Page 10 of The Love Lie
Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Logically, yes, she knew she’d have to confess the truth eventually. But not now. Not when she’s fighting tooth and nail for the upper hand in an argument she knows she has no right to win. To even wage. Obviously, this whole messed-up day is entirely her fault. If she had just said no like he and Emily planned, none of this would be happening. But she didn’t. And she’s determined to share the blame if it kills her. Because it’s his fault, too. His fault for being so goddamn attractive she lost her ever-loving mind right when she needed it most. Screw genetics. He knew exactly what he was doing with that smolder.
If being a woman in a man’s corporate world has taught her anything, it’s don’t admit defeat. Don’t show weakness. And always, always stay on the offensive.
So instead of doing the normal thing—the (yes, okay) right thing—and apologizing, she lifts her chin in an arrogant tilt. “How’d you know it was me?”
“You might look exactly like your sister, but there’s one thing you’ve got that Emily doesn’t.” He pauses to rake his gaze over every inch of her body. The slow perusal starts at her toes, then glides higher with deliberate intention, the path of his focus burning like a warm caress. By the time he finds her eyes, her lungs blaze from lack of oxygen, and it takes all her effort just to breathe. “Claws.”
She grins, trying her best to cut the tension currently causing her cheeks to flame. “I take that as a compliment.”
The wicked edge of his answering smile has her thighs clenching. “You should.”
Don’t think about sex.
Don’t think about sex.
No matter how hard she tries, she can’t stop from picturing her legs wrapped around him as her nails dig into his thick shoulders, like, well, claws. She can’t help it. When she sees something she wants, she takes it. Always has, always will—except now. Now, she has to tell her inner sex kitten to take a back seat because he’s her sister’s ex. He’s a freaking cowboy. He’s her—I can’t believe I’m even saying this right now!—fiancé. He’s too attractive for his own good. And most importantly, she will not let him win whatever this power struggle is between them.
No fucking way.
She’d rather spend the next five nights masturbating any thought of him away than let this cocky asswipe get the best of her.
Except…
The image of his hands gripping her thighs and her fingers scratching down his back invades again.
That goddamn smolder.
His smile deepens, as if he knows exactly what’s going on in the back of her mind, and then he shrugs. “Besides, you don’t kiss like your sister.”
“Eww,” Sam whines. The passionate embrace she’d been imagining is wiped away in an instant as nausea curls in her gut. “Eww. Eww. Eww. We’ve never kissed the same guy before. This is…incestuous. I feel dirty.”
As if taking glee in her disgust, he keeps talking. “Emily kisses like a gentle summer rain, soft and warm and comforting. You, on the other hand, kiss like a fucking tornado. You’re out to destroy.”
She doesn’t know what to make of that, but she definitely knows she doesn’t want to hear more. So Sam sticks her fingers in her ears and sings, “La la la la. I’m not listening. La la la.”
After a moment, he gently encircles her wrists and pulls. “Relax, Cujo.”
“Cujo?”
“You know, the dog who gets rabies and goes on a killing spree in that movie?”
“The St. Bernard?” She wrinkles her nose. “They drool.”
“That’swhat you’re taking offense to?”
“Oh, I’m fine being an attack dog, but a St. Bernard? Really?”
“You’d rather be a rabid…?”
“Spaniel?”
“Too friendly.” He shakes his head and grabs his chin between his fingers as he sizes her up. Then he snaps. “Got it. Doberman pinscher.”
Sam thinks for a moment before nodding. “I accept.”
