Chapter 15 Sam
Sam
You do beg beautifully
Frankie is a snuggler, and I’m ecstatic about that. I haven’t had another body, let alone one as incredible as hers, wrapped around me in a long time, and it feels glorious.
However, I really need to use the bathroom. Slipping out from under her is the last thing I want to do, but I manage it without waking her, only earning a few extra snore-snuffles as I move away.
After I’ve taken care of business, I return to her bedroom and take it all in. The power is still out, and I don’t have my watch on, so I have no idea what time it is. Walking over to the window, the blizzard has calmed some and is more of a steady snowfall now.
I rest my palm against the cold glass, staring into our street, seeing my empty house.
It’s so damn quiet. Too quiet for a man who’s spent months out here convincing himself silence was what he wanted.
And yet, with Frankie sleeping just a few feet away, the quiet doesn’t feel the same anymore.
I’m not sure how that’s possible after just one night together, but my need for human contact seems to have tripled at least.
Turning back, my eyes find her. She’s sprawled on her stomach now, curls a wild mess across the pillow, her face slack with sleep.
She looks peaceful, and she has no idea that I’m so undone by her, in every way imaginable.
She’s tender and sweet but also strong and fierce, and I could so easily do this again and again with her.
Something twists in my chest, piercing and disorienting. Because this isn’t supposed to mean anything. We’ve shared one night, not a lifetime. And yet the thought of crawling back into bed with her feels dangerously close to a promise I don’t know if I’m qualified to keep.
Still, I don’t heed the warning in my heart to back up; instead, I climb in beside her.
The mattress dips under my weight, and almost instantly, she sighs and curls into me, her body molding against mine like she’s done it a hundred times before.
My arm slips around her waist automatically, holding her there, even as my mind screams that I shouldn’t.
That I can’t afford to want this. That it’s another thing that might hurt me.
But I can’t move. I stare at the ceiling, counting heartbeats, listening to her steady breaths. Telling myself this is just warmth. Just comfort. Just tonight.
When she stirs, blinking sleepily against my chest, there’s a rush of something I can’t name.
“Mm,” she hums, her voice rough with sleep. “You’re back.”
Her words are muffled against my chest, but she noticed I was gone even in her sleep, like some part of her reached for me in the dark. It stirs something deep in me. “Yeah,” I whisper, brushing a curl from her cheek. “I’m back.”
She gives a soft, sleepy smile and burrows closer, her leg tangling with mine before her breathing evens out again.
I lie there, staring into the semi-darkness, forcing myself to commit the feeling to memory.
Because, come morning, reality will crash in, and I’ll need to remember what this was: fleeting.
When I wake again, pale light is filtering through the edges of her curtains.
Frankie is still curled against me, her face pressed into my chest, curls tickling my chin.
She smells faintly of shampoo and something sweeter, and for a dangerous second, I let myself imagine what it would be like to wake up like this every morning.
The thought unsettles me enough that I start to shift away, but her arm tightens. “Don’t,” she mumbles, half-asleep.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t move yet. You’re warm.” Her voice is rough, words blurred with sleep.
I swallow. “Alright. Just for a minute.”
She hums her approval, then after a beat, tilts her head up to look at me properly. Her brown eyes are still heavy-lidded, but they sparkle with something playful. “Morning, Mr. Grinch.”
I huff out a laugh. “Morning, Miss Christmas.”
She grins, then yawns and stretches, her perfectly soft body brushing against me. “Think the power’s still out?”
I glance toward the clock on her nightstand, dark as it was yesterday. “Looks like it.”
“Well, that means no coffee, no breakfast, and no Christmas movies.” She flops dramatically onto her back, throwing an arm over her eyes. “Truly tragic because all that food is in your fridge, not mine downstairs.”
I smirk, rolling onto my side to face her. “I could always walk over the street, it’s not exactly far.”
Her arm drops, and she peers at me, mock-serious. “So you’re saying you’re not only a writer but also a hero?”
“Hardly.” My gaze lingers on her. “But I can bring you food.”
The corner of her mouth lifts. “My hero, then.”
She turns away from me, stretching out her limbs, and the covers slide down.
My gaze snags instantly, her breasts bared, perfect and soft, her nipples tightening as though they can feel my stare.
Heat floods low in my stomach. I should look away, give her privacy, but I don’t.
I can’t. The urge to lean in, to take one into my mouth and pull a moan from her lips, is a physical ache.
“Oh, wait,” she says, starting to roll back toward me, but she pauses and we lock eyes. I swallow hard, forcing my hands to stay where they are as her breasts press together. “Were you just staring at me, Sam?” There’s a knowing glint in her eyes.
“Maybe,” I rasp, my voice rougher than I mean it to be.
She grins, wicked and unbothered.
“You make it really hard not to,” I say, stifling a groan. Get it together, man. “What were you going to say?”
That wicked smile remains, and it makes my chest lighten. “I remembered I wanted to make Christmas decorations with you. That’s why we came here last night.”
I can’t help the laughter that explodes from me. “That was your crazy idea?”
She gasps, still baring herself to me, completely unbothered that I’m practically drooling over her.
“Excuse me, but that was a brilliant idea. You were supposed to help me cut out snowflakes and paper chains and use the hot glue gun, not… well.” Her cheeks pink as her eyes flick toward the bed between us.
