By eleven o’clock that evening, when the bar finally closed for the night and all the customers were gone, Samantha looked like she’d been put through the wringer. Clay actually felt bad for her. Her face etched with exhaustion, she helped Tessa and Amanda clean the dirty glasses and plates from the tables, occasionally wincing as she bent over, then straightened again to put the items on her tray. Her back was obviously killing her.
He knew every inch of her body had to be tired and sore after working nonstop, but never once had she complained about the physical exertion. Hell, he’d hired other more experienced bar waitresses in the past who hadn’t been able to handle the brisk, hectic, and fast pace at Kincaid’s and had quit the first night. Not Samantha. She’d dealt incredibly well with the wide variety of people and the different personalities that she’d encountered over the course of the night.
Despite every snobby, pretentious stereotype he wanted to believe about a woman who was more a wealthy socialite than a blue-collar waitress, Samantha had proved to be incredibly friendly, engaging, and likeable. Everyone who worked at Kincaid’s had already welcomed her into the fold and made her feel like one of the team, and they tended to be a tough crowd when it came to new hires.
The girls finished wiping down the tables and chairs, which was all Clay required them to do at the end of their shift. He had a crew who came in every morning to sweep and mop the floors, take out all the trash, and handle any other tedious chores so his employees could leave at a reasonable hour on a weekday. By eleven forty-five, everyone was gone except for him and Samantha, who plopped herself into a chair at one of the tables and let out a weary groan, as if she couldn’t bring herself to move another inch.
He came around the bar, wanting to check on her. “Are you all right?”
“No.” She grimaced as she arched her spine to stretch her back muscles, which effectively thrust her breasts out and drew his stare to her stiff nipples poking against the cotton fabric of her T-shirt. “I feel like I have a hangover and I didn’t even drink anything tonight. And my feet are killing me. Oh, and I’m starving.”
Reluctantly dragging his gaze from her chest, he thought about the one piece of toast she’d had this morning for breakfast and wondered if she’d eaten anything since. “Did you have lunch before starting your shift?”
“I had a burger at a fast-food place with Katrina after we went shopping, but that was almost nine hours ago.” A small smile quirked the corner of her mouth. “Damn, I burned a lot of calories tonight running around, and my stomach has been growling hungrily for the past two hours.”
He frowned at her. “You should have taken a break and ordered something from the kitchen. All employees eat during their shift at no charge.” He shook his head as that natural inclination to take care of her surfaced. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
“As if I could even move now that I’m sitting down,” she said as she absently rubbed a hand along the back of her neck and moaned as she kneaded the taut tendons there. It was all he could do not to push her hands away and take over himself, easing the knots out of her sore muscles. “I might just sleep right here with my head on the table,” she added.
Resisting the continuing urge to take over and give her a relaxing massage himself—any excuse to touch her again—he went to the kitchen, which was a much safer option. He heated up a few appetizers in the microwave and grabbed a small bottle of water from the refrigerator.
When he returned to the table, she was counting out the tips she’d made, and had created two separate stacks of dollar bills.
“Here, you need to eat,” he said, setting the plate of food and drink to the side before taking the chair across from her.
“Thank you. I will in a minute,” she replied, her focus on the task in front of her. “I just want to get this counted out.”
He leaned back in his seat, enjoying the quiet moment of just watching her. Her brows were furrowed in concentration, and when she absently bit her bottom lip, a distinct heat pooled low in his belly. This morning’s memory of how she’d brazenly nipped at his own lip and tugged it between her teeth flooded his mind, followed by the sweet taste of her mouth and her uninhibited response to his aggressive kiss.
He wanted to kiss her again. Badly. Hell, if he was completely honest with himself, what he really craved was the feel of her soft, curvy body straining beneath his as he held her down and drove his cock hard and deep inside her, claiming her completely. He ached to wrap his hands tight in her hair and hear her whimper and moan and beg for him to give her the release she so desperately needed. And he’d make damn sure she came long and hard, until she was weak and sated and sore in the best way possible so she’d forget every pansy-ass bastard who’d come before him.
His cock pulsed at the erotic fantasy playing in his head, and he shifted in his chair. He’d never had such an instantaneous attraction to a woman as he did now with Samantha. And he’d never had to struggle so much to keep such a tight rein on his desires. Samantha made him want to lose control, in her and with her, and that scared the crap out of him because it would lead to complications…and the kind of strings he didn’t allow in his life.
