by S. M. West
“Yup. I was in Vancouver this past week looking at potential restaurant locations. Last time I had my phone, I was in the airport.”
For a fleeting moment, my heart sinks at his news—he might open his restaurant in Vancouver? I loved the idea of his new restaurant being in Toronto. It would be a reason to be in my city. To see me. If he opens on the west coast, this—whatever this is between us—will fizzle out real quick.
“What are you going to do?” My voice is anxious at the idea of both his missing phone and his new venture being across the country. “I mean, I’d be freaking. I texted you four days ago. You’ve been without a phone that long?”
“I’m using Bas’s right now. I was hoping to find it, but now I’m thinking I’ll have to break down and buy a new one.”
“Oh.” I don’t like knowing he did in fact have a phone; it means he could have contacted me, but didn’t. Confusion and sadness set in.
“Hey, let’s get out of here.” Shutting his laptop, he strides over and takes my hand. As we walk out, he adds, as if reading my mind, “I don’t have your number memorized, because it was programmed in my phone. I should’ve made the effort to get your number, but…” He pauses, hesitant.
“But what?” My stomach churns with unease.
“Let’s get to my place and then we’ll talk, I promise,” he reassures.
Not fully calm or comforted, I force myself to not dwell on whatever it is he has to tell me. Whatever it is, even if it’s something I don’t want to hear, I’ll deal.
His place is a few blocks from Mon Petit Chou, a refurbished loft on the waterfront. For me, it’s a design mecca with its wood floors, exposed fieldstone brick, fifteen-plus-foot ceilings, and windows galore. It’s beautifully sparse, the furniture minimal, making the architecture the centerpiece.
“Wow, this is amazing,” I gush, unable to rest my eyes on any one feature.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t you have people over?” My random question stops his movement, his steady gaze now on me. “What I mean is, your bed’s just out in plain view, don’t you…?” I trail off, weak-kneed at the dawning of his sexy smile.
“You worried about who sees my bed, Olivia?” he teases, seeming like the Sam I’m used to.
Blushing, I look away and chuckle. “Hardly.Never mind.”
“Um, let’s talk.”
Okay, the moment is here. Linking his arm in mine, he seats us side by side on the sofa. “I’m sorry about this week. Really. I did want to call you, we need to talk, but what I have to say shouldn’t be said on the phone.”
I’m not liking the sound of this. Maybe it is what I feared it would be—is he ending things? Coming here might have been a bad idea.
What am I thinking? If I’m honest with myself, I don’t want to end this. I’m having fun and I like Sam, a lot, but maybe it’s better this way, better to get out before I get my heart broken.
“I’ve been distracted. My… Bas is sick. He has cancer.” Sucking in a jagged breath, he continues quickly on the exhale like he needs to say it, get it all out. “At first, it was the lungs, but it’s spread and there’s nothing we can do. The treatment is only buying him time.”
His bitter, resigned words slice through me. I selfishly have a fleeting moment of relief that we aren’t over. Despite my concerns, my fears, I’m not ready to walk away, and feeling that after hearing what Sam is dealing with only proves that I care for this man.
I want nothing more than to comfort him, make it all better, but I can only do so much. This—cancer—is so much uglier and bigger than us.
“Sam.” My tone is loving and heartfelt.
Reaching out, I pull him into my arms, holding him tight, and his big, hard body relaxes into my embrace with a sigh. I don’t know what to say, but I want him to know I’m here for him.
“He’s just finishing up his chemo treatment. That’s why I left. He’s being difficult and wanting to do this alone. Alec is having none of it and has been there every step of the way, as have I. He thinks he’s protecting us by trying to limit what we have to see or endure, but instead he’s driving us insane with worry. I’ve been spending a lot of time there.” Pulling back slightly, he rubs his hand down his face and hangs his head low. “You’ve been on my mind. A lot.” Gazing up at me, hurt and worry swim in his eyes.
“Sam, I’m so sorry. I’ve been so caught up in me and wondering why you were being aloof. I had no clue.”
Shaking his head, he sharply but warmly says, “Stop.” He lightly kisses my forehead. “Have I told you how glad I am that you’re here?”
