Chapter 12- Sam
By day three of playing roommates, it was obvious we were already too comfortable with each other.
We were laid out in the living room, both in pajamas, too full from the meal she’d made to move.
My stomach had a little roundness to it now—proof of the damage we’d done on the peach cobbler, baked mac, and something she called smothered happiness —which was basically steaks drowned in gravy.
I’d inhaled it like I hadn’t eaten in days.
I was positive I’d gained at least five pounds since she started using my kitchen to express her love language.
We hadn’t brought up our spouses since the beach.
Neither one of us answered our phones. It was like nothing existed outside of these walls.
She was on the floor, back against the couch, head tipped lazily toward the ceiling fan.
Her hair was smoothed down on her head in little waves.
She looked pretty. Simple. She yawned, stretched, then looked up at me with that glint she got in her eyes sometimes when she was about to do or say something mischievous.
Nah, I didn’t like that word because she was a grown woman. I rephrased my thought. Zane looked like Sunday school, but there was a little hell in her too, and she got this look…
“Let me hit it.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
She pointed to the blunt in my hand. “That. Let me hit it.”
I laughed. “Absolutely not.”
She pouted. “Why not? I like trying new things with you.”
Her saying that made my heart feel funny, but it was still a no for me. I couldn’t deal with another night of her acting up—getting naked or touching me. My patience was already thread-thin. I was about to fuck Mark’s wife.
“You can’t hold your liquor, and I’m not giving you weed. This is Gelato 41. It’s strong. You told me you’ve never smoked before.”
She got up, crossed the room. She grabbed me by the ear like somebody’s mama, tugging hard enough to make me try and pry her off. Her other hand pressed into my chest for balance, her thigh sliding between mine, titties in my face.
“Gimme,” she giggled. Somehow, she got me in a headlock—probably because I was trying not to drop my blunt. She was warm and wild in my arms, giggling like a woman with no idea how good she felt.
My dick was the first to react. My brain came in second. She ended up damn near straddling me again by the time she yanked it from my fingers. I let her have it.
“Feral child,” I muttered, shaking my head.
She settled between my spread legs on the rug, on her knees, facing me like she was getting ready to beg me to put us out of our misery.
And fuck me. I could barely breathe. The sexual chemistry between us was undeniable.
My hand twitched, wanting to touch her. She was breaking me in half and giggling while doing it.
She brought the blunt to her lips, took a pull like she knew what she was doing—then hacked so hard her whole body folded. It took everything in me not to laugh at her. She looked up, eyes red, mouth twisted, and if looks could kill, I’d be six feet under.
“You should’ve warned me,” she wheezed.
I threw my hands up. “I did,” I said. “You just don’t listen.”
She sucked her teeth but didn’t hand it back. She went back to her original spot and back to reading whatever romance book she’d been into, puffing in between coughs. She was determined to smoke my weed even if it had her eyes watering.
I returned to the blueprint pulled up on my laptop.
About thirty minutes later, out of nowhere, I saw her shake herself—like a wet dog in movies.
Then she called me. “Sam,” she said, voice too serious. “I don’t like this.”
Her eyes were wild. She was rubbing her arms like she was trying to warm herself.
“I feel like my skin is trying to crawl off,” she wheezed.
Here we go. I sat up immediately. “Okay, okay. You’re fine. Breathe.”
She got up and started pacing, muttering something under her breath. Then she bolted. I was caught off guard for a second, and it took me more than a few to react.
I followed her down the hall. Found her in the shower. She went in fully clothed, letting hot water hit her head and shoulders. Her shirt stuck to her skin.
“Get out of the shower, Zane. You just need to lay down,” I said gently. “Come on.” I walked toward her to help.
She jumped out of the shower, water dripping off of her, shoved past me—soaking wet—and ran for her phone.
“I’m calling 911.”
“Don’t do that.”
“I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying.”
She held the phone up to show me the emergency dial screen, her thumb hovering. I grabbed it gently from her hand.
“No more alcohol or drugs for you. Ever.”
She stared at me.
“Come on,” I said, taking her hand and leading her to the bedroom. “You need to lie down.”
She didn’t argue. I pulled back the covers and helped her out of her wet shirt, then pants and panties.
I kept it clinical, didn’t look too long.
I didn’t touch her after that, because every time I did, it got harder to pretend I didn’t want more than this.
More than temporary. More than borrowed time.
When she crawled into bed, I got in behind her, and despite my contrary thought from just a few seconds earlier, I wrapped my arms around her, telling myself I was just doing it so she wouldn’t run again.
“I feel like I’m floating,” she whispered.
“You’re not,” I said. “You’re right here.”
“I don’t like this feeling. I can see your words…”
I rubbed slow circles into her hip and choked back a laugh. “Okay. Then talk to me. Let’s distract your brain.”
“About what?”
I thought for a second. “If you were a pro wrestler… what’s your walk-out song?”
She laughed into the pillow before answering, “Yeah, Glo.”
The rest of the night went just like that. We made it through the high.
It wasn’t until she was asleep that I thought about the fact that we were sharing a bed.
And it felt right. There was no way in hell I should be this deep, this fast into whatever this was.
But here I was, watching her sleep, thinking about what kind of man she would need me to be.
I should have gotten up, but instead, I pulled her closer and spent the night wrapped around a woman who wasn’t mine.