squeezed her eyes shut tight in an effort to drive the vision out of her head. But that only made it more vivid. Because now she saw herself, too, naked and crouched over him on her hands and knees and faced in the opposite direction, with Sam gripping her hips in strong fists, his head lifted between her legs. Both of them seemed to be competing over who could consume the other first, and neither seemed to be slaking their hunger. As he hungrily ate her, she moved her head slowly up and down, pulling his big cock farther into her mouth with every descent. Immediately, Rosie snapped her eyes open again, but not before she saw the fantasy Sam’s tongue dart quickly in and out of her damp—
“I’m, um…I, uh…” She tried to remember what she’d been about to say, but couldn’t seem to string two thoughts, never mind two words, together. Definitely needed to lighten up on the damiana in the next recipe, she told herself. And also, the next time she mixed one up, she needed to be in a different ZIP code than Sam Maguire was in. Or maybe a different area code. Or country. Or hemisphere. Or galaxy. Yeah, that might be enough.
Finally, she managed to say, “I’m, ah, I’m actually not open yet….” Well, not her store anyway. There were other parts of her that were wide open, at least in the fantasy she couldn’t seem to chase out of her brain. “I mean, I, um, I haven’t even picked up my bank float for the ass register. I mean cash register,” she quickly corrected herself when she realized how egregiously she’d misspoken.
“That’s okay,” Sam told her. Though the look he was giving her was anything but okay.
Still, she couldn’t help thinking, if he wasn’t going to buy anything, then he must have come here for another reason, and maybe that reason was, oh…Rosie didn’t know…to have really smokin’ sex.
His expression changed suddenly, to one of worry. Color her crazy, but worry didn’t seem like the thing a man should be feeling if he’d just shown up for really smokin’ sex.
“Are you okay, Rosie?” he asked cautiously. Caution, too, she thought, probably wasn’t a good indicator of that smokin’ sex thing being only minutes away. “You look a little…”
“What?” she asked.
“Distracted,” he told her. Though he looked as though he’d been about to say something else. Something like, oh…Rosie didn’t know…profoundly turned-on in a way that makes me want to pull down your pants, spin you around, bend you over and bury myself inside you to the hilt.
Oh, God…
Rosie did her best to calm herself, her thoughts and her privates. “Can I, um, can I help you, Chief?” she tried again, somehow stopping herself before uttering the entire question she’d really wanted to ask, which was Can I help you, Chief, out of those clothes?
“Yeah, actually, you can,” he said.
Rosie knew a moment’s euphoria, until she realized he wasn’t talking about the clothes thing, but was simply answering the standard question of retailers everywhere. Note to self, she thought, doubling up on damiana makes for excellent fantasizing but it’s not so good on the coherent thinking. Or maybe it was just the way Sam Maguire was put together that made for incoherent thinking. Not to mention the excellent fantasizing.
Um, what was the question again?
Thankfully, she didn’t have to remember, because Sam replied, “I need to order some flowers.”
Well, hell. If he was ordering flowers, it was doubtless for a woman, and that could seriously jeopardize any asking him out on a date she might do. Worse, it could jeopardize his response to her invitation. Worst of all, it could jeopardize any potential for smokin’ sex. Unless they were flowers for a funeral, she thought further, brightening. If he was going to order flowers for a dead woman, well, that was a whole ’nother ball game. Not to mention A-okay with Rosie.
“For a funeral?” she asked, hoping she didn’t sound as optimistic as she felt, since that would be in really bad taste.
Sam’s expression turned confused this time. “Uh, no. For my mother.”
Even better, Rosie thought. Not only did it offer a new positive dimension into his character—one of caring son—but it would save her a bundle in the therapist bills she’d be paying to help her cope with her joy at hearing the news of someone else’s death. Talk about a win-win situation. The only thing that might improve it would be if Sam, oh…Rosie didn’t know…stepped forward and filled her mouth with his tongue, shoved one hand up her shirt to massage her breast, and thrust the other into her pants to fondle her until she was insensate with ecstasy. Other than that, the conversation was moving along swimmingly.
Sam looked at Rosie and told himself for the tenth time that she couldn’t possibly be feeling the way she seemed to be feeling. Surely it was just wishful thinking on his part making her look as if she were incredibly, well…turned-on. Because she really did seem to be incredibly, well…turned-on. In fact, she’d been looking as if she was incredibly, well…turned-on, ever since he walked into the shop. But there was nothing about the scenario that should have, well…turned her on so incredibly.
She was fully clothed—except for the way her shirt had fallen off one shoulder. One naked, ivory, luscious shoulder. Which, in case he hadn’t mentioned it, was naked, something that pretty much indicated she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Which meant that, under her shirt, she was naked. And also naked. Had he mentioned she was naked under her shirt? Which was also untucked? Something that would make it really easy for him to scoop his hand under the garment to experience her nakedness for himself?
A sudden, nearly overwhelming urge came over him then to lean forward and lick her ivory, luscious—and naked, in case that part wasn’t obvious—shoulder. Which, in turn, made him feel incredibly, well…turned-on. God, he hoped he didn’t look incredibly, well…turned-on. Not the way Rosie did.
He told himself again that he was only imagining the way she looked. How could anyone feel turned-on in her place of employment, first thing in the morning, when, if the broom behind her was any indication, she’d just been sweeping up? No way was sweeping a turn-on. Unless, you know, it was Rosie Bliss and her naked shoulder doing it.
Ah, hell.
His mouth and throat were starting to feel a little dry when he noticed the mug Rosie was holding in her hand. There were more like it on the shelf behind her, next to a teapot from which she had obviously just poured herself something to drink. Sam wasn’t much of a tea drinker—okay, he never touched the stuff—but something wet sounded really good right then. Other than Rosie, he meant.
Damn. Then again, she did look incredibly, well…turned-on.
“Do you mind?” he said as he strode forward and reached past her for a mug.
It was a rhetorical question, naturally, since he also reached for the teapot and, without even asking for her okay, poured himself a mugful of tea. After all, there was a sign behind it that said Help Yourself, so why shouldn’t he? Unless, of course, the sign referred to something other than the tea. But what were the chances Rosie had put up a sign in her shop inviting her customers to help themselves to her? Not that that probably wouldn’t have been great for business.
He wasn’t here for business, Sam reminded himself as he splashed tea into the mug, regardless of what he’d just said about ordering flowers for his mother. He was here to pump Rosie. Uh, for information, he meant. Only he needed to do it in a way that she wouldn’t realize he was pumping her. Uh, for information, he meant. Because if he was here to actually,