His lips skate along the side of my ear, trailing down my neck then stopping at the juncture of my neck and collarbone where he laves and sucks that tender spot, doing all kinds of gooey things to my insides. To prevent my pleasurable moan from escaping, I bite my bottom lip. His tongue leisurely traces my pulse point, which quickens at his languorous care.
Out of sheer desire and a serious lack of control, I lose the battle. With my hands latched onto his solid, contoured sides, I emit a low, husky moan. His tongue keeps at its seduction with licks and sweeps up the column of my neck. With each sweep, peck, and bite, I’m loud with pleasurable abandon.
“God, Sam, yes.”
Humming in appreciation, his warm lips hurriedly make their way to mine. With a nip to my bottom lip followed by a lick, his mouth covers mine, his insistent tongue teasing the seam of my lips. Our kiss is urgent and voracious, like I’m his last meal. Whoa. Heat flames my insides.
Strong hands cling to my hips, moving me, our connection never lost as he effortlessly places me in his lap. With one leg on either side, I straddle him. Settling into him, his incredibly solid arousal is insistent between my legs. His take-charge demeanor and his obvious desire for me dissolve my restraint as I unabashedly rock back and forth against his hard length. The thin cotton of my leggings feels like nothing against the solid ridge of his erection. With a whiny, breathy whimper, I’m unable to contain myself. I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to, and I don’t.
“Olivia.” He releases a low, pained groan into my mouth, his fingers tightening on my bottom. Relishing every second of our contact, I inhale his intoxicating scent, all Sam.
“Sam.” My drawn out, breathless moan slides into his mouth.
Subtly but almost instantly, his kiss morphs into dreamy, soft sweeps and caresses. Less adamant, but no less intense. This is more than a kiss. He’s making love to my mouth.
My hands slip to his waist, moving deftly for his button and fly. I need him. Inside me. Now. Sam swiftly lifts me, palming my ass, our tongues still tangled as he lays us down on the bed.
“Tell me to stop,” he urges, his lips still against mine. “If we don’t stop now, I won’t be able to control myself any longer.”
“Don’t stop.”
I want this. I want him. My encouragement unleashes the animal in him—within seconds, he pulls his shirt over his head then drops his jeans and boxers.
My breath stalls at the beauty of him in his naked glory. He’s beyond gorgeous, his hard, sculpted body definitely worthy of worship. While I peruse his impressive frame, he only has eyes for me. His heated stare only makes me hotter, my skin prickling to be touched, sucked, and bitten.
And his tattoos—God, they are glorious. Dark ink contrasts his bronzed skin, the soft swirls and curls of the script stand out against the hard ridges and contours of his defined body. Both the delicately detailed cabbage on his pec and the black words on his ribs are taunting me.
In one swift move, he has my leggings on the floor and is working to unbutton my blouse. The enormity of what we’re doing seeps through my desire-filled haze, and self-consciousness skitters like an unwanted chill over my bare flesh. The curtains are open, bright daylight streaming into the room.
I shiver. “Ah, Sam.” I clear my throat in attempt to sound more certain. “Can you shut the curtains or…somehow make it darker?”
No sooner are the words o
ut of my mouth than I recognize the absurdity of what I’ve said. I am confident in who I am. I love my body, but I’d be silly to deny my hesitation. In my nakedness, I’m shy and doubtful of my appeal to him, this perfect, younger, sexy man. Yes, he’s made no secret of his interest in me, but things get real, fast, when one is naked.
My body is not perfect. I have stretch marks, areas that should be firmer, and scars—all of which I’m proud of. Sure, if all things were equal, I’d want my younger body in a heartbeat, but my body is my storybook. My hardships, loves, losses, and triumphs have been lived in my bones, my skin. Even with the end of my marriage and the uncertainty that looms ahead, I wouldn’t change a thing. No regrets.
“Olivia.” His low, sexy voice pulls me out of my heavy thoughts, the tender look in his eyes telling me he knows what’s going on. His hand threads through my hair, cupping the back of my head. “I want to see you, all of you. You’re breathtaking. Let me worship you, love every inch of you,” he whispers before his lips brush over mine.
