Chapter Seven
"I love you," Sam whispers, his low timbre rumbling against the
skin of my neck.
I want to say it back, to
tell him I never stopped, but there's a reason I can't—I'm not
supposed to, though I can't recall why. We are outside, on a beach
I don't recognize, but it's breathtakingly beautiful, and I half
think we might be in heaven. I will him to touch me, but he
hesitates. Why?
"Touch me," I plead, and
Sam pulls back, his lips twisting up into a smirk, revealing the
dimple I love so much.
"Where?" he asks, taunting
me, still keeping his hands painstakingly to himself.
"Please," I beg, and he
licks his lips.
Slowly, painfully slowly,
he presses his hand to my waist, lifting the hem of my tee shirt as
he slowly runs the pads of his fingers up, just a few
inches.
"Here?" he asks, his voice
thickening with desire.
I let my eyes fall close
and nod, yes.
He rewards me by
continuing his path further upward until he's teasing the underside
of my bra, slipping his thumb just the tiniest bit
underneath.
"Here?" he rasps, and I
suspect he's torturing himself as much as he is me, but it's a
wonderful torture, and I want more of it.
"Yes," I
breathe.
Sam's patience is
slipping, I can sense it. His other hand finds my waist, gripping
it firmly while the first moves over the cup of my bra, molding me
until I moan out loud. He keeps his face hovering just above mine,
so close our noses brush, that I breathe his breath, but he doesn't
kiss me.
The hand on my waist opens
wide, so big his thumb reaches the underwire of my bra while his
pinky grips my hip. Suddenly he slides the whole thing down and
around to my ass, pulling my body flush against his. I moan again
when I feel how badly he wants me against my stomach. He leans down
to my ear again, and brushes his lips back and forth over the lobe
before taking it gently between his teeth.
"Do you see what you do to
me?" he rumbles.
I nod again, relishing the
most powerful feeling I've ever known—the effect I have on
Sam.
"Tell me you want me," he
demands.
"I want you," I say
without hesitation, and he groans in response.
"What's our safe
word?"
"Calculus."
With that, Sam lifts me by
the back of my thighs, and I wrap my legs around him. Suddenly
we're inside a bright hotel room, lit by only the afternoon sun,
though I've no idea how we got inside, and I'm almost sure it was
just evening out on the beach.
Sam lays me gently back
onto the bed. It's then that I realize I'm dreaming. That otherwise
Sam would never be here, touching me like this and telling me he
loves me. But right now, I don't have time to care. Because I have
him. Even if I know I'm only dreaming, right now, Sam is mine, and
I'm going to savor every moment of it.
We undress hastily, and I
pull him down to me. Finally he kisses me deeply, but I'm afraid to
close my eyes, afraid that when I open them he will dissolve into
nothing.
"Sam."
"Sleep, baby girl," he
murmurs.
What?
I don't want to sleep.
Sleep is just about the last thing on my mind right now.
I'm about to tell him
exactly that, when my fear comes true, and he dematerializes right
in front of me.
NO!
No.
No, no, no.
I keep my eyes shut tight,
praying for sleep to swallow me back up. But no matter how much I
try to fall back into my subconscious, my wakefulness grows until
it's no longer deniable. The rush of disappointment rolls over me
and I feel the perpetual ache in my chest grow with it. It's then
that I realize I'm curled up against something large and firm, and
I freeze in a long moment of consternation.
I brush my fingers over
soft cotton, and breathe deeply.
I recognize the scent
instantly. A combination of Sam's after-shave, his body wash and
something that's just inherently him. My eyes fly open.
I am wrapped around him
like a vine, his thick, denim-clad thigh between mine, and his
chest my perfect pillow. I both hear and feel the comforting sound
of each steady, thumping beat of his strong heart. The muted pink
light sweeping in through the blinds tells me it must be nearly
dusk, and we're in my bedroom. I haven't the slightest clue how we
got here.
The last thing I remember
was forcing half a grilled cheese sandwich down my throat despite
my lack of appetite just to appease Sam. And then realizing I
wasn't going to make it through the rest of the school day. I told
the girls I was going to grab something from my car, but really I
was just going to drive home. Though I can't say I remember doing
it.
But here I am, and so is
Sam.
I rack my brain trying to
remember something. Anything. But the balance of the afternoon is a
muddlement of partially remembered dreams and very little
else.
