He's too big to take in all the way, but I take him in as far as I can, until I nearly gag, and then suck hard as I pull back. I look between what I'm doing and his face, and it tells me everything I need to know. I may not be any good at this, but Sam seems to be enjoying it either way, and I increase my pace, and eventually add my tongue with each motion.
I listen to his breathing grow faster and heavier, and feel my own desire grow to a fever pitch.
Suddenly Sam is half sitting up, his hand on my waist.
I look up at him, worried I'd done something wrong. After all, it's only my first time doing this and he wasn't exactly giving me any guidance.
"No, don't stop," he says quickly, and I resume what I was doing, relieved. I hadn't wanted to stop at all, I love having him in my mouth. I can feel the sensation mirrored in other places, and it's an incredible turn-on.
Then I feel his fingers softly brush my hip, until he's pulling the waistline of my pants, tugging my behind back towards him, but I do as he's said and don't stop.
"Just bring that sweet little ass over here," he murmurs.
Once he has me where he wants me, he starts peeling down my yoga pants, sliding his fingers into my panties as he pulls them down, torturously slowly, watching me for any sign I might ask him to stop.
I may be crazy, but hell if I'm that crazy.
I concentrate my wanton mind on my enjoyment of the task in front of me, and take him even deeper into the back of my throat, focusing on trying to control my gag reflex.
I hear Sam's breath hitch, and he stills for a moment, before he finishes undressing me in double time. It's more than obvious I've no intention of asking him to stop, and I even lift my ankles to help him get everything off.
He places soft kisses on my hip and my own breath catches. He's so close to where I want him most.
God.
He pauses again.
I don't.
"Fuck, Ror," he breathes against my thigh. "I need to see if you taste as sweet as I remember." His words are so low he may have been mumbling them to himself.
His kisses grow hungrier as they make their way up my thighs. The anticipation sends a shiver of torturous excitement rolling through me, and I lose my rhythm, but Sam doesn't seem to care.
And then his mouth is on me, and I whimper around him.
"Fuuuuuck," he groans against me, the vibrations only adding to the sensation of his lips, his tongue.
I'm so caught up in the sensations and sexy-as-hell sounds coming from behind, that I'm only vaguely aware of the intimacy of our position. Of our mouths on each other's most private places. How exposed and vulnerable I am to him right now. There's something about it that makes this whole thing even hotter. And it's surprising to me. With my history. Vulnerability is usually something I avoid like the plague.
But that's the power of trust, I suppose. I trust Sam implicitly. And it's what's allowing me to be so uninhibited right now, so free. I moan around him again, and he pulls his mouth from me suddenly.
He falls from my mouth when he sits up under me, and before I can even turn to ask him what's going on, he's climbing over me and pressing hard kisses up my spine, to my shoulder and neck.
"You are unbelievable," he growls into my ear, before sucking gently on the sensitive skin of my throat, licking a pattern that drives me crazy. "But I won't last another second with you humming around my dick like that."
I don't know why his words make me even hotter, but they do.
"That's okay," I whisper, my head falling sideways to give him more neck to suck. After all, I wanted to taste him, and I was prepared for him to finish.
He returns his mouth to my ear, tonguing a ring around the outer lobe. I don't move, I just sit there on my hands and knees panting, relishing the feel of the large, hard planes of his body bracing mine, caging me in. I feel small, vulnerable, desired, and absolutely cherished.
"I need-" Sam inhales sharply, cutting off his own words, and then begins again. "I want inside you, baby," he whispers. It's as if his words have fingers of their own, and they stroke me in all the right places. Who ever knew I liked dirty talk? "Say no and we can do what we were just doing," he promises, "or we could stop."
"No," I say, frantic at the thought of stopping now.
Sam stills immediately.
"No, not no… No, I don't want to stop," I elaborate. I will die if he stops. I know it.
