Dirty Sexy Saint (Dirty Sexy #1)

By: Carly Phillips & Erika Wilde



Hell, everything about Samantha was making it difficult for him to keep his hands off her in a sexual way, despite the fact that she’d just puked her guts out. Letting her get naked right in front of him wasn’t an option, even though his straining cock argued otherwise.

“Leave it on,” he said, grateful that her uncoordinated fingers couldn’t manage to unclasp her bra. Did the woman have no sense of modesty? Then again, he was well aware how alcohol could loosen a person’s inhibitions, and she was obviously well beyond caring about acting appropriately. No doubt she’d be mortified in the morning, but for now, she didn’t care.

“But I need to—”

“No,” he bit out, harsher than he’d intended. In the kind of authoritative voice that normally commanded a person’s attention.

She dropped her hands to her sides and exhaled a petulant sigh. “You don’t have to be so grumpy,” she muttered, clearly not at all fazed by his sharp tone.

Yeah, he was grumpy and fucking horny, and it was about to get worse. As quickly as possible, he unbuttoned and unzipped her pants, and had to bend down to help her out of her shoes, then took off the last of her clothing. Her balance faltered as she stepped out of her pants, and she reached out for something to grab, which ended up being his hair.

He winced as her fingers tightened in the strands, and in his current position, crouched in front of her, his face level with her blush-colored lace panties, he imagined her clutching his hair for a different reason altogether. Not to steady herself but to push his mouth between her soft, smooth thighs so he could lick her with the deft slide of his tongue and get her off.

Abruptly, he stood back up and propped her ass against the vanity for support while he removed her pearls and the diamond-encrusted watch that probably cost a small fortune. He turned on the water to let it get hot while he stripped out of his T-shirt, jeans, socks, and shoes.

She watched him as he undressed, taking in the width of his chest, and followed the definition of his abs down to the waistband of his black boxer briefs that he’d left on. Licking her lips, she stared shamelessly at the thick shaft outlined by the snug cotton. Her breathing deepened, and a flush of arousal swept across her cheeks.

“You are so freakin’ hot,” she whispered in awe, obviously not cognizant enough to realize just how many times she’d already told him that.

His blood heated in his veins, his own unwanted desire for her making him a little crazy because he couldn’t control his reaction, despite his best efforts. He briefly considered a cold shower but knew that wouldn’t be fair to her.

“Come on, Cupcake,” he said, holding out his hand for her to grab. “Let’s do this.”

Her pretty blue eyes widened acutely. “We’re going to do it?”

He groaned, low and deep, as she once again misinterpreted his words, though she certainly didn’t look opposed to doing it in the way she was insinuating. “You wanted a shower, remember? You aren’t getting in there alone when you can barely stand without falling over.”

Before she could argue, he grabbed her hand and helped her step into the tub. He faced her toward the spray of hot water, and as detached as possible, he helped her wash her body, then he shampooed and rinsed the crap from her hair. This wasn’t something he’d ever done with or for another woman. It was all about getting in, fucking hard, and getting out. Taking care of them? Not part of the deal. Then he made the mistake of glancing at the water running rivulets over her soft skin, turning the silk of her bra and panties into a see-through vision. His entire body pulsed with lust and need. Fuck.

They were in the shower for less than ten minutes, but the warmth of the water loosened her muscles and turned her lethargic, so he practically had to hold her up, which didn’t help his state of arousal. By the time they were finished and he’d dried her with a towel, she was swaying unsteadily where she stood, and obviously done for the night.

In his adjoining bedroom, he grabbed a clean T-shirt from his dresser and pulled it over her head and down her gorgeous, curvy body while she yawned and her eyelids drooped sleepily. Before she could put her arms through the sleeves, he reached beneath the material and removed her wet bra, then shoved her equally wet panties down her legs, all while keeping his gaze averted.

When she was decently covered, he guided her to his bed, pulled down the sheet and comforter, and helped her up. She crawled onto the mattress and flashed him her bare, delectable ass before settling onto her back. With a groan of pure torment, he pulled the covers up to her chest.

She blinked up at him drowsily. “Thank you for taking care of me,” she whispered, her lashes drifting shut.

In that moment, she looked so vulnerable and alone, and Clay felt his chest tighten with a protective instinct he had no business feeling for her. He didn’t want to care about Samantha or her situation. Didn’t want to get involved with whatever had prompted her to ditch her cell phone and walk into a bar on the wrong side of town to get drunk.

And he especially didn’t want to be attracted to her, but no doubt about it, he so fucking was.

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