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And then her hands did shake. Oh God. What if she was bad at it?
Sam was on her again the second the door closed behind them, his mouth sliding up her neck, his hands moving over her hips, but despite the fact that he felt good—really good—she couldn’t concentrate.
Why was it so hard to breathe?
Come on, McKenna. Get your freaking head in the game.
She could do this.
She hadn’t just read all the best tips and tricks—she’d written them. There was no woman as well versed in sex in all of New York than Riley McKenna.
But she was book-smart about sex. Not street-smart.
Riley had always figured she’d fake her way through the first time—relying on others’ experiences rather than her own.
But this was Sam. He’d held her when she cried over the death of her grandma, bailed her out of trouble more times than she could count, and listened to her in the sort of intent way that made her feel important.
Faking in any way with him felt wrong.
His hands went to the hem of her shirt, sliding behind to palm her warm back. She arched against him instinctively, but when his fingers found the back clasp of her bra, she stilled.
Her hands clawed at his shoulders. “Wait.”
Sam froze.
He pulled back to look at her, and she braced herself for exasperation, but there was only patient concern as his eyes searched hers. And then, as if sensing she needed some extra nudge to reassure her to trust him, he gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Tell me.”
She knew then—knew that he was the right one. Knew that he was the one and only reason she’d never wanted anyone else to touch her.
“Riley?”
“I’m kind of new at this.”
His brow furrowed and he shook his head slightly to show he didn’t understand.
She tried again, gesturing between their two bodies. “This.”
“Making out against the door?” he asked, clearly still struggling to follow.
She took a deep breath. “More like … new at what comes out after the making out.”
After all, it wasn’t like she hadn’t kissed guys over the past years, it had just never been interesting enough to get to the next stage.
Sam took a half step back, and Riley moved around him to go to the fridge. She almost grabbed an open bottle of pinot grigio for courage but reached for the water pitcher instead.
“I don’t think I’m following,” Sam said, his eyes never leaving her as she poured a glass of water that she didn’t drink.
You only wish you weren’t following.
She put her palms flat on the table and gave it to him straight, no bullshit. “I haven’t had sex since I was twenty.”
No reaction. Not even a blink.
“And I think I was pretty bad at it,” she said, because if she was going to drop bombs, she might as well be efficient and drop them all at once.
“You’re twenty-eight,” he said after a painfully long silence.
“Correct.”
