Chapter 9 Sam
Sam
We barely make it through the door.
Devan's hands are everywhere—my waist, my hair, sliding under my shirt—and I'm not much better, shoving his jacket off his shoulders while trying to kick the door shut behind us.
We're a mess. We're still half-dressed from the bathroom, clothes hastily re-buttoned, and we smell like sex and each other and the cheap soap from the dispenser.
I don't care. I need more.
"Bed," I gasp against his mouth.
He starts walking me backward, and it's so easy for him—he's got six inches and probably sixty pounds on me, all of it muscle. Usually I love that. Usually I want him to pick me up and throw me around.
Not tonight.
I plant my feet and shove against his chest. He stops, confused, and I use his momentary hesitation to spin us around.
Now he's the one with his back to the mattress.
"Sam—"
I shove him again. Harder this time, both hands flat against his chest. He falls back onto the bed, catching himself on his elbows, staring up at me with wide eyes.
God, he looks wrecked. His hair is a disaster, his shirt is untucked and missing two buttons from earlier, and his mouth is swollen from kissing me in the hallway, the bathroom, the elevator.
The great Devan Morse—all six-foot-three of him—sprawled on his back and looking at me like he doesn't know what hit him.
I did that. I get to do that.
"Stay," I tell him.
His throat bobs as he swallows. "What are you—"
"You spent all day protecting me," I say, pulling my shirt over my head and tossing it somewhere. "In your head, at least. Worrying about me. Trying to figure out how to fight me without hurting me."
I crawl onto the bed, straddling his thighs. He's so big underneath me—his thighs are thick, solid, and I have to spread my knees wide to fit around him. He reaches for my hips automatically, but I catch his wrists and pin them to the mattress.
Or I try to. His arms are twice the size of mine. If he wanted to break my grip, he could do it without trying.
He doesn't.
His breath catches.
"Now it's my turn," I say, leaning down until my lips brush his ear. "You did so good today, Devan. You fought for me. You respected me."
He shudders underneath me. His whole body trembles, and I feel it everywhere we're touching.
"Let me take care of you."
"Sam." His voice is rough, cracked. "You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." I sit back up, keeping his wrists pinned—or at least, keeping up the pretense that I could. "I want to. I want to watch you fall apart. I want to be the one who does it."
His pupils are blown wide. His scent is going haywire—pine and storm and desperate, aching want.
"Can you do that for me?" I ask. "Can you let go?"
He stares at me for a long moment. I can see the war behind his eyes—the part of him that always needs to be in control fighting against the part that's so tired of holding everything together.
Then he nods. Just once. A tiny surrender.
"Good," I breathe. "That's it."
I release his wrists. He leaves them where they are, spread out on the sheets like an offering. His hands could wrap all the way around my waist if he wanted. Instead, they're open, palms up, giving me everything.
The trust in that makes my chest ache.
I take my time with his shirt, undoing each remaining button slowly, spreading the fabric open.
His chest is broad, solid, lightly furred with dark hair that trails down toward his waistband.
I have to stretch to reach his shoulders as I push the shirt off, reminded again of just how much bigger he is than me.
And he's letting me have this. Letting me run the show.
I lean down and press a kiss to his sternum. He inhales sharply.
"You were so good today," I murmur against his skin. I kiss lower, trailing down his stomach, feeling the muscles jump under my lips. "Walking into that room with me. Knowing what they were going to ask us to do."
"Sam—"
"And when you critiqued me..." I reach his waistband, looking up at him. From this angle, he looks massive—shoulders spanning the narrow bed, chest heaving. "When you actually did it, actually fought back... do you know what that did to me?"
He shakes his head, eyes locked on mine.
"Made me so fucking hot," I tell him. I pop the button of his pants. Drag the zipper down. "Made me want to drag you out of that room and climb you like a tree."
A choked laugh escapes him. "Climb me like a—"
"Shut up. It's a compliment." I yank his pants and boxers down. His cock springs free, flushed and hard and leaking at the tip. I wrap my hand around him and stroke once, slow.
Devan's hips buck off the mattress. A broken sound escapes his throat.
"But now?" I keep stroking, lazy and unhurried, watching his face. "Now we're done fighting. Now I get to be nice to you."
"Please," he whispers.
"Please what?"
His jaw clenches. He's not used to asking. Not used to begging. That's usually my job.
"Tell me," I coax, squeezing just a little tighter. "Use your words."
"Your mouth," he grits out. "Please. Sam. I need—"
"Yeah?" I grin. "Since you asked so nice."
