Julie and Grace, and more recently Emma, were her dating mentors.
But tonight she was on her own.
Because there
was no good way to tell even your best friends that you were about to end a ridiculously long sexual hiatus with …
Well, whatever Sam was to her. Friend seemed inadequate.
Especially after that kiss at her parents’ house.
Turned out no amount of daydreaming could prepare one for the real thing, because Riley had definitely not been ready for whatever it was she felt when he backed her against that door.
It had been planned, of course. She’d known that Brent would try to kiss her. And she’d been pretty sure that Sam would follow them into the foyer at her parents’ house. Right on both counts.
But she’d only meant to goad Sam into reconsidering her offer. Stiletto had taught her enough about machismo and male possessiveness to know that even if Sam wasn’t entirely sure that he wanted her, he wouldn’t want Brent to have her.
She’d been right.
Too right.
Because no part of her had been prepared for how one kiss would make her want to end her sexual hiatus right there in her parents’ makeshift storage room. In the span of two minutes, Riley felt what she’d been waiting years to feel with other guys—that uncontrollable, take-me-now surge of want.
She got it now. She understood what it felt like to need another person.
Trouble was, she didn’t know what would happen after this. If the kiss had had that kind of effect, the next step just might kill her.
Because Riley was scared to death that just one night with Sam Compton wouldn’t be enough. That the longing she needed to put to rest would only be ignited when she slept with him, and she’d spend the rest of her life comparing every other man to him.
She understood now what Julie felt for Mitchell, and what Grace felt for Jake, and if her intuition was right, what Emma felt for Alex Cassidy underneath that layer of southern frost.
She just wished she knew how to shut it off.
Also on her list of Riley’s being an idiot?
Agreeing to let him take her out. There was to be no greeting him at the door wearing nothing but a negligee and a smile, with maybe a wee bit of wine to help with the nerves.
Oh no.
No, no, Sam Compton apparently had a gentlemanly core beneath those sexy rough edges, because he’d insisted on a date.
And she still didn’t even understand why, because all he’d done was grumble, something something, not a goddamned booty call.
Riley slammed her closet door shut. A booty call was exactly what this was supposed to be. It was easier to put a booty call behind you. But a date?
Men and their morals.
She checked herself in the mirror. Short black skirt, stacked-heel boots, a red halter top.
And some very decadent black lingerie.
Too bad the lingerie didn’t have a Valium dispenser for her nerves.
This was about sex. Just sex. She needed to keep it clinical. Just phalluses and wombs, and …
“Oh for God’s sake, McKenna. Get it together,” she muttered, grabbing her purse off the chair and heading out the door.
She was just locking up when she remembered that she hadn’t washed the sheets. Hell, she hadn’t even made her bed. And there might or might not be a candy bar wrapper …