Chapter Seven #2
and stupid. It shouldn't be like this. We shouldn't be like this. Even if
we can't be together. There shouldn't be a pair of fucking
jeans between
us.
I make to get rid of the
offending entity. I slip my thumb and forefinger over the small
brass button, and push it through its hole. I slowly and carefully
grasp the zipper pull, and slide it down over him.
Sam groans in his sleep,
and the sound douses my desire with gasoline, setting it aflame. I
cautiously, painstakingly, push his jeans down over his hips, and
then use my feet to kick them down and off of him. He almost stirs
a couple of times, and the third time, his arms tighten around me,
and pull me back against his chest, nuzzling his face into my
hair.
I want to sigh. This is
better. Not perfect, we're still mostly clothed, after all. But
better.
I rub my cheek over his
heart, slipping my leg back over his thigh, but he's now pulled me
a little higher, and his very conspicuous erection—now covered only
by tight, black boxer briefs—is positioned so close to where I
crave him most. I turn my face into his shirt to stifle my own
groan. It only now dawns on me that there might have been another
reason for him to have kept his jeans on.
His whole body rises and
falls with his deep, slow breathing. He must have really needed a
nap too if he's sleeping so soundly right now. I wonder if he's
been asleep as long as I have, which must have been, what? Four
hours? Maybe five?
My fingers twitch over his
stomach again and he startles in his sleep. He doesn't wake—he
resettles, but not before sliding his hand down to cup my ass and
pulling me even more on top of him. He holds me firmly, but not too
hard, and the slightest resistance would make him let go, I'm sure
of it, but that's the last thing I want. But now I'm practically on
top of him, and nothing good can come of this.
I make to slide back to
his side, but I move over him and we both moan. God, that felt good. I move again,
just the slightest bit more to the side, and it's as far as my body
wants to go, it feels like heaven.
Suddenly both of Sam's
hands grab my backside, aligning me back over him. I know he's
awoken when his breathing changes subtly, before he even opens his
eyes.
They blink open quickly
and I freeze, but his hands don't release my ass.
"What are you doing, baby
girl?" Sam asks, his voice still hoarse with sleep.
"I was just—" I cut myself
off. I was just what?
Sam lets his gaze skate
over the both of us, until he registers his missing jeans. He
returns his gaze to mine and raises his eyebrows in question. I
flood with mortification. But Sam must notice, because before it
can suffocate me, he smiles.
"You were just thinking it
isn't hard enough for me to keep it under control with you sleeping
on me like that? You thought you'd add to the torture by removing
my jeans?" It isn't just sleep coursing his voice, it's the lust
I'd already known was there. He raises his eyebrows again,
demanding some kind of answer. But I don't remember what the hell
made me think it was okay to just remove my friend's pants. I can't
follow my own logic from just a couple of minutes ago.
"You looked
uncomfortable," I breathe timidly. Yep, that was my argument, but
it sure doesn't sound very effective right now.
And then I feel Sam's
thumbs sweep over my hip bones, reminding us both how I'm laying on
him, where his hands are, and I swallow my gasp at the thrilling
pleasure of feeling him pressed up against me in exactly the right
way.
"You were right," he
rasps. "This is definitely better." His smile fades just a little,
as if his growing desire is heating the mirth right out of him, as
if it's leaving room for little else.
"I had a good dream," I
blurt tremulously. I don't know where this confession comes from.
Maybe I'd meant it as an excuse for my wanton behavior, though I'm
almost positive I hadn't even meant to say it out loud at
all.
But Sam's expression tells
me he understands immediately what kind of dream I had, and who was
center stage. And he seems quite pleased with the fact. In fact, he
seems downright thrilled, and under me I can feel his already
impossibly massive arousal harden further.
I pray that he can't read
what I'm thinking right on my face like he usually can. That he
doesn't guess the wicked thoughts racing through my head. But the
wry slant to that smile tells me I pray in vain.
"Tell me what you're
thinking, right now," he commands.
I hesitate, biting my lip,
and Sam releases one of my ass cheeks and takes hold of my chin,
gently pulling my bottom lip from between my teeth.
"No, Ror. Don't think
something up. Just tell me, right now, what you're thinking
about."
I lick my lips instead of
biting them this time, and Sam's eyelids grow heavier with lust. I
realize he likes when I do this, though I've never done it
intentionally. It's always his response that even lets me know I've
done it.
