Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 77171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
I’ve sat across from men like him before. Men with money, power, influence. They usually look at you like you’re a commodity.
He didn’t.
He looked at me like I was…
God…
Almost like I was a riddle. Or a puzzle he desperately wanted to solve.
I turn my head toward the window and watch the city pass.
I replay the evening because that’s what I do. I break things down. Find the patterns. It’s what makes me a good investigative journalist.
Our conversation was useless. It didn’t go deep into anything.
What the hell was he looking to get out of all of it? And did he get it?
And why was I dying for him to grab me and kiss me?
A chill moves through me.
He didn’t push.
That’s what’s wrong with this.
Men like Samson Vexley are supposed to push. To take up space. To make their presence obvious.
To overwhelm.
He didn’t do any of that.
“That makes him worse,” I murmur under my breath.
Because brute force is predictable.
Samson Vexley is anything but.
I close my eyes for a second.
And that’s when it hits me—not as a thought, but as something lower, more physical.
The memory sharpens.
Not just that he stood when I walked in.
How he looked when he did it.
Dark suit, yes, but that’s not what held my attention.
It was the contrast.
The white shirt underneath, crisp and clean and open at the collar.
No tie.
Everyone else in that room had one.
Every man was playing by the same rules of presentation.
And he just…wasn’t.
Like he didn’t need them.
Like he never had.
I noticed it immediately because it was the only thing in that room that didn’t match everything else.
Then his hair.
Dark. Not perfectly styled. Not careless either. Unruly in a way that didn’t quite obey whatever it was supposed to. Like it refused to be fully contained.
Like him.
I swallow.
And his face.
Strong lines. Clean. Not softened, not exaggerated.
The kind of face people don’t question.
The kind that doesn’t need to try.
And his eyes—
Amber. Warm but not soft. Focused. Always focused.
On me.
I felt it.
His hands…
They’re large. Steady. Perfectly shaped.
The way one of them closed around my wrist.
My pulse jumps.
Hard.
It was just a touch.
That’s all it was.
Except it wasn’t nothing.
It felt—
I shift in my seat, pressing my knees together against the warmth between my legs, desperately trying to ground myself.
The weight of his hand. The heat of it. The way my body reacted before I could stop it.
That’s the part I don’t like. Not him. My reaction to him. I didn’t pull away. I didn’t break the moment.
And worse…
I didn’t want to.
And now I can’t stop thinking about it.
Not about what happened.
About what didn’t.
The space between us. The fraction of distance he left untouched.
If he had leaned in…
I wouldn’t have stopped him.
I open my eyes abruptly and turn toward the window.
Enough.
Think about something else.
The marina. The bartender. Already going to happen.
My breathing evens out as my thoughts sharpen again.
Multiple men. Raised voices. Someone pulled back. Not pushed. Pulled back.
If he was pulled back, then the fall wasn’t the beginning. It was the end. Which means someone knew where it was going.
My stomach tightens again.
Was Samson Vexley there?
The question settles heavier than I want it to.
If Samson Vexley was standing on that dock, he knows what really happened.
Not the version that made it into a report.
The truth.
And if he knows, I’m not going to get it from a conversation across a table he chose, where we dine on a menu he ordered.
He dictated everything about tonight.
The place. The distance. The timing. The food and drink.
Even the moment it ended.
I was inside something he controlled completely.
That’s why I didn’t get what I needed. I was playing inside his space.
I need to see him somewhere else.
The car slows. We’re nearing my building.
Good.
I can work with this.
I grab my purse and notice my phone. I put it on silent during dinner, so I grab it to see if anyone has called.
Damn.
A text from Samson. I click on it.
Next time, you come to me.
My breath catches.
It’s not an invitation. Not even a question.
A direction. A command.
And my God… I want to obey. I want to see him again. More than I want my next breath of air. But if I go to him, I end up in his space again.
An unsettling awareness settles into me.
The driver says something I don’t hear.
I’m still looking at the screen. At Samson’s words.
I don’t respond to the text. Instead, I slip the phone back into my purse.
The driver opens the door for me, and I step out into the night.
I don’t just need answers.
I need access. Which means his space isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
Next time you come to me.
Is he opening the door?
And will I be brave enough to step through?
7
SAMSON
Next time you come to me.
I look at the words on my screen for a moment before I hit send. Then I slide the phone back into my pocket.