Sam's hand finds the outside of my thigh, and slides upward until he reaches my hip, increasing the pressure, his thumb stroking my backside, his mouth returning to my ear.
"I want you so fucking much, Ror. It's feels like it's been so much longer than it has." His voice is almost sad, but it's barely discernible through it's lust, and when his hand continues around and down between my thighs, my mind shoots back to it's only current track. "Say—"
"Yes." I don't know how I know it's what he's going to ask me to say, but I do, and it's all I can think to say anyway. That and…
"Please, Sam."
"Fuck," he growls softly, and then his fingers double their efforts until my eyes roll back and he has me moaning again. Sam traces me with himself, before he positions to take me.
My body puts up no resistance when he enters me despite his impressive size. But he's had me more than ready for a while now, and I want him inside me so badly I can think of nothing else.
"Yes," I say again, but it's more moan than word, and as Sam fills me, his entire body wraps around me. I push back against him, desperate for as many square inches of his hot skin against mine as physically possible. And he seems happy to accommodate me, holding his weight slightly off of me with one hand as the other winds around my middle, holding me flush against him.
I've never had sex this way before. Robin had always seemed intent on holding me down on my back, even in his car. I'd have thought that position would have been more intimate. It sure was the other times I'd been with Sam like that.
But there's something about having him over me, behind me like this. About me getting on my hands and knees for him. It's not just the vulnerability, the trust I'm giving to him. It's him, too. The way he cherishes that trust. The way he gives me these extra chances to stop it. The way he asks out loud—how he demands an affirmative answer. The way he never presumes anything. I mean he didn't even get into bed with me at first for God's sake, I know it.
And something tells me it's not just because of my history. Perhaps he's extra cautious with me, but I don't doubt for a second that this is just who he is. Respectful, if not always gentle.
And thank God for that. He does start out slowly, but not softly. He moves deep into me with long drives, and stays as deep as he can for long moments before repeating the motion all over again. His rhythm has me panting for breath in minutes.
Sam brushes my hair over my shoulder, exposing my neck to his mouth. He takes full advantage, kissing and sucking and whispering to me about how incredible I feel, taste, sound, and the wicked things he wants to do to me—that he's already doing to me.
I react in a gasp or a moan every time he whispers something new, and then he reacts in response. It isn't long before he's thrusting hard and fast, and I just keep begging him for more, and telling him yes.
His hand slips down until he's touching the place where he moves inside me, and vaguely I think I'm chanting please, and Sam.
"Yes, baby. Let me feel you."
I do.
I explode around him, him deep inside me with his hand pressed to me, his body cloaking me with the heat of our lovemaking.
"Oh God, Sam!" I cry out over and over as my elbows give out, and he holds me up with one arm, still driving into me, and my pleasure rolls on and on around him.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he chants. "Fuck, Ror," and his rhythm speeds up even more before it becomes erratic, and then he stills, as deep as he can get, and I feel him shoot off inside me.
Sam lets me slide face-first down onto the mattress, and comes down with me, but catc
hes most of his own weight on his other hand. He starts pressing soft, breathy kisses between my shoulder blades, and I revel in the feel of his stubble against my over-sensitized skin. He rolls off of me and takes my hand to pull me toward him until we're lying on our backs side by side, still catching our breath.
That was the most intense experience of my life. I didn't think it could get much better than the first time we were together, or the couple of times after that. But each time I feel even less self conscious, and Sam has this insane way of making me forget everything other than my need for him, and God, the way he delivers... every girl should know how this feels. Though the thought of him ever being with another girl sends nausea churning in my gut.
I shake my head to rid it of these covetous thoughts. They have no place here. We are not together, we are friends. Friends who just had the most incredibly intense sex imaginable. Is this what being friends with benefits is? Because that sure was one hell of a benefit.
I stretch my overworked muscles and sigh in satisfaction. Sam rolls onto his side until he's gazing down at me. His fingers creep up my side, and lightly stroke my stomach, tracing around my navel.