“I had no idea what to expect tip-wise since I’ve never done this before, but this is way more than I’d anticipated,” she said, drawing him out of his private thoughts.
A hint of pride threaded through her voice, and she pushed the larger bundle of cash across the table toward him. “Here’s part of what I owe you for the clothing and toiletries I bought today. I kept a little bit for myself for incidentals, but if I do this well every night, I should have you paid off in a few days, and then I can start saving up for another place to stay and be out of your way.”
He opened his mouth to say he didn’t mind her being
there, then closed it before the words could come out. What the hell? How was it that in just one day he’d become attached to her and didn’t want her to leave? Jesus, he was so fucked.
“You did well tonight,” he said instead, indicating the money she’d made.
She gave him a smile, and there was no mistaking the gleam of satisfaction in her eyes. “You sound surprised.”
“Maybe because I am,” he admitted with a shrug. “You picked things up pretty quickly for not having any experience.”
She tucked the smaller amount of money back into the pouch in her waitress apron, then moved the plate of food so that it was in front of her. “Just because I’m blonde doesn’t mean I’m ditzy,” she teased as she picked up a potato skin loaded with melted cheese, bacon, and sour cream. “I’ll have you know I graduated summa cum laude from Northwestern University with a degree in political science.”
He watched her polish off the appetizer in two hungry bites, appropriately impressed by her education. He knew she wasn’t bragging, just stating that she wasn’t a slouch. Not that he’d ever thought she was, nor had he doubted her competence. She was beautiful and a billionaire heiress, but in the short time he’d known her, he’d already come to the conclusion that she was also intelligent, not to mention a woman who prided herself on being independent—something she apparently hadn’t been allowed while living at home.
Curious, he asked, “So what have you used that fancy, illustrious degree for?”
She finished off a chicken finger, the lighthearted glow in her eyes dimming at his question. “Nothing,” she said quietly. “I attended a private university because that’s what had been laid out for me, and paid for, since I was child. I didn’t have a choice in the matter. I went with political science to challenge myself and because government and world events interest me. I thought about going to law school, but my parents nixed that idea. Allowing me to pursue any ambition might have hampered their plans for me to marry well. And soon.” She drew a deep breath. “In the end, the degree was all for show, and my parents were able to brag about the fact that I graduated at a prestigious university with the highest honors.”
“You wanted to go to law school?” he asked, surprised once again.
She shook her head. “In the end…no. I think I wanted to have something for me. But that wasn’t allowed. After all, what did I need a further degree for when I was expected to get married, be some man’s arm candy, and stay home and have babies?” Her voice dipped lower, a hint of disgust in her tone.
He raised a brow. “You don’t want to get married and have a family?”
“Of course I do,” she replied indignantly. “With a man who I fall in love with, not one who is hand-picked for me. But I want, and need, more out of my life than being married to a man for business reasons and to secure my father’s company.”
That, he could understand. And he respected her for being strong enough to stand by her convictions, which obviously meant defying her parents. “I get your need to be self-sufficient, but I’m sure you don’t want to be a waitress for the rest of your life.”
She took a drink from her water bottle, her eyes dancing with humor as she swallowed the cool liquid, then finally said, “You have to admit, it’s an interesting start to whatever comes next.”
He chuckled, appreciating her positive attitude. “If you could do anything you wanted, what would you do?” He didn’t know why he asked the question, or why he even cared what she envisioned for her future, but everything about this woman intrigued him and he found himself invested despite all the warnings he’d given himself since the second they’d met.
“Well…even though my degree is in political science, I’ve since realized I have no interest in being involved in politics or being a lawyer or working in public relations.” Finished with the snack he’d made for her, she pushed the plate aside and crossed her arms over the surface of the table, her gaze meeting his almost shyly. “What I would love to do is be a pastry chef.”
He couldn’t have been more shocked and leaned forward in his seat. “Really?”
She nodded eagerly, clearly warming to the topic. “When I was growing up, I’d always sneak into the kitchen and help our housekeeper, Maggie, when she was making desserts,” she said with an impish smile. “She taught me all about baking cakes and pastries and pies, and I loved working with her. My mother just thought it was a phase I was going through, and since being with Maggie in the kitchen kept me busy and out of her way, she allowed me to spend time with the help.” She wrinkled her nose in an adorable fashion. “Two years ago, I went to culinary school to get certified as a pastry chef, but again, my parents didn’t take it seriously.”
“But you did go,” he said quietly.
She nodded, a glint of pride and defiance in her pretty eyes.
