“I was thinking about a story I want you to tell me,” he said, caressing the wet hair from her face. “Are you ever going to tell me your story? All of it, Meg. I know there’s something you haven’t told me. Something that got you here where you are today.”

Her fingers trailed over his jaw, his lips, a moment before her mouth brushed his. “Yes. Yes I am.”

“Yes?”

Her fingers stroked his chest, his ribs, between their bodies. “Yes.” She smiled against his mouth, wrapped her hand around the thickness of his erection. “I’m most definitely going to let you in.”

Desire pumped through his body, but he forced himself to slow down his lust, and his need to just lose himself in Meagan. He reached down, and covered her hand with his. “That’s not what I mean.”

“I know what you mean, Sam. And the answer is still yes. Yes, I’m going to tell you my story. Yes, I want you in my life. And yes, I still really want you inside me right now.” She stroked his cock, and he let her this time.

He’d held weapons while being fired at, and he didn’t so much as tremble. But then, he’d never wanted a woman the way he wanted Meagan, never felt what he felt now, with her, always with her.

He sheathed himself, his gaze sweeping her breasts, water droplets clinging to her tight rosy nipples. “You’re spectacular.”

Her hands slid down his shoulders. “Remember that the next time we disagree.”

“Have I told you how much I love your ass?” he asked, palming one cheek, and angling her hip as he settled his shaft between her thighs.

One of her hands slid to his backside. “Have I told you how much I like yours?”

He entered her and she gasped. “Sam,” she moaned.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” His forehead settled against hers, his hand skimmed her breast, fingers teasing her nipple.

“About last night.” Her hand pressed to his cheek.

He moved his hips, fitting himself deeper inside her. “What about it?”

She panted and then breathlessly replied, “I’m pretty sure when we huddled together and kissed in the shower, everyone figured out we’re together.”

Together. He liked that word. He liked her using it as a given. “Yeah,” he agreed, his cock swelling inside her, need building within him. “I’m pretty sure they did.”

“I don’t regret it. I don’t care that they know.” He pulled back to look at her, and she quickly added, “I know we have to be discreet. I need to be discreet, and I’m sure you want to be discreet. But…but, Sam, in that shower, in the worst of situations, when I was completely out of control, you made me feel…safe. You made me feel safe, Sam.”

Sam swallowed her confession in a hungry kiss, knowing the trust that it had cost her, how difficult trust was for her to give. And as for the regret she’d mentioned, he was feeling absolutely none, and he intended to demonstrate that fact in a number of creative ways.

* * *

AT THE STOVE, SAM FILLED plates with omelets he’d made and toast, before joining Meagan at the small white kitchen table, where she was listening to a message on her cell phone.

She’d dressed in black jeans and a red T-shirt with a V neckline that displayed ample creamy white skin in a tantalizing way. But then, he had a good imagination where Meagan was concerned, and it wouldn’t take much to encourage him to drag her back to the bedroom, if he thought she’d let him.

Meagan sighed and set her phone on the table. “Kiki left me a message that she’s meeting me at the studio. Something is just strange about her taking off this morning when we had the tornado last night.” She waved away her worry. “I don’t have the energy to think about what it might be.” Her gaze lit on her plate. “Wow. No one told me you’re a chef. I’m starving and this looks so incredibly good. Honestly, Sam. I can’t believe you can cook. You don’t strike me as the domestic type.”

“I still have a lot of surprises for you,” he assured her, looking forward to showing her just how many. “You’ll find us soldiers are a resourceful bunch.”

She took a bite of her eggs and swallowed. “So good, Sam. At least one of us can cook. Don’t be expecting anything but microwave from me.”

“So you’ve told me,” he said. “But I’m not interested in you for your cooking, I assure you.” He poured sugar in his coffee.

She set her fork down as if the subject turned her stomach. “I fired my agent and hired a new one who says next season I can pick my own crew. Michael Beckwith, that’s his name, said that I could have gotten that to start with if I’d been with him. He seems to think he can negotiate for next season now, not later, based on the ratings. That’s good news, right?”


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