“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.”