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 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 tou
ching 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 to him. Right now, all of my doubts are obliterated by the glide of his tongue against mine, and though I can't know if he still returns my feelings, if he still harbors the love he professed barely a month ago, I do know that at least physically, his need for me is all-consuming. It's impossible to doubt, and I'm determined to leave no doubt with him that I need him just as badly.
My fingers find their way to his back, slipping under the hem of his tee shirt, exploring the lean muscle there. But the more my fingers touch his skin, the more skin they want, and soon my palms are pressing, almost scratching as I follow the lines of his shoulders. I become frustrated with the material hindering my movement, and I grab the bunched up cotton and tug it over his head.
As if on pure instinct, he moves to help me, and his mouth is back on mine, in mine, before I even have the chance to greedily take in his shirtless form. His hands find my midriff, and just like in my dream, he palms my side, his thumb teasing the sensitive skin of my stomach as it moves slowly upward.
"Sam," I breathe into his mouth, my libidinous voice breathy and unfamiliar.
But he stops, wrenching his mouth from mine, and my eyes reluctantly open. He's staring down at me, panting for breath, his heavy breathing mirroring my own. I'm so lost in him that it takes me a moment to notice that he's waiting for me. For some direction. I realize then that he might have thought I'd said his name to stop him, or to tell him something. But I'm quite sure that if he stops right now, I might actually die.
"Touch me," I plead, and his eyes fall closed.
My legs wrap around his waist, desperate to increase the pressure where his body aligns perfectly with my own, and he groans my favorite sound.
It's barely another split second before his mouth is back on mine, his palm kneading my breast over my bra, until pulls my shirt up over my head in one fluid movement.
My hands find their way into his hair, shorter now than the last time I'd touched it like this, but long enough for me to get a good grasp on it nonetheless.
Sam groans again when I tug lightly, and I remember how much he likes this, too. And then his mouth is gone from mine and he's pressing sweet kisses to my jaw and down my neck. His tongue comes out and he laps at my collarbone, and I throw my head back and moan when he makes his way to the swell of my cleavage.
But he continues downward, the soft-sandpaper stubble of his jaw brushing down my navel, and I realize then where he's headed.
I sit up abruptly under him and he lifts his head in question. I hold his jaw, wanting to feel that same sensation against my palm, and I push my hand back and forth and then up into his hair. His eyes close as he turns into my touch before he's planting wet, hard kisses on the skin of my palm.
I sigh shamelessly. I never knew intimacy could be like this. Not before Sam.
"It's my turn," I whisper, and I sit up further, pushing against his chest as I turn and roll, and I watch his expression carefully for his comprehension.
It comes the moment I have him on his back. I watch his eyes widen with that same excitement from just before, and I press my lips to that spot just below his ear.
I swallow my nerves as I drag my lips down his neck and muster all of my courage as I press my hand to his impressive arousal, sheathed only by thin, black cotton.
His breath hisses at his sharp inhale, and the sound drives me onward. I take my time tasting every inch of skin on his chest and abdomen, tracing the lines of muscle and sinew. I keep my hand on him, and I savor every flex and twitch as his body reacts to my attentions. I move to his side, to a better angle, and hook my index fingers into the waistband of his underwear, but his fingers lock around my wrist. I look up at him, and I know what he wants. He wants to make sure that I'm sure. And it melts me even more.
There's something about watching him from this vantage. Watching him watch me. There's something submissive about my position, and I revel in it. All the times I'd been forced to submit to Robin, I hadn't been given a choice. Now, the choice is all mine. Not only would Sam never pressure me to do anything I didn't want, but he gives me every opportunity to back out, and in this moment, when I know most guys would be only thinking about one singular thing, Sam is still thinking about me. About what I want, and it makes me want to give this to him even more.
I increase the pressure of my hands, silently answering his unspoken question, yes, I'm sure, and he releases my wrist.
I strip him hastily, and I swallow my gasp at seeing him naked again. It gets me every time. The sheer size of him. The perfection of his entire form. He's so incredibly turned on, an
d it's a heady feeling to have been the one to do that to him. It's a wonder he ever even fit inside me.
My body inexorably responds to the sight of him, wanting desperately to have him as close as possible—on me, in me.
I wrench my gaze from the new focal point of the entire room, and peek up at him. The heat in his glare nearly undoes me. It's as if just the attention of my gaze on him is driving him deeper towards ecstasy, and it fuels me. I wrap my fingers around him, and stroke him once. Twice.
He groans again, falling back onto his pillow and closing his eyes. I may be the one in the submissive position, but he is at my complete mercy and I relish every moment of it.
I slowly lean forward, pressing a tentative kiss to the tip of him. That grabs his attention and his eyes fly back open and he sits until he's leaning back on his elbows. His stare is wide, and I'm certain he holds his breath.
I swipe my tongue over him, tracing every line and contour, until I'm licking him from base to tip.
I pull back the slightest bit, suddenly nervous. But my fears center around one concern—that I may be no good at this.
"I… I don't know what I'm doing," I breathe shakily.
Sam sits up, taking my face in his hand, bringing his down so that we are eye to eye—on equal footing.
"Anything you do, Ror, will be the most amazing experience of my entire fucking life." His voice is hoarse but his tone intent, and I don't doubt him for a moment.
My tongue darts out to wet my lips, and Sam's eyes close again, as if the sight is too much to bear, and it emboldens me even more.
I don't lick him this time, instead, I open my mouth wide and take him in slowly.
Sam groans again, falling back onto his elbows and watching me carefully, as if the sight is just as erotic as the sensation. I think about seeing him between my legs with his mouth on me, and I feel another rush of heat.
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