“Not much of a talker, are you?” Sam observed later that evening after he and Spencer were three beers in and about halfway through another action flick. This time Keanu Reeves was destroying the assholes who’d killed his dog. Spencer, in the process of taking a thirsty sip of beer, cocked an eyebrow and lowered the bottle to level a look at him.
“Hmm.” For a second Sam reckoned that was the only response he’d get. The man hadn’t said more than two words to him since his arrival forty minutes ago. But Spencer’s lips quirked and he contemplated Sam for a moment before saying, his voice droll, “What gave it away?”
Sam chuckled appreciatively.
“I don’t know, maybe the fact that it took me about half an hour to appreciate that you’d managed to glean which drink I’d prefer, what movie I wanted to watch, and what I wanted for dinner, all without asking a single question. And yet I fucking know I had choices.” Spencer’s lips tilted into a full-on grin. It wasn’t an exaggeration to say the guy hadn’t asked a single question.
Drinks were easy—he’d held up a beer and a bottle of scotch with a tilt of his head, and Sam had reached for the beer. Same with food, both microwavable choices—pizza or lasagna. But the movie, that was when shit had gotten freaky. He’d scrolled through Mason’s selection, stopped at John Wick, looked at Sam, and grunted. Just a grunt. But the sound had been a question, Sam was sure of it—why else would he have responded with “Yeah, sure. I haven’t seen that one yet”?
Uncanny fucker.
“How can Mason be such a garrulous bastard when he was raised by someone like you? I can’t figure it out.” Sam shook his head in wonder.
“You ever get a word in edgewise when Mason’s on a roll?” the other man suddenly asked, his deep voice hoarse from lack of use, and Sam snorted at the pithy response.
“Touché,” he said, chuckling.
“It was easier just to be quiet with Mason around. He spoke enough for both of us. Besides, you hear more, see more when you’re not always mouthing off about insignificant shit.”
“Hear and see what?” Sam asked, and Spencer reached for the remote and paused the movie. Then he leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs, and watched Sam for a long, uncomfortable moment.
“You and Lia. You disappeared from the stag party and the wedding together,” Spencer shocked him by saying.
“Didn’t know you were so interested in my movements, big guy,” he joked weakly, and Spencer lifted a heavy brow in response to that.
“Couldn’t give a fuck about your movements, bro. But Lia’s going to be my sister. She’s already family, and I take care of my own.”
Sam cleared his throat.
“She can take care of herself,” he said quietly.
“Hmm.” The sound was nothing more than a deep rumble, and Sam had no idea what it was supposed to mean.
Spencer leaned back, still not taking his eyes off Sam’s face, and took a long drink from his beer. Sam, who had been trained in both interrogation techniques and resistance, had never felt more uncomfortable in his life before. This guy was good. He was wasted peddling sporting goods in this tiny town. A shame he lacked that military edge—with it he would definitely have made an excellent addition to Sam’s team.
“You’re not ambidextrous,” Spencer observed, waving his bottle at Sam’s injured arm, and Sam was thrown by the abrupt change in topic. Seriously, Spencer Carlisle was good at this.
“I’m not,” Sam agreed, waiting to see where the man was going with this.
“But you’re not as helpless as you want to seem. You’re comfortable enough with the use of your left arm, even if it’s not your dominant arm, to manage small tasks. So why do you need Lia’s help?” Sam cleared his throat, and this time he took a long, thirsty drink from his beer. It was such a transparent delaying technique he was embarrassed by it. He preferred Spencer when he was silently observing and not delivering an opinion. That guy was manageable; this one was . . . Well, he was a fucking big brother. An overprotective, intimidating big brother.
“That’s between Lia and me,” Sam finally responded, and Spencer narrowed his eyes, not happy with the answer—that much was clear.
“I don’t like to waste words,” Spencer said heavily, and Sam snorted at that obvious statement. “So consider everything said.”
“What do you mean?”
“The warnings and the threats. Consider them said.”
Ah.
