her head.
“What are you . . . ?”
She unhooked her bra, and he gave a strangled gasp.
“No . . .”
“It’s okay. I’m not shy.” She whipped off her bra and tossed it on the floor with her shirt. “Come and get them.” She gave her girls a shake in case he didn’t get the message.
Sam’s eyes blazed, his gaze lingering on her breasts with an intensity that took her breath away. But there was something else in his eyes.
Fear.
He’s afraid of my breasts.
The elevator dinged. The doors slid open. Layla turned. Her brain registered a woman standing in the doorway. Her body froze.
“Good evening, Mrs. Goldberg.” Sam shoved Layla behind him. “How are you?”
“Good evening, Sam.” Mrs. Goldberg’s voice was shaky, hoarse, but tinged with amusement. “I’m fine, thank you.”
Sam shuffled sideways, keeping Layla back with one arm as they sidestepped out the door, his tattered shirt fluttering around them. “Are you going for your walk?”
“Yes, it’s a lovely evening.”
Layla peered out from behind Sam’s shoulder and met the gaze of an elderly woman in a fitted cream suit, soft peach blouse, and a string of pearls. “Um . . . hello.”
“And hello to you, dear. No need to hide. I was a nurse for forty years. If you’ve got it, flaunt it, because by the time you’re my age you need a crane to hold them up.” She stepped into the elevator and bent to pick up Layla’s clothing. “You might need these.”
“Thank you.” Layla extended a hand from behind Sam to retrieve her bra and shirt.
“Good night, Mrs. Goldberg,” Sam called out as he reached backward for the nearest door, still keeping Layla hidden.
“Good night, Sam and friend. Enjoy your evening. Try to keep the noise down.”
“She seems nice,” Layla said as the elevator closed.
With a growl, Sam unlocked the door, and then they were whirling, spinning around. Before Layla could get her bearings, Sam closed the door by slamming her against it.
“What just happened?” She blinked, trying to clear her vision as she took in the modern open-concept space with its concrete floors and striking architecture. Sleek cabinetry and high-end silver appliances dominated a large kitchen with quartz countertops and a distressed picnic-style wooden table. Soft evening light flowed through floor-to-ceiling windows, and abstract prints dominated the white walls. Cold, urban, and austere, it was utterly devoid of the bright colors, rich sensual fabrics, and ornate wood carvings that she was used to seeing in the homes of her desi family and friends.
Sam thudded one hand on the door behind her, leaned in so close she could feel the press of his chest against her breasts. “What were you thinking? You almost gave ninety-year-old Mrs. Goldberg a heart attack.”
“She looked pretty spry to me.” Layla gave a little shrug. “This whole thing was a fantasy of mine—racing through the streets, tearing off our clothes in the elevator, stumbling naked into your apartment . . . I guess I got carried away.”
He cupped her nape, pressed his thumb under her chin and tipped her head back, scalding her with his heated gaze. “Was I in this fantasy?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
He rewarded her with a mind-blowing kiss that made her knees weak. Was she ready for the reality of hooking up with the kind of man who could very easily break her heart?
“What else happens in this fantasy?” His hand slid beneath her skirt and he stroked a warm finger along the edge of her panties. Her pulse throbbed between her thighs.
“After we’re naked, we have wild sex against the door.”
Sam yanked on her panties, almost amputating her leg when the sturdy cotton briefs held fast.
“Sorry.” Her throat worked on a swallow. “I wasn’t planning for my fantasy to come true, so I didn’t wear shreddable underwear.”
W
ith a soft chuckle, Sam undid the button on her skirt and dropped to one knee to slide it down her legs. Layla grimaced as he studied her plain white panties.
“You are so sexy.” Sam leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her stomach as he gently slid her underwear over her hips. He looked up at her in a way no other man had looked at her before—as if he truly thought she was sexy in gray, worn, pima cotton high-waisted briefs pilling on the front and fraying around the thighs.
“What happens after we have sex against the door?” he asked.
“You carry me to the kitchen counter and smash all the plates onto the floor with one sweep of your arm so we have space to have more sex.”
