Chapter 22 Olivia
OLIVIA
Later that night, we return to Sam’s. His loft is in total darkness except for the thin slant of moonlight casting a silvery hue on the open space. In silence, he interlaces our fingers and leads me to his bed.
On the way, his free hand removes his shirt the way guys do, with one swift pull over his head. He reluctantly releases my hand to allow the fabric to fall from his arm and then immediately claims me again. Next are his pants and boxers, gone.
When he stands undressed before me, my hands instinctively reach for him, needing him. Removing my clothes, he takes time to caress my skin as it is revealed. Long, callused fingertips glide across my collarbone and chest.
As if that wasn’t enough, his lips adore, gentle and hot, with the slight zing of his stubble grazing my flesh. Each kiss erases all my past lows and insecurities, every single moment of sadness, neglect, and loneliness.
He removes my jeans, then bends, twisting his torso to kiss my lower back. Teasing a path along my hips with his tongue, he returns to kneel in front of me and wraps his arms around my middle.
His face nuzzles my stomach, placing hot, wet kisses on my midriff while his tongue dips into my belly button, sending shivers up my spine and curling my toes.
After peeling off my panties, he plants a hard, possessive kiss on my pussy. His tongue then licks from my entrance up to flick my clit, and I moan at his gentle yet passionate dominance. His lips continue a blistering path up my body, only stopping his glorious mapping of me to unclasp my bra.
Both naked, our gazes lock as he reaches for a condom in the side table. I watch, hungry, while he rolls it on his magnificent cock and lifts me to straddle him on the bed.
His adoration is evident and staggering in his heavy-lidded eyes. His hard cock presses snugly against my sex, and I’m unable to stay still as a breathy sigh passes through my slightly open lips and I slide along him.
Riding out my climax against him, his molten stare only serves to spur me on as my core heats, aches for release, my breasts heavy with need. His devotion consumes me and is weakening my resolve to keep us free of labels and expectations.
I scream his name like it’s the meaning of life as my orgasm rips through me. He seals my open mouth with his, and our kiss lingers while his hands roam my body, one gripping my breast. With the other, he guides his cock to my entrance. Gradually and eagerly, I lower myself onto him.
The sense of finally being full, cherished, and awakened washes over me.
His arms envelop me, one across my back, the other on my bottom as we leisurely move together like yin and yang, inseparable, our foreheads connected, eyes locked, mouths open, sharing the same breath as we climb to our release.
“Sam.” His name slips out, reverent, almost a prayer.
His answering groan vibrates against my skin as he thrusts into me, deep and sure, and then we are coming together. We’ve never been closer, now moving as one.
This isn’t sex—it’s love, much more than two bodies entwined. Our strong connection lives and breathes in every caress, every moan, every embrace. It’s remarkable and intense, and it scares the hell out of me.
It’s amazing what time and distance can do for a woman’s perspective. One week since my visit to Montreal and my fear has faded. I came home perplexed and anxious. The weekend with Sam had been out of this world, but I feared, in hindsight, it most probably wasn’t my smartest move.
I loved getting to meet Bas and Alec, and seeing his place. And the sex.
Yet, our obstacles still exist. Distance aside, the biggest hurdle might be that we’re in different stages in our lives.
I have my family, and he’s just starting out. I have no clue if he wants children or even to marry. I never want to marry again…
And I’m getting ahead of myself.
Marriage.
Who said anything about marriage?
Again, my age is showing.
We’re back to texting, talking, sending photos of random meals and inside jokes that make no sense to anyone but us.
Somehow, that invisible shield between us—whatever safety net keeps things in balance—is back in place now that we’re in our own cities, in our own worlds.
Distance, it turns out, is safer. Cleaner.
It’s easier to pretend the feelings don’t run as deep when you can’t reach out and touch them.
Ironically, what also helped was my conversation with Yasmine Thibault. Not that I suddenly like her. I don’t. Although she did manage to shift something in me.
She reminded me of exactly where Sam and I stand.
That night at the restaurant, she wasted no time. The moment Daniel whisked Sam away to “see the wine cellar,” Yasmine turned her laser focus on me.
“Sam and I were in Vancouver together this week.” She was aiming for casual, but there was no doubt this was calculated.
I masked my surprise. Sam had mentioned Vancouver, sure, but not her.