I lift my head slowly,
just enough to peek up at him. He's out cold. Well, that's not
accurate. He's fast asleep, yes, but there's nothing
cold about him. His body
is so appealingly warm, and the little skin that's no longer in
contact with it regrets it instantly. I press my face back to his
chest and try to think.
He starred in almost all
of my dreams in what must have been a pretty long nap. First he was
in my car. I was driving. Or maybe he was driving. And then I think
he was upset about something, but I have no idea what, and I think
I hugged him? I don't remember the details.
But then Robin was there,
and Sam was gone, and Robin did what he always does, until Sam
reappeared, but he couldn't hear my screams. Robin went after him,
and I begged him to stop, but… but what?
The next thing I remember
the scene had changed, and Robin was gone, but Sam was okay. He had
stopped him, and he was telling me everything was okay, that Robin
couldn't hurt me, and that I was safe. And I really did feel
safe.
God, I wish I could remember more. As much as I remember from
that last dream. Though I sure am glad I remember that last
dream.
It felt so real at first.
The sensation of his skin on my body, of his breath in my ear, the
deep gravel of his voice… it all has an unfathomable effect on me.
My fingers move barely, practically of their own volition, over his
tightly packed abs.
I stop them. I don't want
to wake him. I don't know what will happen when he wakes, and I
suspect it will probably include him saying goodbye and leaving.
Especially since it's probably later than he'd intended us to
sleep. Assuming he'd intended it at all.
But he must
have.
I realize now that I must
have fallen asleep before I could drive home. In retrospect, it's
probably a damn good thing that I did, considering I probably
shouldn't have been driving anyway. I don't know what I was
thinking, taking a risk like that. I guess the point is that
I wasn't thinking—I was too damn tired to think.
Sam must have seen me head
to my car. He must have found me and driven me home. And then held
me because he knew it would keep the nightmares away.
Immediately I know that he
didn't hold me the whole time. Because Robin showed up. And though
we've only fallen asleep together a few times, I know in my heart
that it wasn't a coincidence. That Sam kept him away.
And Sam's presence also
explains this last dream of mine. God, do I wish it could have been
real. That it could be real. His body is something no girl could resist. It's just
perfectly sculpted, heavily muscled in all the right places, but
still lean. And curled up against it is a precarious place to
be.
I peek up at his face
again, suddenly incredibly aware that I should be savoring this
moment. This stolen opportunity to observe him so close. I watch
him sleep, greedily taking in every feature—from his full lips, so
incredibly soft-looking next to his masculine jawline, his straight
nose and chiseled cheekbones. His lashes are so thick any girl
would be jealous, and his hair is adorably disheveled from sleep.
He looks positively perfect, and I commit this exact sight to
memory.
I let my gaze skim over his
body and I take my time rediscovering his chest—my pillow—and that
tight six pack of muscles that I so vividly remember twitching at
my touch in Miami. His tee shirt has ridden up an inch, and I see
the faint trail of hair that leads from his navel into his
waistband. I let my fingers lightly trace down that same
trail.
And when my eyes continue
lower, I swallow my gasp. Though Sam is lost in sleep, his body
seems to be having the exact same idea my subconscious had. And
that now my very conscious mind has as well.
He strains so much against
his jeans that I think it must be painful for him. I feel an
answering heat between my legs, my body reacting as it always does
when we're this close. Which hasn't been since Miami.
God, it's been weeks.
And I think about him all the time. I miss him in every way
imaginable.
And from the looks of it,
he's having a similar reaction to sleeping with me like this. He's
pressing right up against the zipper fly of his jeans. It really
does look painful.
Why would he go to take a
nap in his jeans? What could be less comfortable?
Unless he was worried
about making me uncomfortable.
Of
course. He was being respectful of
me.
I realize now that it's
likely he didn't even get into the bed with me at first. Which is
why I had that nightmare. And that that nightmare is the reason
he's holding me now.
A blush creeps over my
body as I flood with shame. Of
course that's the reason he's here, in bed
with me, holding me with his jeans on. Of
course he would make himself
uncomfortable, just to comfort me.
But it's ridiculous—why he
couldn't have just taken off his jeans and slept in his boxer
briefs. I've slept with him in a lot less than underwear. With
nothing, in fact. And he's well aware of that. He could have taken
off his stupid jeans.
And suddenly I resent the
jeans. I'm angry at them. Like they're a living, breathing entity. One which
represents everything between Sam and me right now that is wrong