Well, that was much more effective than any of the words Spencer might have used, because with Sam’s much too extensive knowledge of torture techniques—anything his own mind came up with to fill in the gap was probably a lot worse than whatever Spencer could devise. Although Sam had seen the lengths even the mildest of men would go to in order to protect their family.
Right then.
“Noted.”
“Hmm.” The sound was filled with satisfaction, and Spencer reached for the remote and unpaused the movie. He went back to his previous relaxed demeanor as if the exchange hadn’t happened, and Sam watched him for a moment before sighing and refocusing on John Wick’s implausible ass-kickery.
The rest of the evening passed amicably; they didn’t speak much, and after his previous unsettling conversation with Spencer Carlisle, Sam was okay with that. Instead they exchanged manly grunts and growls, and that was that. It was all quite satisfying, actually.
They watched another movie after John Wick, and Spencer got up to leave before the credits started rolling.
“Do you think the coast is clear?” Sam asked when he saw Spencer check his watch.
“No idea. How long does this kind of shit last generally?”
“How the fuck would I know, mate? I don’t exactly go for regular mani-pedis and bikini waxes.” Spencer paled comically at that, and Sam fought back a grin. The badass he’d encountered earlier was nowhere to be found.
“You don’t think they’re waxing their . . . down theres, do you? They’re kids.”
Sam laughed at that—the guy looked positively squeamish at the thought. He took pity on Spencer and shook his head. “From what I gathered, it would be facials and makeup and pretend cocktails. Unfathomable girlie shit.”
“Great. I should be getting back.”
“Thanks for the company,” Sam said sincerely, and Spencer waved his thanks aside.
“I’ll pop around tomorrow to see if there’s anything you need . . .”
“Actually, Spencer, there is something,” Sam said on a wince as he ran his hands over his unruly stubble. The other man stopped, stared at him, and then grinned as understanding dawned.
“Guess we’ll be doing our own manly makeover,” he said unexpectedly, and Sam was startled for a moment before he started chuckling.
“Guess so.”
The teenage gigglefest came to an end when Spencer returned home. Well, it didn’t so much end as change locations. The girls, all five of Charlie’s closest friends, and Toffee filed upstairs and into Charlie’s room. The door slammed, the music went on, and the volume went up. Spencer groaned, heaved a huge sigh, and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Lia and Daff laughed at his reaction. Daff enfolded him in a hug.
“Oh, poor baby, it’s not that bad. Soon you’ll be so used to the noise you won’t even notice they’re there.” A high-pitched squeal made an instant liar out of her, and she grimaced. It was Charlie’s first sleepover, and Spencer didn’t look too comfortable having a bunch of high-pitched teens in his home.
“Why did we agree to this again?”
“Because we love her and it’s healthy for her to have close female friends. They can enjoy themselves here in a safe environment.”
“Hmm.” He didn’t sound convinced.
“What did you and your man crush get up to?”
“Movies, makeovers . . . or would you call that a male over?” Lia’s eyes widened as she tried to make sense of his statement.
“Wait, what?” Daff gawked, and Spencer grinned proudly. Looking smug that he had some information that could surprise her.
“We drank, watched a movie, and I did his manscaping.” Lia choked on her spit, and Daff snorted.
“Oh, my love,” Daff murmured, her voice low and sympathetic. She had only recently started calling him that, and Lia could tell that Spencer absolutely adored it—he practically preened every time she used it. “That definitely doesn’t mean what you want it to mean.”
“What?” Spencer stared at her blankly.
“Manscaping,” Daff elaborated patiently, and Lia was starting to shake as she tried to control her laughter. Poor Spencer looked completely baffled and the tips of his ears were starting to go pink, as if he realized that he might have used the wrong pop-culture reference. Again.
Lia lifted her hand to her mouth; the laughter couldn’t be contained any longer and actually exploded through her fingers. Spencer sighed in resignation.
“It means his pubes, doesn’t it?” At his question, Lia doubled over the kitchen counter and held on for dear life.
“Mostly,” Daff said, still looking completely earnest and compassionate, her hand stroking up and down Spencer’s broad back. “But it can also mean chest hair. Back hair. Ear hair. Butt hair. I suppose it’s just general male grooming and appearance.”