"You're so incredibly beautiful," he whispers, and I watch his gaze lazily sweep over my body.
I take in his muscled form, the light sheen of sweat that speaks of the exertion that brought me to such ecstasy. I'll live my life knowing there will never be anyone else for me, even if I can't have him for more than an afternoon. He doesn't know the power he has. And I have to keep it that way, otherwise my plan will all be for nothing. If he knows how I feel, he will push, and I will cave. And then he will be right back in the line of fire, risking his future, freedom, and life for the crime of caring for me.
"So are you," I tell him honestly, and he smirks.
"Guys aren't beautiful," he replies.
I caress his stubbled jaw, trace the outline of the perfect structure of his cheekbones with the pad of my thumb, and he turns into my palm. "This one is," I breathe.
Sam presses a soft kiss to the skin of my palm, and I push my hand into his hair, brushing through his disheveled locks until I'm playing with the short hair at his nape, running my fingers over the soft skin on the back of his neck.
"You better stop that unless you're ready for round two," he warns playfully.
My gaze shoots to his, and I realize he meant it as a threat, not the promise I'd heard. Sam chuckles when he registers my interest in what I'd obviously thought was a proposition, and he shakes his head in faux reprimand.
We watch each other for several long moments. I take in every plane and contour of his perfect face, not sure if and when I'll have it so close to mine again. He is positively riveting and I wish with everything I have that I could read his mind right now.
Sam leans over me, brushing the hair from my forehead, his knuckles lingering softly over my cheek. "You know this isn't why I brought you here, right? I didn't plan that. It wasn't—"
"I know, Sam," I cut him off. How he can possibly worry that I might think he plotted to get me into bed—well, like this anyway—I can't imagine. I know him better than that. He knows I know him better than that.
Sam's lips twist up into a small smile of contentment, and it makes everything right in my heart.
"I know you didn't plan that," I assure him. "I know why you brought me here. And I know you were hesitant to even climb into bed with me. I know you saved me from that nightmare… I know you, Sam."
His small smile grows with my words, and it's another heady feeling—to be the source of his joy.
"I know you'd never pressure me for anything, Sam. You saw how tired I was and brought me home so I could get some sleep. You always look out for me. You're a good friend."
I swear Sam flinches, but I'm sure I must have imagined it. But he blinks away from my gaze, and retracts his hand from my cheek. I can see him turning something over in his head, and I'm in some semblance of shock, confused as to how words I'd meant to reassure him were obviously taken differently than intended.
"Friend," he repeats quietly. He turns the word over in his mouth, and even I can taste the bitterness of it on his tongue.
Sam sits up, his eyes locked on some random focal point on the far wall, and I clutch the bed sheet to my chest, sensing the sudden change in atmosphere strip away that freedom I'd felt only seconds earlier and shrouding it in shame.
Sam exhales, and I watch his contentment desert him along with his breath.
"Friend?" he repeats again, this time a question.
"I..." I don't know what to say. I can't think of a damn thing I could say that will revert us back to the happy, playful people we were only moments before.
Sam nods at the center of the bed where the indent of our fused bodies still wrinkles the sheets, and I swallow anxiously. "Is that was that was?" he asks, "a fucking booty call?" His tone is lifeless, not even angry, just… defeated. He finally meets my gaze again, but now I look away. I don't have an answer for him that will make any sense. Because that was not a booty call, but I don't know what it actually was, because we are friends. We can only be friends. I thought he understood that.
Sam jumps up from the bed, and tugs on his underwear and jeans. I sit up hastily, racking my brain for the right words to fix this. But they don't exist, and so I refocus my energy on keeping my eyes dry. Sam's socks are on and he's shoving his feet into his sneakers as his eyes search the room for the tee shirt I threw over the other side of the bed. I know exactly where it is, but I don't speak up. I can't let him leave. I need more time. I need to think of something to say!
