Staying On Top (Whitman University) Page 10

  In fact, I was pretty sure Marija had taken a few steps back after hugging him. Using her house didn’t make much of a difference to me, but with the omniscient picture I had painted of my father, it could send up imaginary warning flags for Sam.

  Still, it was midnight. We would leave first thing in the morning. It would be okay.

  I nodded. “Okay. But we need to be out of there early.”

  Sam groaned, then reached over to slide my backpack off my shoulders.

  I grabbed for it. “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to be nice. It’s heavy.”

  “And it will be lighter if you carry it? I’m fine.” My shoulders ached, my back wrenched every time I moved, and the balls of my feet were as sore as if I’d hiked Michigan Avenue in stilettos, but letting him carry my bag felt like an admission of something. Weakness, maybe.

  I didn’t want to go there. I’d already gone enough places today that frightened me—in front of a gun and onto Sam Bradford’s lap—and it was hard to say which was more terrifying.

  “Fine. Whatever.”

  He turned and strode toward the bus terminal door, skirting a couple of men in dingy business suits and a family with five kids, all of whom were running in different directions. Marija looked at me as though she wanted to say something but couldn’t figure out what. She gave up after a minute and shrugged, then followed Sam. I trailed after them both, taking a six-year-old elbow to the ass on the way. The girl babbled something that appeared to be an apology, an endearing, half-toothless grin easing my irritation.

  I smiled back and patted her arm, then stepped out into the blustery night.

  *

  Marija’s house lived up to the image in my mind and then some, even if it was ugly as sin. The tan and chocolate stucco and wooden beams stretched four stories high and resembled an especially grand vision of how I imagined the cabin in the woods that belonged to the seven dwarves.

  I kept my opinion to myself, largely because I was too tired to even think about opening my mouth and also because now that the idea of a shower and bed were within reach, doing anything to screw that up seemed like a particularly bad idea.

  “Are you two hungry?”

  Sam’s eyes wandered toward me, waiting on my answer. I wished he would stop playing the gentleman; we all knew he was nothing more than an overgrown man-child who had never wanted for a damn thing.

  “A little, but I don’t want food as much as I want a shower. Or sleep,” I admitted.

  Marija nodded. “I’ll have the servants bring a little something up to your rooms. You can get ready for bed and have a snack before you crash.”

  “Thank you, Mari.” Sam kissed her cheek, then headed toward the giant winding staircase.

  It climbed out of the center of the great room, which had too much brown and ivory furniture, an abundance of rugs, end tables, and antiques, and way too much velvet. The floor was slate, or made to look like slate, and my lack of sleep made me slip a few times.

  “Yes, thank you,” I echoed.

  “You know,” she said, her voice taking on the same tone she used when someone in the press had talked to her as if she were a dumb blonde. “I haven’t asked exactly what’s going on here, or why the two of you showed up in Belgrade needing to borrow a car in the middle of the night, and quite frankly, I’m not sure it’s in my best interest to know.”

  When neither of us offered a negative or affirmative response, she crossed her arms, stuck out her hip, and fixed Sam with a look that I swear made him shift to cover his balls.

  “My family has a lot of respect in this city, and we’ve been consistently aboveboard with all of our business dealings. I run a successful charity involving orphans. If helping you and your surly little friend here fucks that up, I am not going to be happy.”

  Sam sighed. “Trust me, Mari. No one wants you to be unhappy, least of all anyone who has ever seen it happen—which includes me. I’ve had a small issue in my personal life that Blair is helping me rectify, but we’re not doing anything illegal or anything that could affect your family in any way. Right, Blair?”

  It was true that no harm would come to Marija or her family’s reputation by us being here, but the image of my father as an international force needed to be maintained. “I’m sure everything will work out fine. Really.”

  I left enough of an ambiguous trail in the words to make Marija squint her eyes and Sam roll his, but she didn’t stop us this time when we started up the stairs.