“Fuck,” Spencer said, the word soft and heartfelt and just so, so funny. He glared at Lia, who was still bent over and laughing uncontrollably. “Shut up, Lia. Eighty-nine percent of the time you make the same kind of mistakes.”
“Y-yes,” Lia gasped, her voice hoarse and breathless as she tried to control her laughter. “B-but not this time.”
“This is why I prefer to keep my mouth shut,” Spencer muttered, and Daff finally lost it. She hugged him and laughed, and because the sound was so joyful, Spencer lost his look of disgruntled resignation.
“Oh, you beautiful man.” Daff laughed. “This is why I love you. You’re hilarious. And a fantastic sport.”
Spencer grinned and enfolded his arms around her.
“Are those the only reasons you love me?” he asked into her hair, and Daff settled snugly into his arms and rested her cheek against his broad chest.
“Tip of the iceberg,” Daff crooned.
“Well, then, elaborate, darling.”
Lia knew that they were on the verge of forgetting her very existence, and she sighed wistfully before bidding them both good night. They were aware enough to separate and give her a proper farewell, but Lia could tell from the dazed expressions on both of their faces that they’d be resuming the “conversation” the second she drove off.
She went as far as the end of the drive, took the left turn, and then stopped at the entrance to Mason’s driveway. The cabin wasn’t completely dark—the loft lights were still on, and Lia wondered what he was doing. She considered her life, her desire for more, and her recognition that there would be no more. This was it.
Maybe it was defeatist; maybe it was simply her way of talking herself into this fling with Brand. She needed an excuse, a way to make herself feel better for doing something so completely uncharacteristic. Telling herself that this was a rebound thing for him and a last chance for some sexual excitement for her was that excuse.
It would benefit both of them. And when it was over, they’d walk away from it without looking back. None the worse for wear.
Decision—crazy, insane, off-kilter, and totally uncharacteristic decision—made, Lia turned her car into the driveway and drove the short distance to the front door. Once there, she sat for another long while, on her phone, making a list. She needed guidelines, a set of rules to keep her in check. To remind her not to get emotionally involved and to keep her cognizant of the fact that this was nothing more than a short-term, mutually satisfying arrangement.
Sam was ready for bed. He had made one last check of the perimeter—uh, cabin, old habits—and was ready to head upstairs when a soft knock sounded on the front door. For an instant he froze, not sure if it was an actual knock—the wind was picking up and it could be something loose on the porch—then it sounded again. Three uncertain little raps on the wood. He knew who it was. Of course he knew who it was, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe that he’d actually convinced her to come. She hadn’t looked at all into his suggestion that morning.
Sam stared at the door for a moment longer, feeling oddly uncertain. He mentally cataloged his toiletry bag, trying to remember if he’d packed condoms. Why would he pack condoms? He’d come here to recuperate, not to find a fuck buddy. But he never went anywhere without condoms, so . . .
The knock sounded again. Even fainter than before, and he swore. What the hell was he doing? She was probably talking herself out of this with every passing second. He surged to the door and yanked it open. The suddenness of the gesture shocked her, and she blinked at him apprehensively. He could tell from her stance that she had been in the process of leaving and heaved a sigh of relief that he’d come to his senses before she could do that.
“Hey,” he said, his voice a little overeager, and he toned it down. “Uh, Lia. You’re here.”
“Yes.”
Jesus, woman. Give me something to work with, he lamented silently.
“Great, I’m glad. Come in.” He stepped aside and she slowly stepped over the threshold, looking very much like someone heading for the guillotine. Yeah, well, that wasn’t sexy at all. He needed to get her a bit more relaxed. “Would you like a drink?”
“I need to know,” she said, her shaky voice filled with resolve. “Laura Prentiss.”
Sam sighed. For fuck’s sake, not this again!
“I told you before, the relationship we had is over.” It was the most honest way he could think of to phrase it.
“You were my rebound guy, Brand. And I suspect . . . I feel you need a rebound girl. And I want . . . I’m happy to . . . I think I can be that for you.”