I lower my head and take him in.
He groans, loud and unrestrained, his hands fisting in the sheets. I take my time—long, slow licks from base to tip, swirling my tongue around the head, sucking gently before pulling off to mouth at the side.
"Fuck," he gasps. "Fuck, that's—"
I pull off completely. He whines at the loss.
"Not yet," I tell him. "I'm not done with you."
I shimmy out of my own pants and underwear, kicking them off the edge of the bed. I'm hard too, aching, but I ignore it. This isn't about me.
I crawl back up his body. It takes a while—he's so fucking tall, miles of skin and muscle—and I drag my lips up his stomach, his chest, his neck as I go. When I finally reach his mouth, I'm straddling his hips, his cock pressed against my ass.
We both shudder.
"I'm going to ride you," I tell him, reaching back to guide him to my entrance. I'm still wet and open from earlier, still loose enough that I don't need prep. "And you're going to lie there and take it."
"Yeah," he breathes. "Fuck. Okay."
I sink down.
The stretch is perfect, that delicious, familiar fullness that I'm already addicted to. I take him inch by inch, bracing my hands on his chest for balance. His pecs flex under my palms. His whole body is taut, trembling, holding back.
"That's it," I murmur when I'm fully seated. "God, you fill me up so good. Feel so big like this."
He reaches for my hips. I let him this time—he needs something to hold onto. His hands span almost my entire waist, fingers digging into my skin hard enough to bruise. I feel small in his grip. Claimed.
But I'm the one in control.
I start to move.
Not fast. Not desperate like the bathroom. Slow, rolling grinds that keep him deep inside me, that drag him against all the right spots. I plant my hands on his chest and find my rhythm.
"Sam," Devan groans. "Please, I need—"
"What do you need?" I circle my hips, clenching around him. "Tell me."
"Faster. I can't—fuck—"
"You can." I lean down, kissing him even as I keep that maddening, slow pace. "You can wait. You've been patient for two years. What's a few more minutes?"
He makes a sound that's almost a sob. His hips try to buck up, trying to take control, but I press down with my full weight.
It shouldn't work. He's so much stronger than me. He could flip us over, pin me down, take what he wants.
He doesn't.
"This is mine," I whisper against his mouth. "You gave it to me. Let me have it."
Something breaks behind his eyes. I watch it happen, watch him finally, fully let go.
His whole body goes slack against the sheets. His grip on my waist loosens, becoming less desperate and more grounding. He stops fighting.
"There you go," I murmur. "Fuck, look at you. So good for me."
I reward him by picking up the pace. Still not frantic, but faster, deeper, riding him properly now. The new angle has him hitting my prostate on every stroke, and I have to bite my lip to keep from losing it too soon.
"So hot like this," I tell him, and I mean it. "All that control, all that strength... and you're just letting me have you."
"Only you," he manages. "Sam—only ever—"
"I know." I press my forehead to his, sharing breath. "I know. Me too."
I kiss him, sloppy and wet, as I speed up my hips. The sound of skin on skin fills the room. The bed frame is creaking. Someone in the next dorm probably hates us right now.
Don't care.
"I love you," I gasp against his mouth. "No matter what happens with Sterling, with any of it—"
"Sam—" His voice cracks. "I'm close. Fuck, I'm so close—"
I can feel it, the base of his cock starting to swell.
"Give it to me," I tell him. "Want it. Want you to fill me up, lock us together—"
"Fuck—"
I grind down hard, taking him as deep as he can go, and clench.
Devan comes with a shout, his back arching off the bed. I feel his knot swell, stretching me wide, locking us together. The pressure against my prostate tips me over the edge too. I come untouched, spilling between us, shaking through it.
When it's over, I collapse on top of him.
I'm sweaty and gross and draped over him like a blanket, and he's still inside me, still pulsing, still so much bigger than me in every way.
I've never felt safer in my life.
"Holy shit," Devan whispers into my hair.
"Yeah," I agree. "That."
His arms come around me, holding me close. On him like this, I feel how broad his chest is—my head fits perfectly in the curve of his shoulder, and his arms wrap around me completely.
"Where did that come from?" he asks after a minute. "The whole... taking charge thing?"
I consider that. "I don't know. I just needed to."
I lift my head to look at him. His eyes are soft, dazed, wondering.
"You're always the one holding us together," I say quietly. "I wanted you to know you can let go sometimes. I've got you."
Something flickers across his face. "Thanks," he says roughly, and it means more than just thanks.