Without really thinking about the implications of his actions, he reached a hand across the table and slid it on top of one of hers, telling himself it was a gesture of silent support and encouragement. And not because he ached to touch her. “If it makes you happy, you should do it.”
She exhaled a sigh and turned her hand over beneath the weight of his, so that her fingers brushed against his sensitive palm, making that connection between them so much stronger…and seductive, letting him know they were both feeling the underlying desire arcing between them. And though they’d been fighting those emotions—or at least he was—with every passing minute, she was getting harder and harder to resist.
“I’ve seriously thought about it,” she revealed, and he realized she was talking about becoming a pastry chef and not the desire that was building by the minute. “But here I am, twenty-six years old with no real life or job experience as a pastry chef, or anything else, for that matter. I’m not sure any one-star restaurant would even give me a chance, never mind a five-star establishment.”
He heard the insecurities in her voice, and self-doubt wasn’t something he’d equate with the woman sitting in front of him. “You won’t know unless you try.” He didn’t want to see her give up on her dreams.
She possessed so many fascinating layers. So much emotional depth. And every time they really talked, he learned things about Samantha that changed his entire perspective of her, in a way that was dangerous to the safe life he’d carved out for himself until now.
Realizing how intimate touching her hand had become, he pulled his arm back to his side of the table.
She dipped her head self-consciously and abruptly changed the subject. “What about you? How did you come to own a bar?”
He reclined in his chair, thinking for a moment before answering. He wasn’t sure how much he wanted to reveal about his disturbing and hellish childhood and the ensuing teenage years, so he decided to go with the abbreviated, uncomplicated version.
“Jerry, the guy who originally owned this bar, hired me when I was sixteen and in desperate need of a job.” Because he’d had two younger brothers to feed, clothe, and make sure they had a roof over their heads. “I started out sweeping the floors, emptying the trash, and doing general cleanup. I worked my ass off, and he became a father figure to me, since I didn’t have one. The harder I worked, the more he taught me about the bar and business, and the more responsibilities he gave me. When I turned twenty-one, he put me behind the bar and trained me to be a bartender and how to make drinks. He was kind and caring and selfless when it came to helping other people.”
“You said ‘was,’” she stated softly.
Clay felt his chest tighten as it always did when he recalled how devastated he’d been on finding Jerry’s lifeless body in the office that fateful day. “He had a heart attack and passed away when I was twenty-four. And that’s when I found out he left the bar to me. He had no wife, no family, and no kids.”
And along with the establishment, Clay had inherited the small fortune that Jerry had amassed—a shocking two million dollars that the older man had hoarded away and Clay hadn’t known existed. Other than sharing part of the wealth with his brothers, he’d kept most of it invested and used some of the extra money to help his employees when needed. Like Tara and college. She still didn’t know that he’d been the one to cover her entire tuition, and believed she’d been awarded a grant by an anonymous donor. And he’d done the same thing with Hank’s medical bills—paid them off in full without disclosing his identity.
He didn’t miss the irony—Mason called him Saint Clay, and maybe he was a bit of an altruist—but Clay didn’t do it because he wanted the recognition or praise. He did it because he knew how it felt to struggle under the weight of financial burden and trying to make it on your own. Or in his case, with two brothers he’d been determined wouldn’t end up in foster care. And now that he had the means, he wanted to lighten the strain for those he cared about.
Samantha tipped her head, her blue eyes analyzing him in a way that seemed to see right past those walls he erected to keep people out. He could feel her penetrating stare, see the discerning look in her gaze, and that sudden connection between them unnerved him.
“Katrina was right, you know,” she finally said, breaking the silence that had settled over the room. “You’re very different from your brother Mason.”
Abrupt laughter escaped him, because that was the last thing he’d expected her to say. But he was grateful to know that she saw him differently from his wild and unpredictable sibling. “Thank God I’m not like Mason,” he said, then leaned forward in his chair and addressed the first part of her comment. “What, exactly, did Katrina tell you about me?”
“That you’re the responsible one,” she replied, and propped her chin in her hand. “Why do people call you Saint?”
“That nickname came from Mason,” he said wryly, and his sibling meant it in a purely mocking way. If you asked his brother why he called Clay Saint, he’d say because Clay was a do-gooder, which was the complete opposite of Mason’s cocky, I don’t give a shit attitude. “He calls me a saint because I tend to give people a chance.”
“Like Hank and Elijah?” she asked perceptively. “And me,” she added more appreciatively.