So many stops and starts as she tried to find the perfect way to phrase that, but Sam didn’t like the way her statement sat with him. It felt completely wrong.
“Are you sacrificing yourself or something? Returning a favor?”
“No,” she hastened to assure him, her eyes wide and earnest. “Of course not. I mean, maybe that’s part of it, but I want to do this for me, too.”
“Why?” Damn it, why had he asked? What did it matter what her reasons were as long as he got her into bed? He didn’t understand his weird reaction to this. He should have her in his arms already; his mouth should be on hers, his hands on her naked skin. Why was she even still dressed?
“I’m not going to find him,” she said on a whisper, looking miserable, and his brows lowered in confusion.
“Find who?”
“The guy. My guy. I won’t find a Mason or a Spencer. I was happy to settle for a Gregory—”
“Over my dead body,” he interrupted furiously, and she smiled absently.
“Before I saw how very similar to my ex-fiancé he is,” she added. “I was okay with a man I didn’t really love or feel attracted to. I thought that those feelings would grow eventually, but I don’t think I’m even going to find Mr. Okay, much less Mr. Right. Not anytime soon, at least. Maybe not ever. I’m just tired of all the bad dates and the dashed hopes. After Gregory . . .” She paused before shaking her head. “I just need a break.”
“So you’re giving up?” he asked disbelievingly, and she shrugged.
“For now. For this, with you.”
“I’m not the guy you’re looking for, Lia,” he stressed urgently. “I’m not even a great Mr. All Right for Now. If we’re going to do this, you can’t get attached. If you do, you’ll get hurt, and I don’t want to hurt you.”
She smiled warmly, the expression dispelling some of her previous misery. He didn’t like seeing her miserable. It was disturbing and should never happen again.
“I know that, Brand,” she said, the gentle reassurance in her voice matching the tranquil smile. “But I was thinking about what you said, about you being the last wild thing I do before I settle down . . . and I decided that I want that. I want to be your rebound girl and you’ll be my wild thing. Consider my caution thrown to the wind. I figure it would be nice to have something like this to look back on when I’m old. To know I was willing to do something uncharacteristic and fun, just because why the heck not?”
“You’re not exactly old and decrepit, Lia. I doubt this will be your last wild thing,” he amended, and her smile widened, but the edges were tinged with sadness.
“I’m not known for my spontaneity, Brand. I think one per lifetime is my limit.”
“And yet this is the third—”
“No,” she interrupted quickly. “It’s one extended extemporaneous walk on the wild side.”
“I’ll help you,” he suddenly decided, not sure what the fuck he was promising but just hating to see such abject defeat in her normally sparkling eyes.
“What?”
“While we’re flinging, so to speak, I’ll help you find that guy.”
“That’s crazy. And also quite amoral. I won’t be dating men while we’re involved.”
“You can date them, just don’t sleep with them. When you find a guy you want to sleep with, we end our thing.”
“That’s too bizarre; I don’t like it.”
“It’ll be part of your new wild-woman persona. You can date one guy while sleeping with another.”
“It feels dishonest. Why are we discussing this? I came here for a fling and you’re—you’re . . .” A delicate frown settled between her brows as she tried to think of a way to describe what she was feeling. “You’re copblocking me.”
“What?” He blinked, not sure he’d heard her properly.
“You heard me,” she whispered angrily, and his lips quirked.
“No, sunshine, I’m not really sure I did.”
“I said you’re copblocking me.” Her cheeks were bright pink, and in that moment Sam watched his good intentions curl up and float away right before his eyes. The sexy, shy librarian was back, and he wanted her badly.
“And what does that mean, sunshine?” he asked, keeping his voice gentle, and she flushed as she struggled to frame a response.
“You know what it means, I just replaced the other word,” she confessed, and he grinned.
“Oh, you mean cock?” He bit back a laugh at her pained groan.
“Just stop doing it,” she admonished, and he nodded solemnly.
“No more cockblocking. Got it.” His eyes ran over her face, and he felt his lips stretch into a full smile. God, she was absolutely gorgeous. His breath hitched and he palmed her cheek with his good hand. “You’re sure about this, right? Because I don’t do regrets.”
