Page 46 of Fauxmance in the City

“Who doesn’t want to gain more exposure for their career?”

“Right.” Sam rubs his forehead, looking shell-shocked.

“Think about it, Samuel. It’ll be good for you and the magazine.” Gillian’s voice grows closer to the door.

I rush to the office next to his and tuck in until I hear her leave down the hallway. I count to sixty, then walk into Sam’s office. He leans against his desk facing the door, his head bent, his arms tense against the edge.

“She offered me a magazine,” he says without looking up.

“That’s great.” My enthusiasm sounds forced, my blood swooshing behind my ears.

“It’s not great,” he explodes, circling me. “She made it clear she’ll only do it if I do some reality show with you, which we can’t do, of course. This charade”—Sam finishes the circle and turns fierce eyes on me—“may ruin my career. Once the truth comes out—and it will, it always does—Gillian will never give me that magazine. Hell, I’ll be lucky to keep my job.”

“We’ll figure something out.” I lean forward, but he puts a hand out, and I halt. There’s fire in Sam’s eyes. It reminds me of the burning lust in them last weekend, and suddenly sparks of arousal cascade over my skin, causing my body to flush pink.

With Sam, I’m always teetering between lust and loathing.

“Do you remember the first time you kissed me?” I ask.

Sam tucks his chin, a V forming between his brows.

“In the elevator?” He eyes me wearily. I’m sure he’s trying to guess why I’ve taken this left turn. If this is a game or not.

It’s a little of both.

I shove him in the shoulder. “That wasn’t our first kiss. It was at Key Bar. God, don’t tell me you don’t remember.”

Sam sucks in a sharp breath. “I remember. I didn’t think you did. You never mentioned it afterward.”

“I came to your office the next day.” I press my palm in the dip between his pectorals, and his gaze clamps on my hand. I feel his heart gallop beneath it, and it gives me the confidence to continue.

“I remember. With Patrick,” he says. “But we talked about work.”

“No. Earlier that morning I came to see you. Part of me had imagined you throwing me over your desk, lifting my skirt, and fucking me until I screamed.”

It has the effect I’d hoped for, and his skin flushes, his heartbeat shifting into a spring against my hand. I knock my knees against his, and he widens his stance enough for me to sidle in between his legs.

I drop my voice. “I get excited thinking about it.”

It’s true. But my arousal is always followed by what happened when I arrived at his office the next morning, and cold water drenches the fantasy. That was the day Sam proved to me that he was exactly what I always believed him to be. A garbage penis, a man whore.

No matter what he said to me last weekend.

“Have you ever thought about me on this desk?” I tug the fabric of his shirt.

Sam’s hands slide up the outside of my thighs, and I almost whimper with relief. He can’t hate me if he still desires me. As if I’m a feather, he lifts me off my feet and spins me around, dropping my ass on his desk. My legs tighten around his waist giddily.

“Yes.” He drops his head to my collarbone but doesn’t move.

“Sam?” I ask.

He doesn’t respond. Instead, his teeth skate over my collarbone until he reaches the indention above my sternum and dips his tongue into the hollow.

I gasp, my nerves tingling. I glide my fingers down his shoulders, across his pecs, and curl his shirt up, revealing eight perfectly cut abs.

Sam responds with a grunt that rumbles against my fingers. His hand tugs at the loops of my jeans, but he stops short of yanking me to him.

He drops his head, exhaling a shaky breath.

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