Colton waited while Sam changed, and listened to the sound of the bathroom faucet upstairs. She was probably washing off the makeup. Good riddance. He didn’t like it when she wore all that stuff. Not that she didn’t look good. Of course she did. She just didn’t look like the Sam of his memories and imagination.
In his head, she was forever fifteen, wearing cutoff denim shorts and a baby-tee, barefoot with chipped bubble-gum pink nail polish, and helping him wash his father’s car on a summer afternoon. Her face was always flushed from the heat and she was smiling, her feet bare, her hair standing up and around her head, a mass of sweated-out perm. By the time she was seventeen, she had stopped perming it altogether, which Colt preferred.
Wanting to take a leak, Colt stood and instinctively headed for the powder room before he remembered that he’d emptied the bowl and turned off the water supply. He turned and headed up to the second level, where, on the landing between the master and guest bedrooms he paused and glanced into the master suite. One of Sam’s mirrored closet doors was open and he could see the reflection, of her standing at her sink, washing her face.
Bent forward, Sam had both hands on her face, making a rich lather. She had shed the jeans she wore to the bar, and the high heels. Now, she was wearing only a flimsy top and her underwear. Her legs were long, toned and solid and she had a small waist but wide hips.
Colt felt a tug in the front of his jeans and swallowed, continuing down the hall.
While he relieved himself, he also talked himself down.
So what, he’d gotten a semi while looking at a half-naked ass? So what if that ass belonged to his best friend? Sam had always taken good care of herself, mostly because he used to drag her to workouts and to run with him. She never loved it like he did, but she considered fitness essential.
No doubt, it had something to do with how her father, Uncle Tony, had died. He wasn’t Colt’s blood-uncle obviously, but he’d been like a second father to him. When he died, obese and diabetic, a couple years ago, Uncle Tony was just shy of sixty-years-old. Sam’s paternal side of the family was from way down in the southernmost part of Virginia, and Uncle Tony had lived hard, just like his kin. Hardworking, hard-drinking, and overeating themselves to an early grave.
Colt had missed a game in the middle of the season to come back to support Sam, her sister Leah, and her mother through the funeral. He’d been there, always at Sam’s side, holding her arm, to make sure she stayed upright.
That was the kind of relationship they had.
So, he had no cause to be looking at her with lust in his heart. More than likely, it was residual sexual frustration from having not gone home with Janelle.
He had just about convinced himself of that when, after he finished, washed his hands and made it back downstairs, he saw that Sam had pulled on black leggings. Standing with her back to him at her kitchen counter, she was pouring a glass of wine. From behind, she looked almost as good in those leggings as she had in just the panties.
“Hey,” she said, turning when she heard him approach. “Want one?” She held the glass aloft.
“Nah. I gotta drive back in a few.”
“True.” Sam took a long swallow and headed for the living room.
Colt followed, feeling inexplicably heavy-footed. Like he hadn’t been here a million times before. Like he didn’t routinely fall asleep on her sofa in the middle of a Saturday or Sunday afternoon, and drool on her sofa cushions.
“So,” Sam began. She had taken her favorite spot in her large brown suede armchair that had seen better days, and curled her legs beneath her. “What was all the cock-blocking about?”
Colt almost tripped over the coffee table, before sinking onto the sofa. “What?”
“I wanted to stay, Colton. And you just barged into my conversation and …”
“Wait. Hold up. When you say cock-blockin’ you mean you were about to go home with that nigga?”
“Don’t say that word.” Sam closed her eyes and shook her head. “You know I hate it when you use that word.”
“Okay, fine. Lemme rephrase that. You were about to go home with that knocka? That clown. That …”
“I get your point. And probably not, but you didn’t know that! What if I were to come up to you and Bambi and drag on your shirttail and mess things up for you?”
“I wouldn’t have thought about it that way. If you wanted to jet, that would be the move. Plain and simple.”
Sam shook her head again, clearly disbelieving.
“But let’s get back to this whole cock-blockin’ comment. I mean, you do that shit, Sam?” He leaned forward. “Meet dudes in bars and then just … what? Let them …” He broke off, finding himself unable to even voice the thought let alone imagine the pictures that went along with it.
“I have … experiences,” she said vaguely, not meeting his gaze. “I mean, I’ve done some things. Haven’t you? I mean, I know you have.”
“It’s different.”
“How’s it different, Sir Sexist?”
“If I go home with a woman, I don’t worry about my safety. I don’t worry that she might overpower me, rape me and then slit my damn throat in the middle of the night.”
Sam pulled back. “God. Graphic much?”
“Because that’s the kind of shit that happens out here. To dumb-ass chicks who meet strangers in bars and take them home.”
“Why’re you getting so heated? It’s not like I’m a virgin.”
“I know. But I …” He stopped.
