by Lacey Black
She digs her thumbs into my pecs. The pain should be enough to cause my cock to deflate, but all it does is fuel it. My blood is on fire, and I can’t seem to stop it. That’s probably why I reach behind her and grab her ass, holding her tightly. Freedom grasps and does this little wiggle, aligning her core right at my face. If I were to turn just a little to the left, I could bury my mouth between her thighs.
A choking sound derives from my lungs as she runs her warm, wet hands down my abdomen and stops just outside of my waistband. “I’m not sure what kind of massage you think this is,” she sasses, yet presses her ass back into my hands.
My brain screams, happy ending, happy ending!
My cock screams… Oh, who am I kidding? It’s screaming the same thing.
Cold air hits my groin as she pulls my underwear down and takes my cock in her hand. My brain officially shuts down as she strokes me long and hard, the oil doing wonderful things to assist in the friction.
Suddenly, she stops. Her movements, her ass wiggling, her breathing. She goes stock-still, even when I thrust my hips upward, my cock seeking the glorious rubbing of her palm. “Samuel?” she whispers.
My name.
She said my name.
“What?” I ask, the desire in my body fighting against all rational thought. I want to pull her to my face and beg her to keep touching me, but her next word is like a bucket of ice water thrown on my entire body.
“Hummingbird.”
My body freezes, tenses so tight I feel the ache in my bones. I try to push her off me and grab for the blanket beneath me, but she doesn’t move very easily. In fact, she doesn’t move at all. She’s like a damn ninja, her legs scissoring against my arms and her hands holding down my legs. When I stop fighting against her, I feel the softest touch of her fingers against my inner thigh.
“I remember this,” she whispers, my entire body seizing under her touch. “I remember a hummingbird.”
Clearing my throat, I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
She moves off me, freeing my limbs. I dive for the blanket, but she holds it down, refusing to let me cover myself. “It’s beautiful.” Her words are so soft, so angelic I almost don’t hear them.
“It’s not,” I finally say, my voice low and full of tension. “It was a mistake.”
When her dark eyes connect with mine, I don’t see the humor I’ve witnessed from lovers in the past. I see beauty. Soft, elegant, unapologetic beauty. Her touch grazes over the image that has marred my skin for seventeen years. The one I’ve never shown anyone willingly. The one I keep hidden, that reminds me of a time I can’t seem to forget, as much as I try.
“How can something so delicate and beautiful be a mistake?” she asks, seeming genuinely curious.
Clearing my throat, I reach for my necktie. The one I use as a shield, only it’s not there. I’m practically naked—again—in front of Freedom, and she won’t even release the blanket for me to cover up my groin. “I didn’t mean to get it.”
Her eyebrows pull together as she looks between myself and the tattoo. Yes, tattoo. My biggest mistake in life, until this weekend. She smiles down at the image and traces the faint outline and bold blue coloring. “In Native American culture, hummingbirds are seen as healers and bringers of love, good luck, and joy.”
“This hasn’t brought me any of those things,” I find myself telling her.
When those stunning eyes meet mine, she smiles. “I’m not so sure about that, Sammy. You’re surrounded by love and joy. You just have to see it,” she whispers softly, her eyes gazing down at the hummingbird and holding a hint of happiness. My heart pounds against my breastbone and my arms long to reach for her. To hold her close. To tell her she brings me joy, along with heartburn.
Closing my eyes, I fight the emotions raging in my chest. I feel her move and when I look up, her back is to me. She’s pulling up that tank top, exposing her upper back. That’s when I see it. The tattoo. The hummingbird tattoo. The one so very similar to my own inked over her right shoulder blade. And while mine is black and blue, hers is a soft yellow and pink. It looks ten times more delicate than my own, as if it was made just for her skin.
She glances over her shoulder and smiles. Fuck, that smile is…everything. Everything I want, but won’t let myself have. She’s gazing down at me as if these tattoos hold some sort of power, some special meaning, and in a way, I guess they do. Except, hers was done on purpose, and mine was…well, not.