"I was thinking... I never
got to… taste you." His eyes widen with each phrase, as if in
growing surprise at my words. Truthfully, he can't be more
surprised than I am, but it doesn't stop me.
I swear I feel Sam's
breath catch.
But this is something I've
thought about a couple of times actually. It's been one of my
biggest regrets from when we were together in Miami. It felt so
incredible when he did it to me. Like nothing I had ever
experienced. And I never did it to Robin. Not once. Maybe the boy
didn't want that precious part of his body anywhere near my teeth,
and if so, then he's just the slightest bit smarter than I've given
him credit for.
But I wanted to do it with Sam. I
want to do it with Sam.
I want to make him feel that good, and honestly, I want to know
what it's like. It's not something I ever thought girls
wanted to do. I always
assumed it was something they did just to please their guys. And I
don't know where this desire to have him in my mouth comes from,
but it's there nonetheless.
"Not helping, baby girl,"
he rasps out, his voice so like it was in my dream that it affects
me tenfold. But he called me baby
girl. Twice. He doesn't call me that. Not
since Miami. And I don't know what it means that he's doing it
now.
But I don't want to
help. Not if helping
means he puts his jeans back on and stops touching me. Anyway, he
was the one who'd demanded I tell him my thoughts.
I can't be sure if I rock
my hips purely unconsciously or if I do it on purpose.
"Ror." My name comes out as an
admonishment and anxiety creeps in. I fear I've presumed too much.
That just because he is physically attracted to me doesn't mean he
actually wants me. After all, he can't control what his body does
when he's asleep.
I look back down at his
chest. Not helping myself
either.
"Sorry," I whisper too
softly, but we're so close it doesn't matter. "I just… I've never
done that before."
He lifts my chin, directing
my gaze back to his. I'm surprised by the expression I find. He's
not annoyed with me, he's… excited. His eyes are wide, but the
clench of his jaw, the way he's breathing, it is pure
hunger.
"Never?" he asks, and his
husky tone confirms it.
He wants me. Just as bad
as I want him. It isn't just his male anatomy. Not any more than my
attraction to him is no more than any girl’s physical attraction to
him. I was made for him, body and soul, and it's hard enough to
give him up soul, but his body—it's right fucking
there. Right where I
desperately want it. Need
it.
I shake my head in
confirmation, and my tongue sweeps out to lick my bottom lip again.
I don't notice myself do it, I only even realize I've done it when
Sam's eyes dilate and then suddenly he's rolling us to the center
of my bed, tucking me underneath him, and my thighs fall open to
cradle his hips.
"You are
killing me, baby girl.
Do you have any idea how bad I want you right now?" he
rasps.
I nod again. Yes. I do.
Completely. Because I feel the same for him.
Slowly, as if giving me
time to stop him, he leans down the two inches that separate us,
and brushes his lips softly over mine, just the smallest taste. I
don't move. It doesn't require me to. It was just the faintest of
kisses, but I feel it everywhere. It affects me in ways I never
imagined I could be affected, especially by just a barely-kiss. I'm not even
comparing it to being kissed by Robin, or even the one kiss I
shared with Cam. No one else exists right now. There's only
Sam.
It takes me a second to
open my eyes, and when I do, Sam is staring down at me. He watches
me for a short, everlasting moment, and I know my thoughts are
written all over my face. After all, I'm only thinking one
word: yes.
I will him to kiss me in
earnest, I beg him with my eyes. I wish I had the nerve to just
kiss him, but I used up all my confidence on that last confession.
But Sam heeds my silent pleading, and finally his mouth crashes
against mine. There's nothing soft or hesitant about the way his
lips glide over mine, molding them, claiming them.
His hand cups my jaw,
opening wide enough to brush his thumb over my cheek while
thrusting his fingers into my hair, holding me in place. His kiss
is hunger and desperation—longing and need, and his tongue traces
the seem of my mouth begging me to let him in.
I do.
It's unfathomable, the
power of his kiss. Yes, it spurs pleasure and arousal and an
answering longing, but it's more than that. It's like some kind of
homecoming—a salvation. I know, deep in my bones, that if there is
such thing as soul mates, then Sam is that for me. That if the God
Cam believed in is real, that he created Sam and me with the other
in mind. That even just our mouths, the fit of our lips as they
crash and slide against each other, were designed as perfect
counterparts.
His tongue invades my
mouth as if he knows with the same certainty that it belongs only