  A maid waited at the top, a silent woman who probably didn’t speak much English, and she showed us to a pair of guest rooms connected by an all-white bathroom. Even the fluffy towels were white. And monogrammed. It was like Texas in there.

  “You want the girly room, or does that offend your feminist sensibilities as badly as my trying to carry your bag did?” Sam’s voice had a gravelly twist that was new to me, and the expression of annoyance in his eyes surprised me, too.

  “Are you mad at me because I wouldn’t let you carry my bag?”

  “No.” He ran a hand through his longish hair, which mussed it more than usual given the amount of grease that had built up during our travels. “I don’t know. It’s not just that, it’s … you scared me today, Blair. I got distracted when you kissed me, because holy hell, but now that you’re standing a good four feet away, all I feel is angry. You can’t go around risking your life like that. Like it doesn’t matter.”

  Silence rolled in between us, thick and tangible like a dense fog. It swirled around our ankles, then rose to our calves, then higher until it seemed to strangle the life out of any words that might have any meaning. Despite what I’d said after our kiss, I wasn’t sure how I felt about Sam. I didn’t know if I liked him, if I was interested in more than his body or his money, and sharing parts of my real self with people didn’t come easily for me.

  Or come at all.

  “Sam, I’m really tired. Too tired for an existential discussion on the importance of one person’s life in the grand scheme of the world, so can I please take a shower and we can talk about this in the morning?”

  “Sure. But you and I both know we won’t talk about this in the morning.”

  He gave me a small smile, one that might mean he’d forgiven my rash behavior on the bus and my inability to even attempt an emotional connection with him, or it could mean nothing at all.

  “Thank you.”

  The room he’d given me had a huge white canopied bed with piles and piles of gold and purple blankets and pillows. It looked like heaven, like something the Egyptian gods had imagined during their more decadent musings, and I forgot all about fighting with Sam.

  Even though the bathroom reminded me of a space fit for a mental hospital, the shower felt amazing. The scalding water turned my skin pink. Days of dirt washed off me and swirled down the drain, and the bottles of shampoo and conditioner were foreign and smelled delicious. There was even a razor, which I used to shave my legs, as well as other parts of me that wouldn’t need the attention had the thought of sleeping with Sam not lodged in my brain.

  I dug toothpaste and my toothbrush out of my backpack, tugging the giant white towel tighter around my chest and rubbing a circle of steam off the mirror. My reflection appeared leaps and bounds better than it had before I’d stepped under the spray, and no doubt the stench coming off me had been eliminated, but the circles under my eyes left plenty to be desired.

  The door swung open as I rinsed and spit, framing Sam’s impressive stature. He had on a pair of Florida Gators basketball shorts and nothing else. The tanned muscles rippling across his chest and down his stacked abs pooled heat in my stomach that dripped lower until it weakened my knees. My hormones were out of control.

  He was just a mark. A sexy mark that was currently looking at me as though he was picturing me without the towel, who was making my breasts tingle and my head feel light with a mere look, but still. Just a mark.

  Just a mark.

  “I’m almost fi
nished,” I managed, turning back to the sink under the guise of rinsing one more time. In reality, my face felt as though it were melting off, and the self-satisfied smirk on Sam’s face said he knew exactly why.

  “Trust me, I can tell when you’re almost finished.”

  I choked on the water, then covered it up with a cough. Despite the air I liked to give off at Whitman, and in general, my experience with super-aggressive men was less than some girls. Another side effect of keeping to myself, and of my father being a large, intimidating man. Handling a confident guy such as Sam Bradford would take a skill set I had to admit I might not have. Which was maybe another reason I’d blown him off from the beginning.

  Once I felt more under control I laid down my toothbrush, turned off the water, and spun to face him. He was still gorgeous, but this time I was ready for it. Instead of swooning like a damn Delta, I gave him the sauciest smile I could muster. “All yours.”

  “What is?”

  “Whatever you want, of course. Isn’t that how your life works?”