His palms covered her breasts, and he teased her, squeezing gently as he nuzzled her neck. “Sounds unhygienic. How am I supposed to feed you afterward with no dishes?”
“I won’t be hungry.”
“You’re always hungry.” He bent down to draw her left nipple between his teeth. “I like that about you.”
Lust flooded her brain. She took a deep breath and tried to give herself over to the pleasure of his mouth, but visions of Karen danced in her head. “My nipples are dark,” she blurted out.
Sam laughed around her breast. “I see that.”
“If Karen is your type, you’re probably used to seeing women with pink nipples. I used to think there was something wrong with me, but then I realized I’d look odd with pink nipples. My breasts would probably look like scoops of chocolate ice cream with cherries on top.”
Sam switched his attention to her other breast, licking and sucking her nipple until it peaked. “I don’t like cherries.”
“Me, neither.” She hesitated, thinking about Karen and her pale skin, golden hair, and perfect figure. “What about chocolate? My mom has a special recipe for chocolate gulab jamun. She uses khoya, maida, cocoa powder, and drinking chocolate. After she rolls the balls, she fries them in a karahi and puts a chocolate chip on top.”
“Layla?” He pulled his T-shirt over his head, putting all thoughts of food out of her mind. His chest was spectacular, firm and smooth. Layla let her hands wander, tracing every sculpted curve of his sexy six-pack abs and the deep V-cuts of his obliques. She wanted to lick him all over.
“Yes, Sam?”
“Let’s not talk about your mom or how she enjoys frying balls.”
Her gaze dropped to the bulge below his belt. “That’s probably a good idea.”
She pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, licked the strong line of his jaw, the chin with a tiny cleft in the center. She liked his scratchy stubble, the erotic burning sensation it made on her skin as he licked and sucked the sensitive dip between her neck and her shoulder. She also liked the confident way he touched her body, the soft slide of his fingers over her curves, his slow, methodical seduction, his attention to her every sharp breath. There were far too many things to like about Sam Mehta, and they weighed the balance against the reasons to push him away.
“Would you ever have imagined we’d be here, doing this, the day you walked into the office?”
“Before or after you threw your office supplies at me?”
“I’m serious, Sam. One month ago I was sitting at my desk with only a dream about starting something new and no idea how to do it, and all I could think about was how to get you out of the office. And now my dream is happening. I’m starting to build something great, and I’m doing it on my own. Having you in the office, watching you run your business, is inspiring. And instead of wanting to chase you out . . .” Her cheeks heated. “I want to let you in.”
“I want you to let me in, too.” He growled softly, his lips sliding down her neck to kiss the hollow at the base of her throat.
“I like your dirty talking.” Her voice was breathy, husky, like she was femme fatale Krishna Verma in Ishqiya, the object of every man’s desire.
“I like how you respond to my touch.” His hand slid down over her hip, fingertips grazing her thigh.
Lifting her gaze, she saw the heat of desire in his eyes. Sweat trickled down her temple, her body wound so tight she thought she’d crawl out of her skin. She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his mouth.
He circled an arm around her, drawing her close. “This is the last place I thought we’d ever be when you walked into the office,” he murmured, cupping her face in his big, warm palm. “And after you dropped Daisy and Max and all your stuff on me, I wasn’t sure I’d survive. I was used to calm and quiet. I was used to being alone.”
She pressed her lips to his chest. “Your heart is still beating.”
With a gentle thrust, he pushed her legs apart with a hard, muscular thigh. “You want to hear it pound? Open for me.”
More dirty talking. She parted her thighs, wondering if it was possible to come just from words alone.
He slid his hand between her legs, eased his fingers into her heat. She shuddered as he worked his magic, making her dizzy with want.
It had to be a dream. She wasn’t actually standing naked in Sam Mehta’s apartment, so crazed with lust she wanted to tear his clothing off with her teeth. Any moment now she was going to wake up in her bed and . . . “Oh God.” She was burning under the skill of his strong fingers, his breath hot against her neck. “Sam, stop. No. Don’t stop. Yes. Stop. Take off your clothes.”
