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Tension curled inside Sam. Somehow, every moment he’d ever shared with Meagan, every thought he’d had, every assumption he’d made, merged into this one instant. And there lay the danger of moving forward with his intention to finally sate his hunger for her tonight.
The morning-after might not deliver the complication-free, tension-easing relief they’d both hoped for, because he simply wasn’t certain that one night would be enough. And he knew combining romance with work never ended well.
Several voices sounded nearby, interrupting their moment. “Come on. We have to go before it gets any later.”
She jumped into the truck, and closed the door behind her. As he rushed to the driver’s side, he tried to talk himself back off the ledge, tried to convince himself not to touch Meagan, to reel himself in before it was too late. Too late? Who was he kidding? He wouldn’t find the “off” switch if his life depended on it.
* * *
MEAGAN LISTENED to the engine roar to life with a fleeting realization that she didn’t have her phone or her purse. She’d taken off for their dinner, expecting to stay in the hotel, with nothing in hand. Normally, she’d insist on going back for both.
Instead, she found herself fixated on Sam’s powerful forearms, as he maneuvered the truck out of the parking spot. Everything about Sam was strong and powerful. His hands, his face, and his eyes, when they caught her in one of those penetrating stares.
She wanted him with as much passion as she knew he was wrong for her, which was to the point of complete and utter distraction. Worse—to the point that he was now controlling her with anticipation and fantasy.
Still, it was clear to her that avoiding him wasn’t the answer, for all kinds of reasons. Sleeping with him—well, he’d offered her one night, to get “it” out of their systems. She just had to be certain there were no strings. Then, maybe he was right.
Sam sparked something inside her, consumed her without even trying. His voice, his eyes, his powerful presence, all resonated with her.
Honestly, her attraction for Sam wasn’t going away, nor was he. But would making love with him extinguish the flames between them or cause them to burn brighter? Meagan admitted this had been her concern all along.
So why was she still considering it?
7
MEAGAN STARED AHEAD as the truck exited the garage, resisting the magnetic pull of Sam next to her, of the desire to turn to him, to study him—to slide up next to him and finally, finally, just be with him. The moon dangled low in the sky, like a lamp on an invisible chain, like her unyielding need for this man.
“Rest if you want,” he said. “I’ll wake you up when we get close.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, and sank down low in the seat and closed her eyes. She needed to think, she needed to…she didn’t know. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t know what she needed to do. Her mind raced to the point that she wanted to sit up, wanted to do something, anything. Instead, she pretended to sleep, sensing the shift in shadows as they maneuvered the streets of L.A., her mind playing with images. Sam looking hot. Sam looking hot while he stood in the basement dripping wet.
She forced herself to remember why she needed to concentrate. Sam might misread her, might think he had more claim to power on the set, if they slept together. They’d argue. Everyone would be affected. But then she thought of Sam’s eyes when he’d walked right into the chaos earlier, when his eyes had met hers, when he’d silently asked if he could intervene.
They must have been a good thirty minutes into the ride when Sam said, “I can hear you thinking, Meagan.”
She didn’t pretend she wasn’t awake; in fact, not pretending was a relief. She turned to face Sam. “Did you hear anything that made any sense to you, because I sure didn’t.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“As in—to you?”
He chuckled. It was a low, sexy sound, becoming both familiar and unnervingly likable. “I would be the only person here,” he reminded her.
“Yeah, but I can’t talk to you. Not about…you.”
He laughed louder and cut her a look. “I can assure you with one hundred percent certainty that I know more about me than anyone else on this earth.”
Fine, she’d ask him questions, but not the one really on her mind, which would be, should she sleep with him? “How old were you when you went into the army?”
“I entered on my eighteenth birthday,” he said, without missing a beat, as if it was exactly what he’d expected her to ask, when they both knew it absolutely was not.