  I left the bathroom before he could come up with an answer, feeling pretty proud of my comeback in the face of his incessant dirty talk—which I secretly loved.

  My self-satisfaction crashed when I felt his hand on my elbow. He spun me around, then gathered me flush against him. With the knot at the top of my towel barely holding, the majority of my breasts were smashed against his bare chest, strands of hair tickling my skin in a delicious way. His eyes—light brown, like maple syrup—stared into mine with an intensity that spread goose bumps all over my body.

  Sam lifted a finger, tracing my bottom lip. “First of all, I don’t take what I want unless it’s being expressly offered. Second, don’t offer unless you mean it.”

  “Mean what?” My voice sounded breathless and far away.

  Now that I’d kissed him and touched him, had imagined having more of him, it was like a drug. I knew I shouldn’t do it, that sleeping with him needlessly complicated everything, but that moment on the train had bashed a hole in the dam, and desire seeped through everywhere.

  “I haven’t made a secret of the fact that I want you, not since the first day we met. Then, it was because you’re hot as shit and I spent hours imagining your ass in my hands.” He paused, studying my reaction.

  Which was probably somewhere between surprise and take-me-now.

  “Now it’s still those things, but it’s also because you drive me insane. Because you’re a mystery I want to figure out, and because nothing but you is going to make this ache go away. But what do you want, Blair? Because you’ve gone from despising me to kissing me like your life depended on it in half a day and I’m trying to keep up.” He used a hand to guide me onto my tiptoes, bringing our lips within inches of each other, his eyes still searching mine.

  I wanted to close the distance. I wanted to feel his lips on mine, to drop the towel, tug him to the bed, to feel his everything on mine, but the words stuck in my throat. My body felt frozen and alight at the same time, which didn’t seem possible.

  Yet, I recognized the feeling. It wasn’t new for me to want something, but not be able to have it because of my father. Because of my life. Because of my fucked-up head.

  This was the first time that I’d wanted something for me that aligned with what my father had asked, and it made me feel slimy and dirty, and nothing like a girl who Sam deserved, even for only a little while. I wanted him, but it bothered me that this was all a sham. Pretend.

  Even if my feelings weren’t, he wouldn’t see the distinction once he learned the truth.

  “I don’t know,” I finally replied.

  Disappointment fell over the eagerness on his face. He dropped his arms and I shivered, feeling not only cold but cast away. But this was my life. I didn’t get to have what I wanted without consequences—in this case, feeling at best like a liar, at worst, some kind of prostitute.

  Before I could decide whether or not to explain or what I could possibly say, Sam went into the bathroom and closed the door.

  Chapter 10

  Despite being more tired than I could ever remember being in my life, I’d spent the last three hours tossing and turning in the bed, which turned out to be a little too soft.

  Except it wasn’t the bed. It was this stupid trip. It was me and Sam, and the fact that an ache had lodged between my legs and throbbed every time I thought of him in his shorts, him with his arms around me, him asking what I wanted.

  Saying that he wanted me.

  I thought about taking care of it myself in order to get some sleep—not to mention it might be days before I had a room to myself again—but I didn’t want to get off. I wanted Sam.

  It would be simple to get up, walk through the bathroom connecting our rooms, and wake him up. Take what I wanted and banish all of the lame, exhausting, self-centered thoughts to the back of my head.

  So what if my dad basically told me to sleep with him? So what if I was lying to him about whose side I was on or what we were doing?

  And if I would never see him again once I got what I wanted?

  His problem, not mine.

  Except it felt wrong. It had never really felt wrong to take part in Dad’s shit. It was how things were, and I did it because he was my father and he asked. And I liked it, sometimes. The being close to him. Sharing something with someone, especially because I didn’t have anyone else.

  The root of my discomfort wasn’t sleeping with Sam. It was that helping my dad take the rest of his money felt wrong, too. Before I’d gone to St. Moritz, he’d been the guy I’d watched on television for the past four or five years. Cocky, handsome, talented. He had money to burn, like all of Dad’s cons, which always eased any potential guilt.