I open my mouth, but then he spots it, and I watch helplessly as he makes his way to the other side of my bed. But when I follow his gaze, I realize it wasn't his tee shirt he found. It's Cam's. Linton Tornadoes number twenty-two.
It's folded neatly on my night table, next to my bed where I spent recent nights hugging it to my chest and crying pitifully. Sam picks it up and glares at it with an animosity that almost shocks me.
He licks his lip, his jaw clenched tight—like he wants to say something cutting, but stops himself. And I don't understand what's brought it on. I was sure he was over his jealousy of Cam, now that he knows he's dead.
Sam puts the shirt carefully back in its place and bends down to retrieve his own from the floor, slipping it over his head, his broad shoulders, and finally covering my view of his sculpted body.
He doesn't look at me. He shoves his fingers through his hair, still mussed from our recent activities, in obvious frustration, before shaking his head vaguely to himself.
"I'll never understand you, Rory," he murmurs, his voice a gutting mix of exasperation and sorrow, and then he makes his way to the door.
"Sam," I say desperately, but I have no follow-up, nothing to stop him from leaving. I don't know what to do, I feel trapped in a hell of my own making, and it's killing me that I seem to have hurt Sam, the person I love the most, all over again.
He pauses by the door, but when I don't say anything more, he stalks out, closes the door behind him, and I sit there, naked in my bed, utterly stunned.
I don't understand what's just happened.
I still feel the heat of his skin all over my body. I still feel the wetness of his kisses. My own lips are swollen from everywhere I kissed him, my hair a tousled mess, my bed completely undone. His scent clings to the thick air in the suddenly claustrophobically empty room. It happened too fast. One moment he was hovering over me, caressing my cheek after our passionate coupling, and the next, I've managed to piss him off with no effort at all.
The remnants of Sam's release still lingers in me, running down my thighs, a physical reminder of what I've just had, and lost. Again. But it never should have been mine in the first place. All I've done is make this whole thing harder on the both of us.
Sam's absence is a living, breathing thing, stealing my breath, screaming at me that this is my fault. That Sam is once again upset because of me. That I am a clich
é—a stupid teenage girl who let her hormones make her decisions. And as usual, I've brought him nothing more than a short, fleeting sense of pleasure that couldn't possibly have been worth the anger and pain that inexorably follows.
I feel shameful and dirty. Like I've just used him in the worst way, even if I hadn't planned to, or meant to. I chose a brief physical thrill over what really matters, and now I feel suffocated by guilt.
I loathed seeing that look on his face. The confused furrow of his brow, the indignation at the offending word, friend, and lastly, the resentment. It hurts having it targeted in my direction. I've only experienced it once before, when he'd questioned me about Cam in Miami. I shudder at the memory. I think of all the times I've seen Sam's resentment, or disgust, or rage, or any other ill feelings, directed at others—many times even in defense of me. I hate being on the other side of that.
It's still in this room, his resentment, swirling and sweeping through the stale air, but not disippating in the least. It stamps out what's left of the afterglow of our passion and binds itself to the perpetual ache alive in my chest, amplifying and expanding it until it branches and twists its way through my entire body, forcing its brambles into my gut and salty tears from my eyes. It conjures up a feeling I'm all too familiar with—the sad, pitiful, resigned cousin of hope: regret.
I never wanted to hurt Sam. I don't want him to hate me.
But maybe he needs to.
I'm starting to realize that despite my internal professions of being selfless by giving him up, I've been doing it completely half-assed. It was beyond wishful thinking to believe that we could go from friends to lovers and back again all in a matter of fewer than forty-eight hours. That we could leave all these unresolved emotions just shooting through space, without any outlet for any of it.
Because I needed his friendship. That was the whole point, wasn't it? Giving him up so that I don't end up losing him. But maybe even that was selfish. Maybe what he needs right now is not to be my friend. Maybe he needs to be angry with me. To resolve whatever feelings he has left for me, good or bad, in whatever way he wants.
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