Sighing, I sit up, cover myself and pull her to sit beside me. I feel like a greased monkey, but that’s not something I can deal with now. Now, I need to tell her a story. The one I’ve never shared with another soul. Even past lovers, I never told them the true meaning of the tattoo. I’ve been too ashamed. But something in her eyes makes me feel comfortable enough to tell her about my mistake and why I’ve avoided alcohol since.
“Back in college, I was pretty much the way I am today. Disciplined and focused on my studies and the task at hand. There was no room for fun, no time for parties. In fact, the thought of a party pretty much made me nauseous, much like the crowds today,” I tell her, my eyes falling to the ugly carpet pattern at my feet.
“My roommate, Doug, finally convinced me to go out one night. The fraternity he was pledging was having a big Halloween bash, and he wanted me to go. I tried to get out of it, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. So I went. And I drank.”
Deep breath.
“I drank too much, and then drank some more. Somehow, we ended up at this late night tattoo parlor. The artist was…well, she was good looking. I remember lying on the table and trying to get her phone number, but I had absolutely no game and was awkward as hell. My roommate and a few of his friends were laughing and encouraging me, even as the blackness of passing out started to creep in.
“I remember her asking me what I wanted, and I guess I pointed at…well, at my manhood.”
“You what?” Freedom asks, drawing my attention back to her face.
“Yeah, I apparently pointed there,” I tell her, pointing down at my groin much like I apparently did that night so long ago. I take a deep breath and tell her the part I’m dreading with my entire being. “I pointed there and said...hummer. Only it didn’t come out hummer. Apparently, I said hummingbird.” The familiar shame rockets through my body, rendering me completely spent and exhausted.
Freedom doesn’t say anything. She just sits there, the humiliation of my words floating around us like a bomb, ready to detonate. Finally, she takes pity on me and speaks, “So, let me get this straight. You, Samuel Grayson, went out and got schnockered with your roommate. Somehow, you decided to get a tattoo, and while you were there, you asked the artist for a hummer?”
I close my eyes, the burn of humiliation tinging my cheeks. “Yes.”
It’s silent for another second. Two. Hell, it’s silent for about ten seconds before she does something I’m not prepared for. Freedom bursts out laughing. “Holy shitballs, Sammy! That’s kinda badass.”
“Badass? Are you kidding me right now? It’s a horrible story!”
“No, it’s a hilarious story, and shows that you’re human.”
“I’m not human, Freedom. A human would go back to get it covered up, but I’m too afraid of needles to even do that.”
Again, she laughs.
“Fine, laugh it up,” I grumble as I stand, hellbent on retrieving my clothes and my dignity, and getting the hell out of here.
Except, this is my room…
“Stop,” she says, standing up and grabbing my arm. “I’m not laughing at you, honest. I’m just happy the impeccably dressed, always has it together, anal Samuel Grayson is proving to be human after all.”
“Did you call me anal?”
“Is that all you got out of that?” she asks, her gaze locked on mine. Her hand caresses my thigh, goosebumps peppering my entire body. It’s also the moment I realize I’m still standing in my underwear, and she’s wearing tight black pants and a tiny little top.
Her nipples are poking through the thin material, and my mouth starts to water.
“My eyes are up here, Sammy. All I’m saying is I’m glad to know you make mistakes just like the rest of us,” she says.
“Oh, believe me. I make mistakes.” The unspoken meaning is evident and sadness flashes in those gorgeous brown eyes, making me feel like shit. Even though I made a terrible mistake, getting drunk and marrying my sister’s best friend, I’d never want Freedom to feel guilty or unwanted. There’s definitely a want there, it’s just not supposed to be acted upon.
“I have an idea. Why don’t you go shower and wash off the oil. I’ll go down and get you a chamomile tea,” she says. When I glance at the clock, it’s nearing one in the morning. I’ve never been a night owl, let alone multiple days in a row. Yet, I can’t seem to find the desire to go to sleep.
“I don’t think tea is going to help,” I tell her, rubbing the back of my neck. Not with her standing there looking like pure temptation in yoga pants.