  The difference between Sam and people like Miss Daisy—other than the fact that I knew him now—was that even if he played a game for a living, he had worked his ass off for that money. He wouldn’t be able to earn more, not indefinitely, and once his career ended, what would he do?

  It’s not your problem, Blair. And you know what else isn’t your problem? Whether or not it hurts his feelings that you slept with him and then stole from him.

  Holy Jesus, now my brain had joined forces with the rest of me.

  Maybe I was overthinking this whole thing. I wanted him. He wanted me. He’d never been a guy who wanted a serious relationship, and I was incapable of having one.

  Who cared about the rest of it?

  I tossed the covers off my legs, shivering when my feet hit the cold floor, and paused in front of the bathroom mirror to smooth my hair and swish mouthwash over my teeth. I took a deep breath, then pushed open the door that connected to Sam’s room.

  “Fancy meeting you here.”

  His deep baritone slid from the shadows and I jumped, covering my mouth to stifle a shriek. “What are you doing?”

  “The same thing you’re doing, I imagine. Coming to see if I could make you change your mind about offering yourself to me.” He took a step forward.

  I took a step back. We repeated that dance a few more times, until we were both in the bathroom and my ass was pressed up against the vanity. His features were soft but visible in the orange night-light glow, eyes bright with a restrained desire that shot straight down my spine.

  “Well?”

  I licked my lips, unable to look away from the intensity of his gaze, unable to verbally give him the go-ahead because talking about feelings and emotions and sex didn’t come easily to me. Instead, I reached up, looped my arms around his neck, and crushed his lips to mine.

  Sam didn’t waste a moment going slow. Maybe he was afraid I’d change my mind, or maybe he’d been lying awake imagining all the ways we could fit together the same way I had been.

  His tongue parted my lips, searching my mouth until it found mine, then tangled with it. Strong hands grabbed my ass and he groaned into me.

  “Yes. Better than I thought,” he murmured, then lifted me up onto the counter.

  The proof of h
is excitement pressed into my crotch, tightening the fabric of my pajama shorts and rubbing in a way that ripped an involuntary whimper from my throat. He felt so good against me I couldn’t imagine what he would feel like inside me—and I wanted to know.

  I reached out, running my fingers over every muscle, down every ab, delighting as they tightened under the scrape of my fingernails. His hands left my rear and lifted my tank top over my head, leaving me naked from the waist up, shivering in the cool nighttime air.

  My hips bucked and my hands fisted in his hair when his hot lips closed over my nipple. Again, no warm-up, no pretense, just breath and tongue and a firm nip of the teeth until my senses fled, leaving me grinding helplessly against him. When he moved to torture my other breast I struggled with his shorts, finally shoving them down over his hips and taking his hardness in my palm.

  My strokes distracted him from his mission to drive me completely insane and his fingers hooked in the waistband of my shorts, dispensing with them, too.

  He growled. “No underwear? God, I wish I had stayed in bed and let you come to me.”

  Fingers teased the backs of my thighs then swirled inward, hitting places that made me shudder and bite my lip, then moving down to dip inside me. I’d been wet with anticipation before I’d come in here but now he slipped one finger, then another, in and out of me with ease.

  “Christ. I don’t want to wait.” He paused, seeming to want some kind of go-ahead from me, even though it was painfully and embarrassingly obvious that I was more than ready.

  “Do you have anything?” I asked, sounding too breathless. Please say he had something.

  He crooked a smile. “Who do you think you’re talking to? Don’t move.”

  It felt strange, sitting naked on the bathroom counter, but I fought the urge to slide off. Sex made me uncomfortable. Not that I didn’t enjoy it, or want it, or intellectually know that what went on in my bedroom was similar to what went on in beds across the world, but … I felt silly anyway.

  I felt sillier when Sam returned wearing a different pair of shorts and no condom.

  “So … I don’t have anything.”