Something inexplicable yet powerful cartwheels inside my chest, strange and new. I’ve never felt this way before. With each sweep of his tongue, like the wind scattering sheets of paper, my want wildly spreads throughout my body, and desire shreds my doubts.
Sam
Softly at first, then more persistently, my tongue caresses her mouth. Sweet and addictive, I could kiss her all day. How she could think anything negative about herself is mindboggling and fucking crazy. She’s perfect just the way she is.
With her clothes scattered on the floor, she lies on my bed, bared to me, her dark eyes are soft and inviting. Threading my hand through her hair, I cradle her head as my lips trail down her neck. Her skin is silk and she tastes like chocolate. Fucking delicious. I sweep the pad of my thumb over her pert brown nipple and like a chain reaction, she releases a sigh in complete surrender.
Latching onto her breast, my teeth nibble on her distended bud while my hand pleasures her other nipple. She’s wildly vocal in expressing her enjoyment with whimpers and moans that drive me crazy. I want to be inside of her.
My hands explore every inch of her body, every curve, every soft swell and every taut muscle. She’s so responsive. Arching, writhing, whimpering as she gives herself to me, completely trusting.
My hands and her body converse in a language of their own. My touch expresses how divine she is, every curve, every scar, every inch of her perfect, made for me. My fingers tell her how much and how deeply I see her beauty, inside and out.
Skimming my hand down between her legs, I graze her sex. Fuck. She wants this. She wants me. Lightly rubbing her clit, my fingers are coated in her slickness. She pleasurably squirms and sighs. Increasing the pace of my ministrations with the pad of my thumb, my finger dips to tease her opening.
“Sam.” My name is a plea on her lips.
Gradually, I insert one finger, leisurely pumping in and out, adding another while my thumb circles her tight bundle of nerves. Olivia cries out, tensing. Her knees shake and her hands tremble, digging into my shoulders. As she climaxes, her eyes hold mine. She clenches, hot and snug around my fingers.
“I need you now, mon trésor,” I whisper, crazed. “Are you ready, Livvy?”
She nods, eyes piercing and needy as I open the foil packet and roll the condom on. Licking her lips as our eyes meet, and I devilishly smile. My girl likes what she sees.
I wrap my arms around her slender body, and she fits perfectly. Made for me. My mouth devours hers once more. When she willingly opens for me, I nestle myself between her legs as she arches and bucks, sliding her hot core impatiently along my hard-as-steel dick. We both groan.
“Easy, Livvy. Wait.”
“I want you, Sam. Now,” she declares her eagerness with her smoldering eyes and intense pants. My tongue flicks over the bud of her nipple and she whimpers, “Yes. Sam.”
With her encouragement, I push inside her, torturously slow, inch by inch. With a fervent cry, her eyes close, mouth open, back curving, breasts shoved closer to my face. Beautiful. The urge to impale her, hard, balls deep into her tight sex is excruciatingly overwhelming, but I want this to be as good for her as it is for me.
Giving her time to adjust to my girth, her grip loosens as I bury myself deep within her. Fuck. She’s perfect. Wet, hot, and tight. Nirvana.
We easily find our rhythm in long, hard pushes and slow, teasing pulls as I caress, stroke and kiss every inch of her body.
“Oh, my God. Sam. Yes, oh my, yes,” Olivia cries. Her incessant, pleasurable pleas are an invitation to lose control as she pulses around me, my need for her so fierce. I want to stay inside her forever.
I rub her sensitive spot to match our rocking and her eyes fly open, chocolate pools of desire nailing me.
“Mon trésor.” My treasure.
“Sam. Oh God. Don’t stop.”
“You like that Livvy?”
“Oh…yes.”
Together, we tense, eyes locked. With blinding ecstasy, our bodies soar and shatter. An eruption of bliss cascades over us.
Fucking phenomenal.
As we come down, I hurriedly get up to remove the condom and return, gently collapsing on top of her small frame. I need to touch her, feel her. Swiftly rolling until I’m on my back, I take her with me. Her head rests on my breastbone as our heavy pants slow and our breathing evens out.