Her breath shuddered from her chest and he recognized that she’d been holding it. Her lips parted and his eyes dropped to them—they looked full, juicy, and he wondered if she’d applied some of that gloss before knocking on his door. Applied it for him. He groaned as he understood that he could finally sample that bubblegum flavor. All it took to go from thought to action was a single breath before his lips were on hers. She sighed and moved closer and opened up for him. It was the only way he could think of to describe it—she just tilted back her head, softened her mouth, and let him in.
It was fucking fantastic. He couldn’t quite remember if the last time had been like this. He couldn’t remember if they’d kissed. This felt like a first kiss, and he couldn’t remember the last time a first kiss had held this kind of significance for him. It terrified him but at the same time made him want more . . . so much more.
He wanted to wrap her close, but the cast on his arm hampered him and he made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat as he lifted his mouth from hers. Her lips followed his, soft, lush, and completely ravished. They still wanted more and they pouted when he moved his mouth out of reach. Her eyes fluttered open and those luminous gray irises were almost completely obscured by the black of her pupils. She looked dewy, aroused, ready . . . and Sam wasn’t sure this could be slow or even gentle. He just needed to get through the logistics.
“Help me,” he grated, and her eyes regained focus as they registered the frustration on his face. He was tugging at the hem of his tank top and she said something, he couldn’t be sure what, but it sounded like cripes or crumbs. It made him smile, and he wondered at the lightness he felt in this moment. He was hard, he was burning up, he wanted to rip her clothes off and fuck her right where she stood—and at the same time he felt elated. Like a kid at a carnival, he felt excited, happy, nervous, and ready all at the same time.
She helped him drag the tank up and over his cast and then looked at it for a moment before placing it neatly to one side.
“At some point,” she said primly, despite the alarming wobble in her voice, “you and I are going to discuss the fact that you were just wearing a tank top. Why have we been struggling with those button-up shirts whe . . .” She stopped abruptly, and he could see exactly when the truth hit her. She gasped softly. “You deliberately made me struggle with those shirts, didn’t you?”
He laughed and then, because he couldn’t stand the separation any longer, kissed her again. Outrage forgotten, she wrapped her arms around his waist, burrowed against his chest, and, again, gave him everything with that one kiss. He plucked at her clothing with his free hand, groaning at how ineffectual his attempts were, and she made soothing sounds, her hands stroking up and down his bare back, her fingernails alternately digging in and lightly scraping.
“Brand,” she said, her voice muffled against his lips. “Let me.”
“What?” he asked dazedly, lifting his head to look down at her, worshipping her with his eyes.
“Let me. Please let me do this, just while you’re in that cast. I can . . .”
“You want to drive, sunshine?” he asked lightly, understanding where she was going with this, and she flushed before nodding. He grinned, loving the thought of it. He threw himself back on the sofa and spread his arms invitingly. “Then have at it.”
Sam wasn’t sure what to expect when he so brazenly invited her to take over, but it certainly wasn’t what he got. She licked her lips, those juicy, bubblegum-flavored lips, and her hands fell to her blouse. She was still in that mint-green pencil skirt and white top that had so turned him on that morning, and he watched with bated breath as she flicked open one pearly button at a time. Her movements weren’t seductive so much as efficient, and that was even more of a turn-on than any blatant attempt at seduction would have been. He watched as she tugged her blouse off, folded it, and placed it aside. His greedy eyes drank in every aspect of the neat, pretty figure now revealed to his gaze. The sweet little nipped-in waist, the cute indent of her belly button, and then her modest cleavage in a pretty, lacy white front-fastening bra.
She didn’t need much support. The bra seemed entirely superfluous, but it was still such a turn-on to imagine peeling it off her and revealing the loveliness beneath. She didn’t touch the bra, though, instead she kicked her foot back and his throat went dry as she tugged off one sensible pump and then the other. His cock twitched urgently when she skimmed her hands under her ass-hugging mint skirt and hitched it to just below her thighs in order to access her panties.