But he just didn’t think about it. The idea of Sam having actual, real-ass sex with some dude, the idea of her fucking some dude, he had avoided by not thinking about it. It was like a literal black hole in his consciousness—a sensory deprivation chamber, thankfully devoid of sight, sound, and everything else.
In college, she lost her virginity to some kid in one of her study groups. A nerdy dude who wore khakis and top-siders. When she told him—or rather when he pried it out of her—Sam hadn’t given any details, thank God, other than that she had finally “done it.” He’d seen the difference in her for weeks; a new awareness of her body, and sensuality in her movement. The kinds of changes that happen when a woman discovers her sexual power.
Colt remembered going out and shooting hoops till he was exhausted, and then calling a girl, whose name he didn’t even remember now, to come over so he could exhaust himself another way. He remembered eyeing the dude Sam told him she’d slept with and considering backing him up and telling him to leave her alone, except that everything he might say would be such a cliché: ‘you leave her alone, she’s a nice girl,’ or ‘you better not hurt her, or I’ll kick your ass.’
None of that seemed to apply, because he saw Sam with dude, and how he treated her like a queen. If he treated her right, then Colt had no cause to complain.
And if they were having sex, well … Colt would just not think about that part.
That had been his habit since, when men would enter and leave Sam’s life. And it was easy most of the time, because he wasn’t around for much of it, and the men were always temporary. There had been the one knucklehead who had lasted almost two years. Some dude she didn’t talk about much, who’d been around during Colt’s rookie year.
Other than that, if there were men in Sam’s life, they were like ghosts, a series of names that meant little: Eric, Jeff, Daniel, Jerome … whatever. Dudes who remained vague and whose stints in Sam’s life were briefer than the length of a basketball season.
“I mean … how many dudes we talkin’ ‘bout?” he asked now.
“How many women have you slept with?” Sam challenged. “And if you say it’s not the same, I will throw this wineglass at your head.”
“Well it’s not.” He sat back again. “But for real. How many?”
Sam stared at him. She downed the rest of her wine, and her eyes seemed to pierce right into his, behind his, and deep into his confused mind. She chewed on the corner of her bottom lip.
“Colton.” Her voice was quiet, and her expression suddenly solemn.
“What?”
“If I ask you something, will you promise to tell me the truth?”
“Of course. Always.”
“Okay, but this time you might be tempted not to. So, I want you to promise.”
He shrugged. “I promise.”
“Were you …” She looked down at her lap then up at him again. “Tonight, when you saw me with Aidan …”
“Was that his name? The joker with the ugly-ass watch?”
“Colton.”
“Okay, go ahead. Was I what?”
“Jealous.”
Colt blinked and swallowed back the instinctive denial.
Fuck it.
“Yeah,” he said, finally, looking off to an area just above her head. “Little bit.”
Sam stood and came toward him.
Colt froze when she stopped, standing between his legs. She straddled him. Her knees on either side of his thighs. She lowered her weight, so she was on his lap.
“Sam.”
“What?”
“We can’t …”
“I was jealous too,” she said, talking over him, her words tumbling forward in a rush.
Colt looked up at her and she gave a little one-shouldered shrug.
His looking up gave her the opening she seemed to be looking for, because before Colt knew what was going on, Sam had cupped his face in both her hands and was kissing him. She tasted like wine and her skin had the vaguest scent of flowers.
Colt’s hands went up as well, gripping and anchoring themselves in her hair. And so help him, he kissed her back.
It was now, or never.
Upstairs, while washing her face, she’d seen him. Through the soap and the water on her face, she’d spotted Colt on the landing through the bathroom mirror. He was looking at her in a way Sam had never seen him look at her before. With longing.
It should have come as a surprise to her, because Colt was like a brother. Or at least that was what they said aloud to other people. But really, he never had been anything close to that platonic. Not to her. For her, at least, the ‘like a brother’ story was a line, and a lie. He was her best friend, but always, beneath the surface, he was something more.
It was the ‘more’ that always tripped her up, because they had never touched each other intimately, never kissed in any way other than as close friends. They hugged all the time, she kissed him on the cheek and he on her forehead. They snuggled sometimes on the sofa, and she rested her head on his lap while they watched movies. He’d tickled her, roughhoused with her, and even carried her over his shoulder once or twice as a joke.
But for Sam there had always been something else, timid and hiding deep inside her, waiting, and wondering what would happen if she did what she had just done.
What happened was, Colt kissed her back. Without a second of hesitation, he kissed her back.
And after untangling themselves from her hair, his hands fell lower, and gripped her ass. He pulled her tightly against him, and Sam pressed down into his erection, making slight undulations until Colt groaned into her mouth, like a rebuke.
His tongue was hot, and smooth, and tasted like alcohol, and spearmint. His facial hair grazed her skin, and his lips moved expertly, manipulating, teasing and tasting hers. There was no awkwardness, or shifting around, no trying to read each other’s wants and needs. They both just seemed to know.
