Chapter 32 Sam #2
“My dad’s father taught me all about rugby.
He would have loved to see where I ended up.
His mom made me my first jersey when I was eight.
I wasn’t the kid in a hockey jersey at school.
They made fun of me for years.” I turn and reach into the sink to release the drain stopper.
“Told me I wasn’t a real Canadian because I didn’t play hockey.
” That probably plays a role in why I feel more at home on this side of the Atlantic.
I played the right sport here but not at home.
Pressure on my arm has me looking down to where Rosie’s hand is resting right above where my wrist disappears into the soapy water, partially blocking the dark lines of my tattoo.
She squeezes, and I look up to find her forehead pinched in concern.
The need to apologize is instant. My intention wasn’t to worry her.
I’m fine. I hadn’t thought about it in years.
“I’m sorry,” we say in unison, and I watch in wonder as her face relaxes.
“Why are you apologizing?”
“I didn’t mean to make you sad.” I shrug, finally pulling the stopper and rinsing my hands, missing the weight of her hand immediately.
She pops a hip against the counter again and crosses her arms. “I just couldn’t help imagining little Sam feeling out of place.”
My mind immediately goes somewhere dirty, and I have to bite the inside of my cheeks to keep an embarrassingly loud guffaw from escaping.
Her eyes narrow at me, vivid blue slits freezing me in place. “You’re such a man,” she scoffs and then squeals as I lift her off the ground, throwing her over my shoulder while her laughter vibrates through my body.
We, as a society, don’t talk enough about how much of a turn-on a laugh can be.
I’ll happily let them study the effect Rosie’s laughter has on me.
I know what it does to my cock, but I’m curious what it’s doing in my head.
I can almost see the synapses firing in my brain like fireworks being set off to the melody of her smooth-as-honey laughter.
Rosie’s body bounces when her back lands on the bed, her giggles breathless as she spreads her arms wide, tilting her head so she can look up at me, a gorgeous smirk pulling at her pretty pink lips.
“Like I said,” she pushes up onto her elbows, eyes glancing quickly at the shoulder she’d been draped over. “Such a man.”
“I don’t know whether or not that’s an insult or a compliment,” I rasp, kneeling between her legs and dropping my lips to where I can see her pulse throbbing in her neck.
“It’s…” she starts to say, but her words are replaced by a moan as my tongue circles where my lips had just been pressed. My lips curling as her pulse quickens.
There’s an urge to mark her here. Show the fucking world she’s mine.
But she’s not. After Sunday she’ll be another memory of something good from this part of the world.
It’s odd how an immature thought has brought out the Neanderthal in me.
Throwing her over my shoulder—thankfully I picked the one that hasn’t been reconstructed twice—and a sudden desire to mark her aren’t my usual go-to activities when it comes to women.
But so many things have been different with her, so why not add this possessive, Rick Astley “Never Gonna Give You Up” quality to the mix?
I may be the first person to ever Rickroll themself.
Definitely the first person to do it while greedily reaching into a beautiful woman’s pants.
Whatever she was going to say is long forgotten as she writhes beneath me. This reaction to my touch is the highest of compliments, and as long as she reacts like this to my hands on her, she can insult me all she fucking pleases.
“Would you want to go out for dinner tomorrow night?” I ask while we lounge on a blanket in front of the outdoor fire pit.
Rosie rolls onto her back, her neck resting on my thigh, and looks up. “Is this where you tell me you know a little place?” She grins, closing her eyes when I slip my fingers into her hair and tuck an unruly strand behind her ear.
“I do know of a little place, actually,” I tease. “It’s one of those fancy off-the-beaten-path places with all locally sourced ingredients and candles on every table. I thought that maybe we could throw on our wedding attire and pretend to be fancy for the night.”
She sits up, gasping in mock horror. “Samuel, are you implying that I am not fancy?” She gestures down her body. “I’ll have you know this is the finest brand of Reitman’s discount athleisure that money can buy.”
I appraise her openly and nod. “Oh yes, I can definitely tell. And it’s a crime that this outfit”—I reach for her, slipping my hand beneath the hem of the long-sleeved pink t-shirt and tugging until she falls into me—“isn’t on their dress code.”
Smiling lips meet mine, and I haul her into my lap, my hands appreciating the softness of the very sexy athleisure pants as I knead her ass.
“Is this a yes?” I ask, breaking away breathlessly.
She leans back and takes my face in her hands. “All you had to say was that you’d be wearing your kilt again.”
I drag her harder against me, trapping my lower lip between my teeth when her head falls back, eyes falling closed as she feels how hard I am for her.
“I’d have worn that thing every goddamn day if I knew how much you liked it.”
Her chin snaps down, and I get a look that tells me I’m full of shit.
And I am. I know what a draw a kilt is. I lived in Scotland long enough to know that.
And I certainly hadn’t missed the way Rosie’s blues trailed down my body more than once on the wedding day.
I had to think very specific thoughts every time I caught her looking in order to avoid an awkward situation.
I want this, I think, as our kisses turn lazy and my kneading becomes less aggressive. I don’t want this to end. It’s easy and comfortable. Being here with her is perfect.
It’s not real, though. It’s an escape in every sense of the word. From reality, from work, from a place I don’t want to be, from a loneliness I hadn’t clocked until I got to wake up next to her.
“What?” she asks, tilting her head in that adorable way, and I realize I’ve been staring at her.
I shake my head, pushing away the damn thoughts of reality that have dared to step in before they’ve been welcomed like some disobedient vampire. “Nothing.”