“Just go shower, Sammy. I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she says, heading toward the door.
Before she opens it, she pulls a keycard from the waistband of those pants. “Seriously, Freedom?” I ask, rubbing my forehead.
“What? It’s not like I have pockets, and this tank would have shown the rectangular card.” Then she leaves the room, questions swirling around in my brain. Like is she really going downstairs dressed like that? Or how did I not see that keycard outlined in those tight pants? Like most situations involving Freedom, I don’t have any answers. She’s an enigma in bangle bracelets and lavender essential oil.
Stepping into the bathroom, I turn on the shower. I strip from my underwear as images of Freedom in that lovely dress earlier today and then hotter in black leggings parade through my mind. Suddenly, my cock is standing at attention once more, my blood flowing straight to one concentrated area.
Exhaling, I get under the hot water, unable to shake the pictures in my mind. Even as I lather up my hair and then scrub the oil from my skin, she’s all I can see. It’s no wonder when I rub the washcloth over my balls, they draw up as lust races through my veins. That’s why I find myself with my cock in my hand, resting my forehead against the cold tile, and stroking myself. Sweet release barrels down on me as I stroke faster, my body burning with the need to come.
“Freedom.” Her name spills from my lips. It’s a plea, a balm to the ache deep inside me.
Evidence of what I’ve done washes down the drain as I try to regain my breathing. I slip under the water again, rinsing away the remaining soap, and turn the knob. Reaching for a towel, I dry off my legs as my hotel room door shuts. “Freedom?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Uhh, how did you get into my room?” I ask, drying off as quickly as possible.
“A key?”
I wrap the towel around my waist and step into the bedroom. “Where did you get a key?”
She just shrugs, as if she didn’t somehow lift my room key and let herself in like she was a guest here. I pull a pair of clean underwear from the dresser, along with a pair of shorts. When I glance over, Freedom’s lying in my bed, her face void of any makeup and with her hair tied high on her head.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting ready for bed?” she replies, as if it’s crazy I’d even ask such a question.
“Why? In my bed?” I ask, hating how perfect she looks lying under the covers.
“Why not? It’s late, Sammy. I’m tired, and your bed is right here.”
“But your bed is in your room,” I tell her, choking the life out of my underwear with my hands.
“It is,” she says with a yawn. Her eyes start to droop, and I realize this fight is fruitless.
I head back to the bathroom and throw on my underwear and shorts. I should probably also slip on a shirt, but for some reason, I don’t. Instead, I head back to my darkened bedroom and find Freedom snuggled under the blankets. Sighing in resignation, I slip under the sheet, hugging the edge of the bed.
After a few minutes of silence, I feel her hand on my arm. It’s startling, but not because of her touch, per se. What’s startling is the way I crave it, how much it comforts me at the same time. She moves, lifting my arm and resting her head against my chest. I’m completely stiff, yet I have no control over my arm, as it wraps around her shoulders and holds her close.
“Tomorrow, we’re having fun. We’re going on the roller coaster,” she says in a sleepy voice.
“Uhh, no, Freedom. I draw a hard line at roller coasters. You remember the plane ride, right?” Her hair tickles my neck, but it feels so good, so I don’t move it.
She yawns again and burrows into me farther. “Yeah, but you got a tattoo. That means you’re a badass, Sammy. You can do anything.”
I’m not, but I don’t argue with her, mostly because she makes me feel alive and like I just might possess a tiny fraction of the badassery she’s convinced I have. It’s the reason I pull her close, close my eyes, and breathe in the scent of her skin against mine.
I’m definitely not a badass, but with Freedom in my arms, I’m suddenly feeling invincible.
Chapter Twelve
Freedom
What a weekend. No, it may not have gone exactly as I had planned, but I wouldn’t change any of it. Not for a second. Not the part where I woke up married to Samuel. Not the part where we spent time together, including all day Sunday. Not the part where I had my hands all over him as I gave him a massage. And definitely not the part where I took care of that ache between my legs in the shower this morning.
