And that was the chance that she wouldn’t.
She was a reporter bent on uncovering the truth. He was a covert operator whose entire existence was built on a lie. She lived in the light. The shadows were his stock in trade. She thought she knew him, thought him funny, smart, courageous, and hot—her words still echoed inside his head. But she didn’t know the first thing about him, not the real him.
He couldn’t follow her into that bedroom no matter how much he might want to, because there was no way to make it work with her in the long run. The long run would require him to tell her the truth about himself. The truth about Black Knights Inc. And that wasn’t his secret to share. Especially not with someone who could print that secret for the world to see.
It’s better to be friends, he told himself. Staying friends keeps her in my life while allowing me to keep quiet. Although, in truth, keeping quiet was beginning to grate on him. Every half-truth he fed her weighed heavier and heavier on his heart, his soul.
She eyed him for a long time, frustration obvious in the lines on her brow and the twist of her delicious lips. Then she shrugged. “I’m not going to talk you out of acting on this misplaced chivalry, am I?”
He shook his head, afraid to open his mouth. He wanted her so badly that one stroke of her hand, one lick of her tongue, and he would be dunzo. The need for her was an all-encompassing physical ache.
She blew out an exasperated breath. “Jeez. Have it your way. But I have two things to say on the subject.”
He lifted a brow, waiting.
“Number one.” She held up a finger. A finger he was fiercely tempted to suck straight into his mouth. “I have no regrets about what happened down there in the kitchen. And the cold light of day won’t change that. I hope the same can be said for you.”
“Regrets?” Was she insane? “Are you kidding? Having you nearly tackle me to the ground is pretty much a dear diary day for me.”
She gifted him with that gap-toothed grin, and he nearly fell to his knees battling the urge to drag her into his arms and kiss her until her smile turned into a gasp of pleasure. He knew now. Knew what it took to make her shiver, make her moan.
“Good.” She nodded. “So, then, number two is this. Thank you. Again.”
“For what?”
She shrugged. “For being you.”
And there they were again, offered so freely, so easily. The words it felt like he’d been waiting a lifetime to hear. Damnit all to hell and back! She’s trying to kill me.
When Samantha went up on tiptoe to press a sweet, chaste kiss to his lips, he had to curl his hands into fists to keep from wrapping his arms around her.
“Good night, Ozzie,” she whispered.
“Good night.” His voice was hoarse with unquenched desire.
The instant she closed the bedroom door, he slammed a hand against the doorjamb, his shoulders shaking, raspy air sawing from his lungs. He gave himself a couple of seconds to breathe, to ensure his injured leg wouldn’t give out on him, before he turned and headed to his own room. Alone.
It was a state he was used to. A state he’d been raised in since the moment his mother died and his father lost himself in the bottle and an endless string of women. Ozzie could still remember every detail of his childhood room. He had spent so much time there, avoiding his dad’s drunken rages or the looks of pity or, worse, affection in the eyes of the ladies who had shared his life for a week or a month or a year, until they left too.
Quietly opening his bedroom door, he realized the old memories, painful as they were, had done nothing to quench his desire for Samantha. He didn’t bother with the lights. Didn’t bother with his clothes. He fell onto his bed, stuffed his pillow over his face, and groaned loudly, hoping that would alleviate some of the lust riding him hard, spurring his body to hum with hot, fruitless passion.
It didn’t.
Knowing there was nothing else to be done, he shoved the pillow beneath his head and reached for the button on his shorts. Releasing his dick, he pushed the waistband of his shorts beneath his ass. But not before pulling Samantha’s bra from the pocket. A naughty souvenir of their time in the kitchen. A little part of her he planned to keep for himself.
He brought the scrap of red lace to his face and inhaled that soft powdery scent that was uniquely Samantha. She was on his fingers. The sweet, musky smell of woman and sex and climax clung to his skin. It traveled up his nose and hit his brain like an H-bomb.
Closing his eyes, he rubbed her bra over his chest, letting it abrade his nipples until they pebbled and throbbed. Lower, along his belly, he trailed the delicate morsel of fabric until he finally brushed the lace over his swollen member. His toes curled as he remembered how she looked with her head thrown back and her perfect breasts bare and begging for his mouth.
He wound the shoulder strap of her bra around the base of his dick, trapping the blood there, making him harder still. So hard, he knew if he reached over and clicked on the lamp, he’d see the skin of his cock stretched tight, the whole thing shiny and red.
Then, with the picture of Samantha firmly fixed in his mind, he touched himself.
A moan escaped his throat at first contact. His shaft was burning hot against his rough palm. Without hesitation, he began to stroke. Soft at first and then harder and harder, his hips bucking in counter rhythm to his hand, the muscles in his battered thigh aching as a thousand different images of Samantha danced in his head.
The taste of her was still on his tongue. The smell of her still tickled his nose. And the sounds she made. That low, keening moan as climax overtook her. It was the sweetest damn music he’d ever heard and—
His orgasm burst from him, traveling like lightning up his shaft to explode in a torrent of need and lust. He had no idea how long he convulsed and stroked while whispering Samantha’s name into the darkness. But finally, long moments later, he was spent, shaking, and weak as a newborn kitten.
Chapter 10
Hog Help Motorcycle Repair Shop, South Ashland Avenue
Three. There were three stories in the day’s edition of the Chicago Tribune bearing Samantha Tate’s byline. But none of them gave Venom any clue to what she was after.
With a growl of impatience, he folded the newspaper and lobbed it toward the trash can in the corner of his office. When the edition bounced off the rim and landed on the floor in a mess of scattered pages, he barely resisted the urge to smash his fist against the top of his desk.