Sam reached down and slid her hands under his shirt, waiting to see whether he would object. But he didn’t. Instead, Colt nipped her lower lip. She smiled and he made a sound not unlike a growl, shoving her top up and out of the way, and leaning forward to take one of her nipples in his mouth. He rolled it over his tongue, licked and nipped at it, while his hand palmed her other breast, his thumb mimicking the motions of his mouth.
Soon, working her palms across the planes of his chest and his rock-hard abdominals was not enough, and Sam reached for his fly. It was only then that Colt jerked backward, his lips parting from her nipple with a slight popping sound.
“Sam,” he said, shaking his head.
“Sam, what?” She lowered her head to kiss his jaw, and the side of his neck. He let her do it, making that guttural noise once again.
“If we do this …”
“Colton, don’t give me ‘the talk’, okay? We don’t need to do that.” She brushed her lips against his Adam’s apple and felt him shudder. “Do we?”
“Uh …” He lifted his pelvis up a little, pushing against the apex between her legs. “Uh uh,” he confirmed. “We don’t need to do that.”
Then he had cupped her ass in both hands and heaved himself to a standing position. Sam wrapped her arms around his neck, holding on tight as he carried her across the living room, upstairs and into her bedroom.
At the edge of the bed, Colt paused and they stared at each other. His chest heaved from the effort of carrying her up the stairs and Sam’s did as well, but with excitement at what was about to happen. She could feel him negotiating with himself and see in his eyes that he was working through the odds.
“What’re you waiting for?” She was whispering, though she wasn’t sure why.
“A sign,” Colt said, perfectly seriously.
“I think I feel one.” Sam looked down.
Slowly, his lips parted into a grin. He lowered her onto the bed, bracing his elbows on either side of her head.
“You’re cool as shit, y’know that?” This time, Colt was the one almost whispering. And his dark brown eyes were fixed on hers.
Sam strained upward to kiss him again, but Colt pulled back.
“Tell me,” he said.
“Tell you what, Colton?” she asked.
“That you know you’re cool as shit.”
Sam shook her head, sighing. “Okay. I’m cool …”
“As shit. You gotta say that part”
“You’re just trying to get me to cuss.”
“Damn, am I that obvious?” Colt was grinning at her in that boyish way that had charmed teachers and parents alike when they were growing up.
Sam nodded. “I know you like the back of my hand.”
“You do,” Colt said. His eyes were warm and had a look in them that made Sam’s stomach flip, and twist and roll over into itself. “So, you ain’t gon’ say it, huh? That you’re cool as shit?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Because if you think about it, that phrase? It’s neither flattering nor accurate.”
Colt lowered his head, his lips at first only softly brushing against hers, then gradually going deeper. Since he was still braced on his elbows, Sam took advantage of the room to tug at the waistband of his jeans, popping the buttons and trying to work them over his hips.
Rolling over onto his side, and taking her with him, Colt stilled her busy hands.
Relenting, Sam raised herself to her knees, and without pausing, pulled her top over her head. If he wouldn’t let her undress him, she would undress herself.
Had it not been for the drinks she had in Bar One, she doubted she would be this brazen. The idea, just twenty-four hours ago, of taking her top off in front of Colton would have made her knees quake; or maybe she would have collapsed into uncontrollable laughter. It was what she did when she was nervous, or frightened.
Now, she was both, but also very tipsy. Her head was swimming and woozy, softening the edges of her restraint, making her feel just sober enough to process what she wanted to do, and just drunk enough to actually do it.
While he watched her, she fell back onto her butt and reached for the waistband of her leggings, peeling them, and her underwear over her hips, thighs and calves. When they were at her ankles, Colt gave in. He tugged the fabric so Sam fell onto her back and slid toward him, as he struggled to free her ankles.
Finally, he gave up, spread her legs with the garment still attached and ducked his head beneath it, so he was effectively trapped between her legs, the leggings stretched from one of her ankles to the other, and behind Colt’s back.
With difficulty, he shrugged his shirt over his head, and tossed it aside. His skin against hers was hot, and Sam’s nipples were sensitive against his smooth chest.
Colt was looking at her, as though she was someone he had never seen before, but also as though he knew her better than anyone else ever had. His eyes were contemplative, and undecided. The talk Sam told them they didn’t need to have? She could tell he was having it anyway, with himself.
“Your jeans,” she said squirming beneath him.
His fly was almost pressing against her, between her open thighs. Colt said nothing in return but worked them loose and slid them, and his boxers off. They both lay there with the feeling for a few moments, the most sensitive parts of their bodies pulsating and pressed against each other, becoming acquainted.
Colt reached behind him and freed Sam’s ankles of the leggings. His chest heaved against hers, and with each exhale, she felt his warm breath.
“Sam,” he said again.
But nothing followed. What words were there to say?