Twice.
Yesterday was fun. No, probably not the word he’d use to describe it, but I had a blast, and there was no hiding the smile he had on his face from time to time. I saw it when we visited the aquarium and enjoyed the Eiffel Tower experience—though, Samuel seemed a little green under the collar. We toured Hershey’s Chocolate World and then played mini golf on KISS’s course. He even surprised me with tickets to Shania Twain’s Let’s Go! residency show, which I’m pretty sure was his way of distracting me from the fact the Big Apple Coaster was still on my list of fun things to do.
It didn’t work.
When the show ended, we walked down Freemont Street, hand in hand, taking in the sights and sounds of the city. Hell, I even snapped a picture of Samuel with two showgirls. He pretended to hate it, but that smile on his face was genuine. Now, what he really did hate was the exotic animals at Siegfried & Roy's Secret Garden and Dolphin Habitat. I have the photo of us with an albino boa constrictor wrapped around our shoulders in my bag as proof.
He looks terrified.
I loved it.
At the end of it all, we waited in line for the roller coaster, Samuel one step away from vomiting the entire time. He didn’t vomit, however, even though he screamed like a teenage girl who saw a spider during every plunge, dip, and loop.
It was awesome.
It was also awesome when we got off the coaster and he threw his arms around me, kissing me silly and thanking me.
Now, we’re disembarking the plane and getting ready to drive home. Fellow massage therapist, Claire, brought me to the airport on Friday, but I never arranged for her to pick me up. That’s why I’m sticking close to Samuel as we make our way to baggage claim. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s my ride. If there’s one thing I know about Samuel, it’s his need for control. There’s no way he relied on someone else to bring him to the airport. His trusty, top rated for safety car is parked in the overnight lot, ready and waiting.
After retrieving our luggage, I decide to go ahead and spring it on him. “Can you drop me off?”
He glances my way as we head toward the parking garage. “You didn’t get your car fixed?”
“Oh, I did. Cost me like four hundred smackers, but I decided not to leave my car in the lot. Claire dropped me off, so I need a ride home.”
Samuel sighs and shakes his head. “Fine.”
I smile at his gruf
fness, at the annoyance he implies with his tone, but I also know he’s genuinely a good guy and would never leave me at the airport to fend for myself. Well, at least he wouldn’t, even though he’d probably really want to. I mean, my goal in life is to madden him to the point of tears. I’ve come close a few times…
We find his car right where I’d expect it. In the back of the covered lot, as far away from door dings and bumper taps as possible. “Jesus, Sammy, why didn’t you just park at the Pizza Hut two towns over?” I ask as we finally reach his trunk.
“It’s safer to park back here, Freedom.”
“Not really. I mean, anyone could be lurking in the dark corners of the parking garage, ready and waiting. Have you not seen CSI: New York? I’ve seen every episode. You could have been stuffed in a trunk and butchered into tiny pieces before anyone even realized you were missing.”
He stops and turns my way, a horrified look on his face. “Is that what you watch at night? Television about murder?”
“Well, technically, on my phone, but yes. It’s about solving the murder, and yes, I do enjoy watching those kinds of shows. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m the perfect partner to have if you ever find yourself in one of those murder mystery games.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he mumbles, tossing his suitcase and garment bag into the back of his car. He then takes my own bag and sets it beside his, careful not to smash his precious suits.
Using the key fob, he unlocks the doors, and we slide inside. The air is much cooler than in Las Vegas, holding a slight hint of salty ocean. Samuel drives exactly the speed limit as we make our way to Rockland Falls, back to reality. Conversation comes easily for me, so I talk about anything and everything. I recount our entire weekend, even though he was very much a part of it. So, it’s no surprise when we reach the city limits of town, Samuel chooses to finally add to the conversation.
“So, uh, listen, Freedom. We should talk. About the…thing.”
“The thing? Is that what we’re calling it?” I tease, even though I very much know what he’s referring to. He means the big elephant in the room—err, car—in the form of a marriage license and Elvis impersonator witness.