I prop myself up on one elbow. “Not what? Because I’m pretty sure this turned out better than paper chains.”
Her nose reaches the ceiling with stubbornness. “You corrupted me, good sir. Don’t you know a lady’s virtue is important?”
Her attempt at a British accent is atrocious—half Downton Abbey, half drunk pirate—and I can’t stop another laugh that bursts out of me. “Bloody hell, Frankie,” I say, dragging a hand down my face. “That’s the worst accent I’ve ever heard.”
She cackles a laugh that makes her boobs jiggle a little, and I almost groan at the sight.
“Excuse me! That was perfection.” Her tongue pokes out, and I take the opportunity to dive on top of her, done with her teasing me but still keeping my weight and other eager appendages just above her, the sheet our only protection.
I’m close enough to see the flush bloom across her cheeks, the way her lips part on a sharp inhale.
The sight nearly undoes me. I drop my head lower, brushing my nose along hers before finally catching her mouth with mine, our tongues tangling until we’re both breathless and her legs have parted, inviting me in. “You know what was perfection?”
“Hm?” she pants.
“Last night.”
Her breath stutters when my lips graze the sensitive spot beneath her ear. I linger there, teasing with just enough pressure to make her shiver. Her fingers curl into my shoulders, nails grazing lightly as she arches toward me.
“Mmm… Please.”
I trail kisses down her throat, deliberately slow, tasting her skin, savoring every sound she makes.
When I reach the edge of the sheet, I pause, tugging it down an inch to reveal the top swell of her breast she covered in haste.
Her nipples are already tight, peaked for me, and my cock throbs at the sight.
“You make a terrible English lady,” I declare, brushing my thumb across one taut peak, loving the gasp it pulls from her. “But you do beg beautifully.”
Her eyes flash, wicked and challenging, even as her back arches into my touch.
The sheet slides further, forgotten now, as I lower my head, circling her nipple with my tongue before sucking it into my mouth.
Her sharp cry goes straight to my cock, but I don’t rush.
I take my time, worshipping her, teasing her, my other hand palming the curve of her hip and guiding her legs wider until my fingers dip through her soaking pussy.
She bends like a cat when I touch her, offering herself without hesitation, pushing those perfect nipples closer to me, but it’s not those that I want in my mouth right now.
Slinking down the bed, I kiss my way down her stomach until I’m grazing past her perfect sex, until I reach the soft skin of her thigh.
I bite gently, just enough to make her hiss, and when her fingers dive into my hair to keep me there, I soothe the sting with my tongue.
A faint tremor shakes her leg as I blow cool air onto her slick pussy lips.
Using two fingers, I part her and blow again, watching her seek the friction she’s dying for, more pleas falling from her mouth, but I’m transfixed by the perfect pink pussy in front of me.
Pushing two fingers inside, the heat of her surrounds me as I stroke that front wall, coaxing noises out of her that make me silently beg for my own release, grinding my aching dick into the mattress below.
Her hips shift up, trying to chase that high, as I watch my fingers sink in and out of her.
The sight of it ruins my restraint, and I lower my mouth and taste her.
The minute her sweetness hits my tongue, I groan against her and lap everything up like a man starved, swallowing, pumping, desperate to make her feel good.
Every sound she makes feeds the hunger I have to give her this orgasm.
Her moans fill the room like a symphony, and when I curl my finger, increasing my speed, sucking her clit into my mouth harder, she begins to shake beneath me, chanting my name.
I pop off her clit, and she moans in protest, head springing up to look at me, pupils blown. “What the—”
I don’t move my fingers, instead, I increase my speed, using my thumb to apply pressure where my mouth just was. “You’re going to make a mess for me,” I growl, voice breaking with desire. “Aren’t you?”
It’s not really a question I need an answer to, but I want her to know that everything I want from her right now is to let go and feel everything I do to her.
Her answer is a breathless yes sound, a moan, a plea. Her hands release from my hair, gripping the sheets, letting me take control. God, she’s beautiful like this.
I dive back in, increasing rhythm, giving her what she’s silently begging for and still wanting to draw it out to see her fully fall apart. Her thighs tense and rise to bracket my head, every muscle trembling as I work her harder, faster. She’s close.
A strangled sound tears from her throat when I flick her clit with my tongue and lightly draw my teeth against it. One more stroke, and she breaks. Arching, crying out, body shaking against my mouth as the wave rolls through her over and over until her whole body goes lax in my hands.
I press one last kiss to the inside of her thigh, listening to the sounds of her shallow breaths as I crawl up to her, sprawled across the sheets, looking like a goddess.
When she blinks her eyes open, there’s a hazy, satisfied smile that tugs at her lips.
“Hi.” I press a brief kiss to her neck. She hums a faint reply, wrapping her legs around me, pulling me toward her again.
My dick presses against her pussy, still wet from my efforts and her orgasm.
The groan that leaves me is feral when she rotates her hips, and my cock slides between her slick heat.
“Baby,” I hum, dipping my head to one of her breasts, pulling back slightly as I flatten my tongue, dragging it against her peaked nipple. “If you keep moving like that, I’ll forget all about the food and just fuck you senseless.”
“Food later. Sex now,” she pleads.
By the time I switch to her other breast, she’s writhing under me again, breathless and desperate, but every groan, every orgasm, every taste of her only feeds the dark satisfaction curling in my gut.