“Yes.” There was no sense in de
nying the truth. “I didn’t have the best life before Jerry hired me, and I’m fortunate enough that I’m now in the position that I can help other people who need it. Even if that means giving them something as simple as a job.”
She smiled at him. “I love that you see the good in people.”
“It wasn’t always that way,” he replied gruffly. No, for the longest time, he’d painted people with the same brush as his mother and the man who’d fathered him, believing the worst of the world and the people who inhabited it. Neglect along with physical and emotional abuse were all he’d known for his entire childhood, and judging people and their intentions had been a hard habit for him to break. Trusting them had been equally difficult for him. Until Jerry. The man had broken through his anger and reserve in a way no one else ever had, teaching him to at least give people the benefit of the doubt.
“Your life is so completely opposite from how I grew up,” Samantha said, breaking into his thoughts. “Everything was just handed to me on a proverbial silver platter, and I took things for granted.” She ducked her head in embarrassment before meeting his gaze. “It’s just that…”
The sadness clouding her gaze made him want to know more, because whatever she had to say suddenly mattered to him. “What?”
She gave a one-shoulder shrug. “The world I lived in, it’s all so superficial, and I felt like I was suffocating. With Harrison, too. But every time I wanted to do something for me, to better myself or make a difference in my own life, I’d be reminded that I’m a Jamieson, and I had certain expectations I had to live up to. What I wanted didn’t matter.”
“Well, look at you now,” he said on a teasing drawl, meant to lighten the mood. “All stubborn and rebellious.”
“Yeah, and it feels good, really good, not to have to worry about what my parents think, and whether or not they’d approve of what I do.” A sexy, brazen smile curved her lips, and her eyes glinted with the kind of simmering desire that made Clay’s body heat in an answering awareness.
“I think I like being a bad girl,” she said huskily. “It’s quite liberating.”
Confession out in the open, she pushed up from the table, and Clay quickly realized that trouble was heading his way. She took the few steps toward him, hips swaying in a confident, alluring manner, before she plopped herself in his lap like a tempting present he didn’t want to return and couldn’t wait to unwrap.
Her perfect ass nestled right up against his groin, and his entire body stiffened, including his dick. She sat sideways on his hard thighs, and it took Herculean strength not to swivel her around and reposition her so she was straddling his hips. He wanted nothing more than to rock his thickening shaft between her jean-clad legs. As it was, keeping his arms at his sides and his hands off any part of her body was testing his normally solid restraint.
She had no such qualms and grabbed his wrist, lifted his hand, and settled his palm on the curve of her hip. Dark blue eyes locked on his, the depths swirling with the same need pounding relentlessly through him. “Touch me, Clay,” she invited in a soft, sultry whisper.
His fingers tightened on her waist in a desperate attempt to keep his hand from sliding beneath her T-shirt and up to caress her full breasts. “Samantha,” he groaned, his voice a low and rough discouragement. “I already warned you this morning—”
“That you aren’t a gentleman and you don’t do soft and gentle and sweet,” she said, repeating the exact words he’d uttered as she placed her hand on his chest, her touch searing him even through the cotton fabric of his T-shirt.
“But I don’t need or want a warning, Clay. All day long I’ve been thinking about the things you said, about the things you want to do to me, and asking myself if that’s what I want, too.”
I like to control and fuck so hard and deep you’ll scream and be sore the next day. I’d want you on your knees, with my hands fisted in your hair while you suck my cock, and then I’d bend you over this table, spread your legs wide, and fuck you all over again.
And that was just to start with. From there, it would only get hotter. Dirtier. Those filthy thoughts and fantasies made his blood boil in his veins. “You have no idea what you want,” he tried warning her again.
“Now that’s where you’re wrong,” she said seductively as she slid her hand up to his neck and stroked her thumb along the pulse he could feel throbbing at the base of his throat. “I know, without a doubt, that I want you. More than I’ve ever wanted another man.”
The truth of that statement blazed in her eyes, scorching hot and fiery. Her admission pushed him closer to his breaking point and made his cock so hard it ached. “I’m trying like hell not to take advantage of what you’re offering, but a man can only take so much.”
She dipped her head to the other side of his neck, her soft laughter warm and damp against his skin. “That’s what I’m counting on,” she said into his ear. “I’ve had enough of soft and easy and romantic with other guys, and especially Harrison, who won’t even touch me between my legs because he’s obsessed with cleanliness and doesn’t like anything on his fingers or hands.”
What the fuck? Clay thought, trying to wrap his mind around what she’d just said, but she wasn’t done destroying his sanity.
