Page 20 of Takeover-
It had been, better than Michael wanted to admit. This little encounter wouldn’t be enough to sate his appetite for Sam, which was a huge, huge problem. He kissed the spot he’d bitten that already shaded toward purple. “You’re going to be sore tomorrow.”
“I’m sore now.” Sam pulled away, grinning, and bent to claim the bottle of body wash. “I like that aspect.” He squirted wash into his hand then offered the bottle to Michael. “Keeps me sharp.”
Michael took it and worked on cleaning himself off. He had no marks on his body, no visible bruises, it was only his heart that hurt like hell. “We can’t do this again.” He choked out the words. He would drown in Sam’s needs—and his own—if they kept this up.
Sam’s smile melted. He looked down and rinsed off, a faint crease forming on his brow.
Michael took his turn under the water, then shut the stream off. The silence afterward was absolute. Mike grabbed his towel off the curtain bar, dried himself, wrapped it around his waist, then retrieved his sodden belt. He held up a finger to his lips.
Sam didn’t move. His throat worked his Adam’s apple up and down, but he said nothing.
Pushing the curtain half open, Michael stepped out into the locker room.
It was empty. Exhaling, Michael opened the curtain the rest of the way. “I’ll get you a towel.” He didn’t wait for a response before returning to his locker to grab his spare towel. He took it back and handed it to Sam.
“Thanks.” Neutral tone. Sam’s eyes were rimmed with red, probably from the extended shower.
He hoped to God it was from the shower.
They didn’t speak as they toweled off and dressed. But when Sam picked up his watch and grunted, Michael couldn’t help but look over. Suit pants. Crisp gray shirt. All the evidence of their time together hidden beneath cloth. Sam met Michael’s gaze and turned his watch. “It’s not as late as I thought.”
“What time is it?”
“One forty-seven. Plenty of time before my two-thirty meeting with William.”
A long lunch, but not horribly so, given how late they both worked. Michael’s pulse still beat like he’d been working out. The warmth in his chest was gone, replaced by a cold knot. “Sam, I—”
Sam waved the words away. “You’re right. This shouldn’t happen again.” Sam paused and put his watch on. He lowered his voice. “It just complicates things.”
That was an understatement. Michael stuffed the towels and wet belt into his bag. No one would notice it missing if he left his shirt untucked. “It’s not that I don’t like it.”
Sam’s smile was slight. “I know that.” He moved to the full-length mirror and set about fixing his tie. “I was out in college—in undergrad. Dated. Marched. All that.”
So many things Michael wanted to say. He bit his tongue and finished packing his gym bag.
Sam shrugged into his suit coat and transformed back into a CEO. Except his eyes were still red-rimmed. “But the business world is very different.” Tight voice. Clipped words.
Fucking hell. Another one. “I understand.” Michael shouldered his bag. “I’ll see you upstairs.” He almost made it to the door.
“Michael.” Sam wielded the name like a whip made of silk.
He stopped and swiveled around, despite himself.
The suit spoke of power, but the raw emotion written on Sam’s face twisted the lump of ice in Michael’s chest. Complicated? Holy fuck, he didn’t want to name what he saw there. Nor what he felt in his own soul. He of all people shouldn’t have a thing for his CEO, especially given what had happened the last time he’d dated a coworker.
Sam exhaled. Inhaled. “No one has ever made me fly like you do.”
Michael backed into the door. This was worse than Rasheed. He’d been a lover and a friend, but they’d never fit together likethis. Sam—complemented him,completedhim. And the fucking man was in the closet because ofbusiness. Michael’s throat tightened so much he could barely breathe. “I have to go.” The words came out as cracked and shattered as he felt. Too many thoughts tripped over themselves on the way to twisting into his heart.
He turned and fled the locker room.
* * *
Sam’s ass hurt,but not in a good way. The chairs in the conference room must have been designed by someone who hated sitting—they numbed the limbs while driving aches up the spine. Sam didn’t shift in his seat—years of meetings like this one had taught him that a board of directors looked for those little hints that their prey was uncomfortable.
And today, Sam was their quarry—the fox running over the hills. The board knew exactly what he was going to say—he’d sent them his presentation three days ago. This meeting, with its expensive catered lunch, was designed to make Sam dance and the rest of the company’s sphincters tighten—exactly what the board wanted.
Well, how about that. Sarcasm worthy of Michael. Sam had gone completely native.
