Jill Shalvis - Slow Heat

“Sam.”

God. What now?

Wade took the glass from her fingers and set it on a table, then held out a hand.

Her first thought was no. No slow dancing. No possible way could she handle the forced intimacy. But that thought was fleeting because she understood something that she’d possibly always known-she couldn’t tell him no. And in any case, he didn’t give her a choice. He pulled her into his arms and then she was up against that body that knew hers inside and out. In spite of herself, she melted into him. He was warm and smelled like heaven, and she set her head on his shoulder, her hand on his chest.

He murmured something soft and wordless in her ear and stroked a hand up her back. Beneath his jacket she could feel the steady beat of his heart, in sharp contrast to hers, which was racing. Worse, she was still shaking like crazy; she couldn’t seem to stop.

“It’s okay, Sam,” he said very softly in her ear, running that big, warm, callused hand up and down her back with terrifying gentleness. “It’s going to be okay.”

How? How was it ever going to be okay? An involuntary shiver wracked her, one he chased away with his hand. “Sam,” he murmured, regret heavy in his husky voice.

“Please.” She tensed against him. “I don’t want to do this. I lied. I can’t do this. I can’t fake this with you, not even for the team.”

Wade tipped up her chin and looked directly into her eyes. “I know. I can’t either. When I’m with you, I can’t fake anything, I’ve never faked anything. That’s what tripped me up at first, I think.”

She just stared up at him, not sure if he was speaking the same language as she was. “Tripped you up?”

“You didn’t like me for the usual reasons,” he said. “The fame, the fortune, the fun. In fact, I’m not even sure why you liked me at all. All I know is that when I’m with you, I feel more like myself than when I’m not.”

“Wade O’Riley!” A woman reporter shoved a microphone in their faces. “Nice tux. Dolce &Gabbana?”

“Uh…” He looked down at himself as if he couldn’t remember. “Armani. If you could give us a minute-”

“And your date. Samantha McNead, right?” the reporter asked smoothly. “Gorgeous dress. Can I get a shot of you two kissing?”

Sam felt herself tense. The last time someone had asked this of them had been at Mark’s wedding-the first day of their “relationship.”

Wade pulled her into his warmth and pressed his mouth to her ear, his voice soft. “The real thing this time, Sam. No pretending. Because when I’m with you, I don’t have to pretend at all, and neither do you. It’s just us. And there is an us.”

“It’s not just us now,” she said. “I have Tag-”

“I know. I love that kid. And I have my dad in my life, too. No, it’s not just us, but that makes it even better.”

She stared up at him, some of the tension leaving her body. He was right, he’d always been right. And she needed to see this through, fear or not. She loved him too much not to. The rest of her tension left when he dipped his head and kissed her, a kiss that went on for so long the reporter gave up on them. Finally Wade pulled back a fraction to whisper, “Truth or dare.”

“Wade-”

“Truth or dare.”

“Dare,” she said, not ready for a truth.

“Kiss me again.”

She did, with all the pent-up adrenaline and fear and love she felt for him. He touched her face, gentling her, and when she pulled back, she knew she had tears in her eyes.

“Now ask me,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to hers.

“Wade-”

“Ask me.”

“Truth or dare?” Her voice was low and thick, she could barely speak.

“Truth.”

She stared into his eyes. “Do you love me?”

“Yes, I love you. More than you can possibly imagine.”