“That kiss this morning with you…just thinking about it and all the things you said to me, about how you want to take me hard and deep and how you want me on my knees while I…suck your cock, it makes me…”
“Wet?” he suggested when she seemed unable to finish her sentence. God, he ought to be putting an end to her seduction, not encouraging her to continue!
She rubbed her legs together restlessly, as if to confirm what he’d suggested, and the way she shifted on his lap made him impossibly harder against her ass.
“That’s definitely one of the things,” she said, her amused voice tickling his ear. “But it also makes me want so much more. Like to know what it would feel like to have your mouth on me and your tongue giving me pleasure. Or what you would feel like sliding deep inside of me.”
She sounded so prim and proper, when he was dying to hear dirtier, more shocking words fall from her lips. Like what it would feel like to have him eat her pussy like he was starving and suck her clit into his mouth until she came on his tongue. Or what it would be like to have his cock driving into her tight heat as he fucked her until she splintered apart and screamed his name. But good girls didn’t do or say things like that—
“I don’t want to be a good girl anymore,” she said, somehow so in tune to him she’d read his mind. Pressing her lips against his neck, she licked his skin with her soft tongue, making him shudder with the need to feel her mouth and tongue stroking along his dick. “I want to be very bad with you, Saint Clay.”
Breathing hard, he lifted his hand and twisted his fingers into her hair, then tugged her head back so he was looking into her eyes, which were so dark and dilated he wanted to drown in all that sweet sensuality.
“I’m not a saint, Cupcake,” he said, even as he felt himself caving in to his own desperate hunger for this one woman alone. “Especially when it comes to fucking.”
“That’s good, because I don’t really want a saint,” she taunted softly, as she dragged her tongue across her bottom lip, then smiled sensuously. “I want a sinner.”
Just like this morning, she managed to provoke him past the point of no return. How did she manage that when no other woman ever could?
Her lashes fell to half-mast, and she parted those full pink lips, already breathless and flushed at the mere thought of him kissing her again. Fuck trying to be honorable, he thought, as the last of his self-discipline evaporated and his aggressive side surfaced.
If she wanted a sinner, well, sinning was what he did best.
Tightening his hold on her hair, he tipped her head to the side and didn’t hesitate to claim her mouth—hard, deep, and thoroughly. Just like he ached to claim her body.
But that wasn’t going to happen, so this kiss would have to suffice.
He swallowed her initial gasp and swirled his tongue over and around hers, dragging her further into his kind of debauchery. Her soft, supple mouth was made for sex and sin, and for sucking his cock, he thought with a fevered groan. Her flavor was deliciously addicting, and he knew kissing her would never be enough to quench this never-ending desire, or to sate the lust that threatened to consume him. But it had to be enough, because anything more would ruin her.
He didn’t do promises. He didn’t do love or forever. He was dark, and she was light. She was pure, and he was tainted and majorly fucked up. And she deserved so much more than he could ever offer her.
So for the second time in the same day, he was going to turn down a sure thing. Jesus, when did I become so fucking chivalrous? He told himself he didn’t want Samantha to have regrets, but what he really feared was that once he knew what it felt like to be buried deep inside of her, he’d never want to let her go.
He ended the kiss, and a needy moan escaped her lips as she opened her eyes. He ignored the clear disappointment in her gaze and the throbbing ache in his balls. “It’s late, Samantha,” he said. As an excuse, it was a pitiful one.
Surprisingly, she didn’t argue. “It is late, and I need a long, hot shower.” She slid off his lap and stood but held his gaze as a slow, daring smile touched her kiss-swollen lips. “Are you coming up?”
There was no mistaking the invitation in her words, but he shook his head and held firm, because he already knew how tempting it was to share a shower with her, and tonight she was completely sober. “No. Not for a while.”
Amusement etched her features, even as she pinned him with a gutsy look. “Afraid I’ll try and have my wicked way with you?”
“Not at all.” No, he was more afraid that he’d corner her like a lust-crazed animal and finish what they’d started. It wasn’t as though she was putting up any kind of struggle, and he honestly didn’t know how much longer he could turn down her advances.
“Okay then,” she said with an easy shrug and a too-knowing smile, clearly not believing him for a second. “Good night, Saint.”
Yeah, she was mocking him with the nickname, so he did the same. “Good night, Cupcake.”
She laughed, the lighthearted sound making him smile as she walked away, leaving him to wonder what her next plan of attack would be. And whether he’d have the strength and fortitude to resist.
