He’s still got his jeans on, the hot length of him pressed against her as he works his way back up the mattress. Fiona reaches for his zipper with clumsy hands, pulling at them and at his boxers.
At least, she’s expecting to pull at his boxers, before she realizes all at once that he isn’t wearing any.
“Oh my god,” she says, and just like that she isn’t overwhelmed anymore. God, he is a ridiculous person. “Are you seriously one of those guys who thinks he’s too cool for underwear?”
Sam sighs theatrically. “I’m not toocoolfor anything, thank you,” he says. “I just—”
“I’m confused, though, because you were wearing them the other night. So this is a mystery.”
“Yeah, better call up Robert Stack.” Sam fixes her with a withering look. “I’m sorry, sweet pea, would you have stayed the night if I had strolled in here bare-assed for a long winter’s nap?”
Fiona nods. “Point taken.” She’s got her hand around him now, stroking experimentally. His skin is very, very warm. “So is this like a laundry thing, or—”
“Oh my god, fuck you,” he says, but also he’s thrusting into her palm so she doesn’t actually think he’s too mad about it. “Brad Pitt doesn’t wear underwear, for the record.”
Fiona bursts out laughing. “How do you know that?” she asks. “I mean, who told you that? Sam, I don’t think that’s true.”
“It’s true,” he says firmly. He leans over and roots around in the nightstand until he comes up with a condom, ripping the foil open with his teeth and working it on. Fiona sinks her teeth into her bottom lip as she watches—his hand on his cock and the muscle bunching in his stomach, the way he lines himself up close enough so she can just barely feel him. He stays there a long time, teasing, only just grazing the place where she needs him to be. Fiona tries to move, but he’s stronger than he looks.
“Do you want to make fun of me some more?” he asks quietly, the ghost of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Because if you want we could just call this whole thing off, maybe go get some frozen yogurt, and you could try out some more of your hilarious materi—”
“Shut up,” Fiona mutters fiercely.“Sam.”
Sam grins and lets go.
This time she does gasp: the size and the stretch of him, the rangy weight of his body on top of her. “That okay?” he murmurs into her hair.
“Yeah.” It’s better than okay, if she’s being honest—the slow, purposeful way he’s moving inside her, like there’s nowhere on earth he’d rather be. Fiona shifts her hips. “I—yes.”
He smiles then, or at least it sounds that way. “Okay.”
It goes on like that for a while, his mouth on her jaw and his hands everywhere he can reach her, her waist and her thighs and her hair. “Wanna see you,” he tells her finally, rolling them so she’s on top, and before Fiona can think of anything to say to that his fingers are between her legs and she’s coming again, no warning, shocked by the speed and the intensity of it. “Oh my god,” she says. “Oh my god, Sam.” She catches her breath, lifts her head to look at him. “Don’t be smug.”
Sam laughs up at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I’m a little smug,” he says.
“Yeah.” Fiona swallows. “Keep going,” she murmurs, rocking her hips to encourage him. Up close he’s not entirely perfect, with a tiny acne scar near his hairline she’s never noticed before and the beginnings of crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes. She reachesdown and collects his wandering hands, curling her fingers around his wrists and pushing them up against the pillows. Sam’s eyes get very dark.
“Fiona,” he says, so quiet, and there’s a ragged edge in his voice that sounds unfamiliar and strange. “Fiona,please.”
Fiona nods. “I lied,” she confesses, dropping her head down so her mouth is pressed right up against his ear. “When I told you I was only imagining the sheets.”
“Fuck,” Sam says, and then it’s happening for him—his whole body going taut, his face as vulnerable and undone as she’s ever seen it. Fiona feels like the most powerful person in the world.
Once it’s over Sam yanks her down on top of him, their chests pressed together, Fiona’s face tucked against his salty neck while their breathing slows down to something like normal. After a while she starts to wonder if he’s sleeping, and she bites gently at his collarbone to check. “Eventually I’m going to want dinner,” she tells him softly, rubbing her thumb across his flat brown nipple. “Just as, like, a heads-up.”
Sam laughs at that, the low, satisfied rumble of it echoing all down Fiona’s limbs. “I’ll get you dinner,” he promises, his fingers trailing sleepily up her backbone. “Fuck, Fee. I’ll get you whatever you want.”
Fiona closes her eyes even though he can’t see her. Just for a second, she lets herself believe he’s telling the truth.
Chapter Fourteen
Sam
Sam blinks awake early, the light just barely turning blue outside the window, and finds Fiona lying on her back beside him, staring at the ceiling with one hand tangled in her hair.
“This time I did hide your shoes,” he announces, rolling over and sliding his palm across her naked stomach, thumb dipping into her navel. Last night they ordered dinner and ate it on the couch in front of a two-part Ted Bundy documentary, then had sex again in Sam’s kitchen before crawling back into bed and messing around a little more for good measure. Sam likes hearing her sounds. “Just in case you were thinking about trying to clumsily sneak out again.”
Fiona’s eyes narrow. “It wasn’tclumsy,” she protests, turning to face him and propping herself up on one elbow.
