3. Sam #2
“Besides the fact that he’s rich, important, and totally off-limits? He’s really good in bed. Or at least, on a lounge chair. Honestly, I don’t know much more.”
“Have you seen him since?”
“I briefly saw him today. He was at the hospital again. I spotted him across the lobby and almost dropped my stethoscope. But he was gone before I could blink.”
Arden slams her glass down. “Holy shitballs. I need to know how this went from an accidental wandering to lounge-chair sex.”
The story spills out. I tell her about seeing him in the gallery, watching him watch us. How he climbed up from the beach like a living fantasy. The way it all escalated fast, hot, and completely out of nowhere.
"I don't know what came over me," I admit, still stunned by my recklessness.
Arden tilts her head, studying me like I’ve grown a second head. "Yeah, this doesn’t sound like you. But I gotta say? I like unhinged, patio-sex Sam."
I groan. "Do not give her a name."
"Too late. She’s thriving."
I bury my face in my hands. "I'll probably never see him again. Right? The man lives in New York. And he can't use the 'oops, I stumbled onto the wrong patio' line again. Plus, he said this purchase was an investment for a flip or something. That means he's selling."
Arden snorts. "Yeah, well. New York might be far, but that glow on your face isn't casual. That’s danger dick glow."
"God. I hope no one else can read my face as well as you can."
"So, does that mean until he sells, you might indulge in more of that manna?" Arden asks playfully.
I shrug, tugging my hair into a low knot. “Maybe I let myself enjoy it. Occasional, meaningless sex between consenting adults isn’t exactly scandalous.”
“Exactly.” She nods, satisfied. “Get yours, Doctor Taylor.”
I toss a pillow at her and stand. “Got any actual food in here, or just overpriced champagne and twelve varieties of mustard?”
“Check the pastry box from Boulangerie,” she calls, unfazed. “Second shelf.”
I swing open the fridge, letting the cool air hit my face. It helps. A little. Inside: fancy cheese I can’t pronounce, three half-empty bottles of bubbly, and what I’m guessing is yesterday’s takeout arranged in glass containers like a Pinterest ad.
I spot the white pastry box and grab it, along with the open bottle of Pinot. My phone buzzes just as I set everything on the counter.
Hey, it’s Cole. Got your number from the staff room—hope that’s okay. Still thinking about that lounge chair. Might have to look into getting that set for my patio. Thanks for the warm neighborhood welcome.
Heat spreads through my chest. I reread the words three times, picturing him typing them. Is he at his house? Sitting just yards away from where we...
I bite my lower lip, finger hovering over the screen. What's the right move here? Casual response? Flirty comeback? No response at all?
"What are you smiling at?" Arden shouts from the couch. "If you found my chocolate stash, I will end you!"
"It's him," I call back, still staring at his message.
"What?!" The sound of Arden scrambling off her couch reaches the kitchen .
"Him! Hot neighbor acrobat in a suit."
"Does he want round two?"
"He just mentioned the cushions."
"If he texts again, marry him or run. No in between!" She flops back down with a dramatic sigh.
I lean against the counter, thumbs poised above the screen. My mind replays two nights ago—his hands gripping my hips, lifting me onto him. The shocking intimacy of eye contact as he entered me. The way his mouth traveled down my neck, between my breasts...
I shiver, despite the warmth of Arden’s kitchen.
I shake it off and join her. I can't do this right now.
We polish off the bottle of Pinot and fall into our usual routine of bad TV, snack raids, and easy laughter. It's been the kind of post-twelve-hour shift I needed.
But even with Arden filling the space, part of me stays somewhere else.
Later, at home, I slip onto my bed, the mattress sinking under my weight. After three glasses of wine, my body hums with a pleasant buzz. I'm just loose enough to quiet the hospital voices in my head.
The ocean’s rhythmic pulse drifts through the cracked window in my bedroom. In, out. Rise, fall.
I wonder if Cole hears the same waves next door. I wonder if he’s even still here. I didn’t notice lights on, but I did see him at the hospital earlier.
My free hand slides across my stomach, tracing lazy circles on my skin. The sheet beneath me feels cool against my bare legs.
The fan overhead clicks softly, but it’s not enough to cool the heat crawling over my skin.
My hand skims my stomach, then lower. The sheet catches between my knees as I shift, restless. I’m still sore from the other night, a further reminder of him inside of me. A dull, throbbing ache that somehow makes me want more.
God, his hands.
The way they gripped my thighs, held me open, pressed me down. The sound he made when he sank into me. It was low and possessive, like I was his to ruin.
I slide my fingers beneath the waistband of my sleep shorts. I’m already wet. I don’t even pretend to take it slow.
Two fingers slip between my folds, finding that slick, swollen place that’s been throbbing since he was there. I circle it once, slowly teasing. My hips jerk.
The pressure builds so I press harder, gliding over that sensitive bundle of nerves again and again until my breath stutters and my thighs clench. The ache is maddening. I need more.
I shift my hips and slide my fingers deeper. I gasp as I push inside. I'm tight, wet, tender. The stretch makes me moan. My body clenches, hungry for him, for more.
I pump my fingers, slow at first, then faster, curling them just right. My palm brushes my clit with every thrust, sending sparks through my core.
The tension coils inside of me. My toes curl into the sheets. My other hand grips the edge of the mattress.
I can feel the weight of him, his breath on my neck, his voice. It's low and coaxing, just a little cruel. You like that?
I moan quietly and sharply. My legs tremble as the orgasm hits. I chase it fast and rough, the way he was with me. The way I like it. The way I wanted it again, the second he walked down the steps after he devoured me.
When it hits, I cry out breathlessly. My walls pulse around my fingers, waves crashing through me, leaving me wrecked and shaking.
I stay like that, panting, hand still buried between my thighs, fingers still inside of me. My heart thuds in my chest, and I still rock my hips into my hand, mindlessly coming down from my orgasm.
And even then, with the aftershocks rolling through me, I want more.
I want him .
And I can’t want him. Not again. Not when I know how slippery this slope could be.