In For the Kill by Shannon McKenna Page B

beer person,” she said. “But it’s fine.”
    That smile activated the long, sexy grooves that flanked his mouth. She’d found an actual printed picture of him once, in a pack that had documented Edie and Kev’s son Jon as he learned to walk. Jon was toddling adorably in the foreground while Sam grinned down at him, beer in hand, sexy eye crinkles on full display. Oh, God, that smile.
    She’d stolen the picture. Sneaked it home, to pore over, like a brainless schoolgirl. To say nothing of the insanely large collection of Sam JPEGs on her cell phone. If he only knew how many there were, he would probably be afraid of her. And justly so. The crazy, obsessed girl.
    Sam took a swallow of his beer, his gaze traveling over her body with the slow deliberation of a man who had every right to examine.
    â€œA beer looks wrong with that dress,” he commented. “You should have a champagne flute, or a martini glass. You want some brandy?”
    She gulped another mouthful of beer, nervously. “This is fine.”
    He reached to pull out the pins that anchored her hair, and unraveled it, spreading it over her shoulders. “That’s better,” he said. “I’ve been wanting to do that for years.”
    He reached out with the hand that held his beer bottle, and with his extended pinkie, he hooked the shoulder strap and tugged it down.
    They stared at her bare shoulder and the dangling strap. She couldn’t breathe. He raised the bottle, condensation dripping down the brown glass, and touched her chest with it, right over her breastbone.
    She dragged in a breath. “Cold,” she whispered.
    â€œYeah,” Sam said. “You’ve been so cold. But check this out.” He trailed the edge of the bottle over her cleavage. A merciless smile curved his mouth as she shivered. “Look what it does to your nipple. The contradictory effect of all that coldness. That’s how it’s been for me.” He gently tugged until the soft fabric snagged on her taut nipple.
    â€œPlease,” she said raggedly. “It’s too cold.”
    â€œDon’t worry.” His voice was suede soft. “My mouth is hot. I’ll fix it. Suffer a little first. God knows, I have.” He seized her hand. Kissed her palm, her knuckles. “Pull the dress down. Show me your tits again.” His deep, raspy voice sparked shivers along the surface of her skin.
    She shut her eyes. “Don’t turn this into a weird power game,” she begged. “I’m already so self-conscious—”
    â€œShow me you’re serious,” he said, his voice implacable. “Call it a statement of intent. I deserve one, after the way you’ve treated me.”
    He stepped back. Lifted his beer to his lips, eyes challenging her.
    Her face blazed as she pulled the straps down and worked her arms loose, extricating herself awkwardly. The bustier was skintight. She pushed the cups down over her breasts and looked up defiantly, heart thudding. Breasts bared. “Do I look serious enough to you?”
    He stared at her for a long moment and then set down his beer on the counter behind her. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m convinced.”
    He seized her hand, never taking his eyes from her body, and kissed it again, then drew her fingertip into his mouth.
    The shocking sensation of suckling heat made her drop her beer. His hand flashed out and caught it. He set it on the counter and cupped her breast, rolling the pad of his thumb around her tight nipple. The contrast of his large, darker hand against the swell of her pale breast made her breathing ragged. Those long, graceful fingers.
    â€œWhy me?” he demanded.
    She was startled by the abrupt question. It seemed so incredibly obvious. “What do you mean? Why not you? Who but you?”
    He snorted. “Why not me, she says. I’ve done nothing but bug you since the moment you laid eyes on me. You