We both close our eyes, burrowing into each other, and rest. What feels like seconds later, I’m awoken by the light touch of Olivia’s finger tracing my tattoo, the cabbage. Glancing at the clock on the wall, I’ve been sleeping for over an hour.
“Sorry, did I wake you?” she asks, her voice husky.
“Nah.” I kiss her forehead.
She smiles, her eyes dreamy. “Tell me about these.” Her hand moves from my pec to the side of my rib cage, brushing over the ink etched on my body.
“What do you want to know?” I play coy.
“This one.” Her finger points to the cabbage. “What does that mean and what’s the connection to Mon Petit Chou? I’m guessing there’s a connection.”
Nodding, I lace my fingers with hers, kissing the top of her hand and squeezing. “My grand-mère called me mon petit chou. It means my little cabbage. It’s a term of endearment in French, doesn’t quite have the same ring or meaning in English.” I chuckle. “I wanted to pay homage to her, the woman who raised me. She was like a mother to me. So, I got the tattoo after my eighteenth birthday, and then I named my first restaurant in honor of her too. She’d be thrilled that I’m a chef and doing something I love and am good at.”
Olivia pushes up, her lips kissing my neck, the underside of my jaw, and then my chest, right over the cabbage. “I love it. Mon petit chou chou—it sounds sweet. They must have loved you a lot, and it sounds like you loved them too.”
“I did.”
“It must have been so hard for you to lose all those you loved at such a young age. I can’t imagine. Both Paige and Drew have never lost anyone, even at their ages, and I imagine when that day comes, it’ll be tough for them.”
“Yeah, it was, but I got lucky with Bas. I’d be living a completely different and likely dangerous life if I’d not met him.”
“I can’t wait to meet him.”
“Oh, didn’t I mention? We’re meeting them tomorrow. I’m spending the day with them and since you surprised me, you’re coming along.”
My hand slips down from her back to her bare bottom and I squeeze before playfully swatting. She jumps, squealing, and lightly hits my chest then giggles, her eyes glittering with joy.
“Enough of that, Monsieur Beaulieu. Tell me about this one. I want to know what it says.”
She looks down at the black scrawl, outlining the words with her finger as I say, “Mais les yeux sont aveugles. Il faut chercher avec le cœur.” Her chestnut eyes are expectant as she patiently waits for me to continue. “It means, ‘But the eyes are blind. One must look with the heart.’ It’s from—”
“The Little Prince,” she whispers, her expression soft and bare.
“Le Petit Prince by Antoine de Sainty-Exupéry,” I finish.
“I love that book. I’ve read it to my kids at least a hundred times. It’s one of my favorites.”
“Mine too. It was our thing. My grand-père and I would read it together. At first, when I was young, he’d read it to me, but as he got older, I would read it to him.”
“There are so many beautiful quotes from that book. Why this one?”
“Ah, now that is the question,” I tease, lightly tapping the tip of her nose. “And it’s really too deep for now. I’ll tell you another time. Besides, we have to go.”
“We do?” Olivia clutches the sheet to her chest as I stand and walk toward the bathroom.
We need to shower and go. We’re having dinner with the Thibaults.” Her face falls, mouth downturned and eyes narrow. In less than a second, she catches herself, replacing it with a blank expression. If I’d not been looking, I wouldn’t have seen it.
She thinks I don’t know, or perhaps she doesn’t want me to know, but I’m fully aware that she’s not a fan of Yasmine Thibault. Frankly, neither am I. I’m no fool; I know what she wants, and I’m not interested.
Maybe I’m being a dick by not cutting her off. It’d most likely make Olivia happy, but Yasmine’s a necessary evil for now while I explore a potential business relationship with her father.
Until I know if the Thibaults are the way to go, I won’t be out and out rude in response to Yasmine’s advances. I’ve made it no secret that I’m with Olivia and not interested, but you’d think the woman is deaf and dumb.
“Do I have to come?” she asks.
Tossing her my shirt, I smirk. “Yes, you do. If I could cancel, I would, but I can’t. They know I’m looking at Toronto and Vancouver and want to know which way I’m leaning.”
She slips the shirt over her head, modestly holding the sheet to her body. Now covered, she approaches, a slight frown in place. “Which way are you leaning? Do you know?”