Page 44 of Takeover
Greta waved Sam to the bar. “I’m presenting tomorrow. I’ll be a wreck if I don’t sleep. Have one on me.” She offered her hand to Michael. “A pleasure. If you’re free, let’s meet here again at nine. I’d like to talk further.”
“I’m free,” Michael said.
Greta nodded. After she headed to the elevator, Sam finally addressed him. “You coming to the bar?”
Flat words, nervousness, but not the kind Sam had displayed in Curaçao. This spoke of walls and restraints, and not the fun kind. Same kind of look. Different guy.
“No,” Michael said, then felt his guts fall when Sam looked relieved. “I think I’ll turn in.”
“Good night, Mike.”
Ouch. That was a kick in the teeth. He tried to smile and failed. “Good night.” But Sam was already turning away.
Halfway to the elevators, Michael stopped.
What the fuck? He rubbed his temples.
The morning’s overtures had been promising and the coffee well received. Every signal Sam had given had been positive. Every one now was negative. Was Michael really going to walk away from Sam again? Every time he’d done that in the past, it had been disastrous for the two of them and Four Rivers.
Sam was not Rasheed.
Still. Michael couldn’t march over to the bar and ask Sam what the hell was going on. What he could do, however, was give Sam the option of telling him.
No chasing, but one last chance for Sam to decide what he wanted.
Michael fished in the little folder with the keys to his room, pulled one out and stuffed it into his coat pocket. He headed toward the laughter and clinking of glasses and slipped next to Sam at the bar. “Hey, you dropped your key.” Michael placed the folder on the counter.
Sam started and for an instant, he was the man Michael had seen enter a very different bar in a very different place. Hope, the reddening of his cheeks, but then a flash of fear.
He’s not going to take it.The ache started at the back of Michael’s head and spread down into his heart. So, just like that, it was over?
Sam picked the folder up and tucked it into his pocket. “Thanks. I owe you.”
It took every ounce of discipline Michael had not to react, even as euphoria lightened his head more than any drink ever could. “Good night, Sam.”
He didn’t wait for a reply before he strode to the elevator. The only question now was would Sam use the card?
* * *
Sam might as well have hada hot coal in his pocket from the way the key to Michael’s room made him burn. Two fingers of whiskey on the rocks, downed quickly, hadn’t calmed him or numbed his need to follow Michael upstairs. He managed to sit through forty-five minutes of drinks and chat before the pressure in his lungs, head, and dick grew to great to ignore.
The conversation—or rather William’s monologue—lulled enough that he could excuse himself.
William snorted. “Night’s still young, Randell. I was thinking we should hit a place with a bit more… entertainment.”
William meant a bar with barely clothed women. Not at all the scene Sam wanted. Keeping an eye on William didn’t mean Sam had to put up with his shit. “Wish I could. The day took more out of me than I expected. I’d only put a damper on the night.” He tossed down some bills for a bar tip and gave the men a nod. “But do enjoy yourselves.”
As Sam headed toward the lobby he distinctly heard William call him a prude.
If only that were true, life would be much easier at the moment. He pulled out the folder that held Michael’s keycard and turned it over. Room 823. Such a simple thing it would be to go up there and indulge in one last fling.
No one down here would know. Michael’s hands, mouth, and breath on Sam’s skin. The security. The trust.
After punching the elevator up button, Sam turned the folder over again. Despite the desire twining in his belly and the hardness of his cock, he knew better than to give in. Both were conditions he could alleviate with his hand and a cold shower. The tightness in his heart—that was something else entirely. Nothing would fix that but time and distance.
A roll with Michael would only worsen the situation.
The elevator doors opened to an empty car. Sam strode in and pressed the button for six—his floor. The doors closed and the car rose.
