So was he. One of his hands slapped onto the wall beside her head, palm flat against the surface for balance as he emptied himself into her with a powerful thrust that drove the breath from her lungs. Still spinning, still coming, she felt the shaking of her own body and the tremors in his as he worked to keep them both upright.

His legs gave out and they slid down the wall to the floor, the both of them sucking in air for all they were worth. She lay on her side and Sam flat on his back on the floor, not moving.

“Christ,” he finally muttered, and reached over to snag her by the leg. Boneless, she let him haul her in, across the floor to him. Bracing himself on one elbow above her, he tucked her in so that her head lay in the hollow of his shoulder.

Turning her face into his warm skin, she kissed him. “Okay, so maybe I like you a little.”

He looked down at her with eyes gone warm and soft. “Yeah?”

Reaching up, she touched her fingers to his smile and he gently rubbed his lips across her palm, his gaze never leaving hers. With a sated sigh, she traced his lips, the line of his jaw. “Or a lot. Which leaves me hanging out. . .” She smiled a little self-consciously with the irony. “Naked.”

Leaning over her, he gently kissed the spots he’d nibbled at only moments before, his hand stroking her hair from her sweaty face, smoothing down the tangled mass. He made a sound low and deep in his chest, which vibrated against her ni**les. “You’re not alone in that,” he said. Bringing a hand up to her chin, he once again turned her face to his.

He let her see what he was thinking. Desire, hot, liquid, consuming desire.

Affection, too. Which made her all warm and fuzzy.

But it was the need that reached her. Need wasn’t the same thing as desire. It was even more awe inspiring. This big, tough, self-made man needed her.

And in a very scary way, she felt the same.

Becca awoke first. It definitely wasn’t dawn yet but there was a lightening of the sky. That wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was that she wasn’t her usual morning chilly. In fact, she was downright toasty. That was because she was cozied up to a furnace.

A furnace named Sam. They were in her apartment; he’d brought her here late last night, and then surprised her by staying. He was on his back, the blanket riding low. She was plastered up to his side, one arm flung over his chest, a leg hitched over his. He had his arm snug around her, one big hand palming her butt possessively.

His breathing was slow and even. He was still deeply asleep, and at the thought a smile curved her mouth. She’d worn him out.

She liked that. A lot. Awake, Sam Brody was like a cat, all contained energy, controlled, steady. Asleep, he was boneless and completely relaxed in a way she rarely got to see. He had stubble that was at least twenty-four hours past a five o’clock shadow, and she had no complaints because she’d loved the way it’d felt on her skin. Her face heated as she remembered where some of those places were. She was pretty sure she had the marks to prove it.

If she could, she’d keep him here, right here in her bed, forever. And at that thought, she knew the truth. This wasn’t casual. This wasn’t about easy sex, or friendship, though both those things absolutely existed.

This was about the fact that she was in deep. Too deep. Her head was still cradled in the crook of his shoulder, and she realized she was rubbing her jaw against him like she was marking him as hers. Stilling, she lifted her head.

His eyes were open and on hers, sleepy . . . sexy. “You finished looking?”

She blushed and bit her lower lip. “Maybe. Maybe not. . .” She playfully tugged the sheet down and exposed . . . yay!. . .a part of him very happy to see her. “I like to look,” she said.

“Good to know.” And that’s when she found herself rolled flat to her back and pinned by 180 pounds of testosterone.

“Turnabout’s fair play,” he said, and proceeded to get his fill of looking at her.

And then touching.

And then tasting . . .

Sam barely got to the docks on time. They had a big group waiting—twelve fishermen in from Phoenix. He smiled at the clients as he pushed off, ignoring both Tanner and Cole giving him long looks. “What?” he said, leaping on board.

“You’re smiling,” Cole said. “In the early morning, pre-coffee.”

“It happens,” Sam said.

“When?” Cole asked. “When does that ever happen?”

Tanner, eyes narrowed, got up into Sam’s space and studied him. “What’s that?” he asked, touching Sam’s throat. “Is that a hickey?”

Sam smacked his hand away. “No.”

“Yeah, it is,” Tanner said. “You totally have a hickey.”

“Let me see,” Cole said, pushing close. At the sight, he grinned. “Nice. I wouldn’t mind one of those,” he said, sounding wistful.

Tanner snorted.

Sam stalked to the bridge, rolling his eyes at their laughter behind him.

It wasn’t until that night, kicking off his shoes in the foyer of his house, that he caught sight of himself in the mirror.

He totally had a hickey on his throat.

“Son, you can have the hot tub tonight,” his dad said, coming in behind him without knocking as usual. “I’m tuckered out.” He plopped himself on the couch.

Sam moved closer and looked him over. Pale. Even a little gray. He knew he’d been taking his medicine; he’d made damn sure of it every morning. But the meds were no guarantee. “You okay?”