“With pleasure.” A grin spread across his face and he released her to yank open his belt and shove his clothing over his hips. “I like to know my touch drives you wild.”
“What does my touch do to you?”
“See for yourself.” He wrapped her hand around his hard length, tightening her grip into a squeeze. Layla gave him a slow, admiring stroke, releasing him only to allow him to roll on the condom he had pulled from his back pocket.
“You want me.”
“Desperately.” The soft rumble of his voice turned her liquid inside. “But if you want to stop or slow down . . .”
“Are you kidding?”
Before she could reach out and touch him again, he had her up against the door, one hand beneath her, holding her up, the other braced beside her. His mouth found hers, and he kissed her slow and deep. Layla seized his shoulders and looped her legs around his waist, grinding against him as hot shivers rippled down her spine.
“Are you ready for me?” He dragged hot, wet kisses across her collarbone before blazing a trail down her throat with his tongue, stopping only to press his lips into the soft hollow where her pulse was pounding in anticipation.
“More than ready.” She arched into him, feverish with hunger, her hands roaming the warm skin on his back, down over the firm muscles of his rear. She couldn’t remember ever wanting a man more.
With one strong thrust he was inside her. She moaned, overwhelmed by the delicious fullness of him, the strength and power surrounding her.
Sam’s shoulders tightened beneath her hands. “You feel so damn good.”
Too good. When had it ever been like this? A connection that went beyond physical to something she could feel in her soul. She rocked her hips, drawing him deeper, holding him closer. As they lost themselves in a frantic rhythm, there was no office, no list of suitors, no game. Instead, there was Sam, raw and real, the need building up inside her, and the ache of longing in her pounding heart.
Sam slipped his hand between them, finding the spot that would drive her over, and taking her to the edge with a firm stroke of his fingers. Her head slammed against the door and she cried out as pleasure crashed over her in thunderous wave, his name a guttural moan on her lips.
“Say it again.” He thrust hard and fast, chasing his peak. “Say my name.”
“Sam,” she whispered.
With a strangled groan, he buried his face in her neck, his hard body shuddering as he surrendered all control.
“How does the fantasy end?” he murmured as he fell forward, one hand still hold
ing her up, his forearm braced against the door.
“I don’t know.” She ran her hands through his soft, thick hair. “I always wake up before it’s over.”
* * *
• • •
“THANKS for meeting me. I hope you weren’t asleep.”
Royce shook Sam’s hand in the parking lot outside The Spice Mill. Despite the fact he’d only just stepped off a flight from Singapore, he was clean-shaven and dressed in a crisp navy-and-white-checked shirt, pressed navy dress pants, bright white running shoes, and a loud, red and navy, tartan-style tie.
“It’s five thirty A.M. Of course I was asleep.” Sam ran a hand through his damp hair. He’d managed to get showered, dressed, and out of the condo without waking Layla up after he got Royce’s text to meet him at the office. A small blessing, considering he didn’t know how to deal with their night together. He’d never let a woman stay overnight. Nor had he ever slept with a woman he expected to see again. He couldn’t take the risk that they would want more from him than he could give. But with Layla, he wondered if he could take that chance.
“This won’t take long.” Royce patted his satchel. “I only have a six-hour layover before my flight to London. I thought I’d check out the new office while we catch up on business.”
Sam led him to the entrance. He could hear someone shouting in the kitchen, doors slamming, pots banging on a stove. He felt a small stab of guilt for keeping Layla up late. She usually helped her mother in the mornings, although from the sound of chatter echoing up the stairs, it was clear her mother wasn’t alone. He’d left Layla a note about the early-morning meeting. As long as he got Royce out of the office before she arrived, everything would be fine.
“Sounds like the restaurant is open. Tell them to bring up a couple of espressos and whip up a brioche, light on the butter.”
“It’s an Indian restaurant,” Sam bit out. “They don’t do espresso or brioche. And they aren’t open yet.”
Royce gave a dismissive wave. “They’re service people. They like to serve. And I thought you said the owner told you they were struggling financially, which was why they were subletting the office in the first place. They’ll be glad of the extra business.”