Watch Me (Stepping Up 1)

“If everyone has to let go of control sometimes, when do you let go?”

“Whenever you say you want me to.”

She searched his face. “That easily? Just like that.”

“Sweetheart, your definition of control and mine are two different things. You don’t think I’ve given it up, but I have.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I not only can’t stop thinking about you or wanting you,” he admitted. “I don’t even want to try.”

“I feel the same way,” she said. “I do. I—”

His mouth came down on hers, hungry to claim her. Finally, she’d stopping fighting him, stopped pushing him away. This had never been about the chase with Meagan. It had been about this, about how good she felt in his arms, how good they felt together. He knew now that all those years that he’d sworn he wasn’t a relationship man, had been because he hadn’t met Meagan.

She moaned, her tongue meeting his, caressing his. Sam rolled on top of Meagan, feeling her delicate curves beneath him, his hand sliding down her hip, beneath her backside, to arch her against the thick ridge of his erection.

She murmured his name, pleading with him. He pulled back to stare down at her, to search her face. “I never believed one night was enough. Or two, or three, or—”

She leaned up and captured his lips with hers. “Me, either,” she said.

A wild frenzy of touches, kisses, and undressing followed. Until she was beneath him, naked and perfect. Until he was buried inside her, memorizing every inch of her beautiful, heavy-lidded stare. He saw the trust there, in her, but he knew instinctively, it was still fragile, still far too easily shattered.

19

MEAGAN HAD DONE just what Sam had suggested. She’d let go of control, let herself say what she felt, let herself just be with Sam. Even now, after they’d dressed again, her in her bikini and Sam in a pair of swim trucks he’d worn under his jeans, she sensed the newfound intimacy between them. A closeness that had nothing to do with sex, and everything to do with making love.

Meagan sipped from her glass. “Thank goodness I told everyone to sleep in tomorrow,” Meagan said, the bubbles tickling her nose. “I have a feeling my head is going to pay for the sugar and champagne in the morning.”

“There’s a twenty-four-hour diner a mile up the road,” he said. “We could walk it.”

“With cheeseburgers?”

“I’m pretty sure any diner has a cheeseburger.”

“Then count me in,” she said, agreeably, reaching for her sandals and T-shirt as Sam did the same. That was when her eyes caught on the scar above his knee.

Her hand went to it, and he froze a moment, his shirt half over his head, the action telling her the injury was more of a sensitive spot than it was a physical injury.

“Does it bother you often?” she asked, as he pulled his shirt on. She remembered the way he’d rubbed it when they’d been in his truck the week before.

“I deal with it,” he said, repeating what he’d already told her.

She knew that all too well, thanks to a knee injury of her own that flared often. It hurt. “Will you tell me about it?”

“I was on a covert mission in enemy territory,” he said. “It wasn’t the bullets that got me, but the days without treatment. By the time I was back at camp it was a mess. I almost lost it.”

She could barely breathe thinking of how bad his leg must have been, and how devastating the outcome. “You can’t tell me that doesn’t mess with your head, Sam. You act like it’s nothing, but it is.”

“I had months of rehab to get my head right.”

No one just got their head right that quickly. A horrible thought hit her. He hadn’t dealt with his leg. He was going to eventually wake up and reject this new easy life, and her with it. She pulled her hand back from his leg, suddenly feeling burned, certain this thing with Sam was going nowhere good and not sure why that upset her so much. Why couldn’t this just be about sex anymore? She began to move away from him.

He grabbed her hand, gently holding her beside him, when she wanted to dart away. “Whatever you’re thinking, I can tell it’s not good. We’re talking about my leg, and you’re the one withdrawing and I don’t get it.” His eyes narrowed. “Am I damaged goods, Meg? Is that the problem?”

Her eyes riveted to his. “No. Oh God, no, Sam. It’s not like that. Your leg—if anything the scar is sexy and you’re more man than any I’ve ever known. And that’s exactly why I must seem silly to you, worried about dancing and ratings, when you’ve been off saving lives and protecting our country. Coddling me must be—”