“I’m not sure what you think is going on between you and Sam.
” She swirled her wine like a Bond villain.
“But you’re not cut out for his world. You don’t know the first thing about being a chef—or a celebrity chef, at that.
Sam’s wildly successful. He needs someone who can support him, who fits that life. Really, Olivia, you’re not the one.”
Her words were smooth, rehearsed, and dripping with condescension.
God, she was vile. Not just petty or jealous, but ugly in that quiet, poisonous way some people are when they believe they’re untouchable. Beneath all the blonde and blue-eyed polish, she was a snake in designer heels.
“Yasmine, whatever’s going on between Sam and me isn’t your concern.”
She smiled, sharp and joyless. “Stop fooling yourself. You’re too old, you live in different cities, and you don’t understand what Sam needs. What’s good for him. I can give him that. My father and I will give him what he needs”—she paused, eyes glinting— “or maybe we won’t.”
My stomach tightened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Sam needs an investor.” She gave a little shrug, like she was talking about the weather.
“He wants us, and we want him. But maybe…we don’t.
Maybe his business venture would look a whole lot more attractive if a certain older mother of two walked away.
If you really care about him, Olivia—if you want his dreams to come true—leave him alone. ”
The curl of her lips was the final twist of the knife.
Her glaze gleamed with a false sweetness. “I can even set you up with someone your own age, if you’re really hard up.”
Even now, the memory makes my skin crawl. I actually shudder.
I shake my head to clear it, refusing to give her space in my thoughts.
But the truth is, she got to me. Not because I believe her, but because I believe some of what she said.
Sam and I do live in different cities. His world spins faster than mine.
And maybe I’m kidding myself thinking I can keep up or that I even should.
So, yes, Yasmine Thibault was cruel. But she reminded me of something I keep trying to forget.
This is supposed to be fun.
No labels.
No promises.
And if I keep repeating it enough times, maybe I’ll start to believe it.
Over the past two weeks, Sam and I have been busy, too busy. Our conversations have dwindled to short texts and the occasional phone call squeezed in between meetings or late nights.
The Preston Hotel project is moving forward at warp speed, and I’ve been living on caffeine, deadlines, and takeout. Sam’s been just as swamped, splitting himself between Bas, his existing restaurants, and the plans for his new one.
There’s still the question of funding hanging over him like a storm cloud, but I don’t ask. If I had the money, I’d hand it over without hesitation, no questions asked. But I don’t. And even if I did…there’s only one person I know who could actually help.
Pete.
God, what a disaster that would be.
So I keep my mouth shut. Sam’s smart. He’ll figure it out.
He’s flying in tonight, just for one night before heading to Montreal again. And as ridiculous as it sounds, I’m giddy. It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen him, two long, too-quiet weeks, and I’ve missed him. Missed us.
Yes, we’re casual.
No, there are no labels.
But I’m done pretending I don’t feel the pull every time he’s near.
By late afternoon, we’re at Colin and Sin’s. The backyard’s buzzing with life—music playing, kids splashing, the smells of sunscreen and barbecue in the air. The pool is a magnet for everyone.
Then Sam arrives.
It’s almost cinematic how every head turns when he steps out onto the deck. The man could walk into a room full of models and still steal the spotlight.
He tosses his shirt aside, and of course, the collective female gasp is audible. His tattoos gleam under the sunlight, the ink on his forearm, the script across his ribs. I still don’t know the significance of his snake and flowers.
His body is pure temptation wrapped in muscle and heat, the kind that should come with a warning label.
From my vantage point in the kitchen, I have a perfect, guilt-free view through the glass doors.
Outside, women stop mid-conversation, sunglasses sliding down their noses as they drink him in. I’m fairly certain someone just dropped a drink.
“Wow,” Sin breathes from behind me.
I glance over my shoulder. She’s frozen in place, eyes wide, mouth parted, the picture of awe.
“I know.” I compel my body to spin away, back now to the glass. “Trust me, I’m painfully aware.”
For a second, we both just stand there, appreciating the view. Then I blurt it out before I can talk myself out of it. “I’m going on a date next week.”
Sin’s head snaps toward me. “What? With Sam?”
I shake my head, watching him dive cleanly into the pool, water catching the sun like a thousand diamonds. “No. Someone else.”