Sam growled when she performed a tug and then a shimmy and her lacy white panties dropped to her ankles. She stepped out of them and again folded them and placed them atop her blouse. Still none of this was overtly sexy, just efficient as hell. She barely looked at him while she did her sensible little striptease, while Sam couldn’t take his eyes off her. When he was himself again, he was going to strip her slowly and kiss every single silky strip of newly revealed skin until she was begging him for release.
“Undo your hair for me,” Sam begged hoarsely, startling her into looking at him. She went bright pink, and he comprehended that one of the reasons she was so determinedly avoiding eye contact was because this was hard for her. It explained the efficiency and the lack of artifice. She didn’t know how to seduce but in her innocence succeeded in seducing him more effectively than any other woman had before her. Her hands went up to her ponytail, and he winced when she tugged the rubber band off without any care or concern for the silky stuff bound within. Her soft, sleek hair fell to her shoulders like a dark-brown curtain, and Sam ached to trail his fingers through it, yearned to bury his face and nose in it.
“Beautiful,” he encouraged softly, and she smiled, running her splayed fingers through the mass before allowing it to settle again.
“Show me your breasts,” he begged, his voice a whisper. “Please.”
“No,” she said, her voice stubborn. He scowled, irritated by her disobedience, but instantly forgave her when she fell to her knees on the floor in front of the sofa where he sat and wriggled between his splayed knees. Her forearms rested on his thighs, and she looked up at him earnestly. “I’m quite . . .”
She sucked on her lip and swallowed back whatever she’d been about to say, and Sam groaned in despair.
“Don’t withhold your words from me now, Lia. I want to know what you’re thinking.”
“I’m quite wet,” she confessed, her voice low. She seemed embarrassed by the confession, and the sound that emerged from Sam’s throat was equal parts amusement and despair. “I don’t remember being this wet before.”
“God, I want to touch you,” he moaned. “Taste you.”
“You will,” she promised. “But before you do, I think it’s prudent we do this.”
This turned out to be palming his thick erection through the thin material of his boxer briefs. She gave another one of those shuddery little sighs that Sam found so damned erotic and finally reached under the elastic waist and wrapped her small, soft hand around his rampant hardness. Sam hissed and arched into her touch, damned near coming in her hand.
She pushed the material of his shorts out of the way and gently released his hardness and watched in satisfaction as it throbbed against his stomach. Her face was so close to it, he could feel her breath on his sensitive flesh, and part of him was desperate for her to take him in her mouth, but another part wanted something else, wanted to experience the tightness of her body again. Right now, he wanted that much more than her mouth. She stood up and straddled his knees, tugging her tight skirt up to her thighs. Her crotch was level with his eyes, but he couldn’t see her—her skirt was still modestly covering the part of her he now craved the most.
“Give me your hand,” she urged, and he held up his left hand. She took it in her much smaller right hand and without any warning whatsoever pushed it beneath her skirt. They both hissed sharply when his hand made contact with her moist heat, and she moaned when he found her clit. Her lower lip caught between her teeth when he clumsily stroked her, his left hand heavy and uncooperative and definitely not equal to this most important of tasks.
He tried his best and she didn’t mind his clumsiness at all—she looked like a fucking goddess, her pelvis gently thrusting against his questing touch as her hands went to her breasts and unclipped the fastening of her bra. Her palms immediately cupped the small mounds, completely obscuring them from view, and her head tilted back as she worked herself back and forth over his fingers.
“Do you have a condom?” she suddenly asked on a broken breath, and Sam snapped out of his erotic fog as he hazily registered that his fucking condoms were upstairs in the bathroom.
“They’re upstairs,” he groaned. She was still rubbing herself against his hand, and Sam couldn’t seem to focus on anything else. She pointed to the sofa beside him.
“Brand . . . my bag. I have a couple of condoms.”
“You do?” Really? That was unexpected, to say the least. She blushed and shrugged, striving for unconcern when she looked embarrassed as hell.
“I stole them from Daff and Spencer’s medicine chest tonight,” she confessed, and Sam choked back a laugh at that revelation. Sam had to withdraw his hand from all that wonderful heat in order to grab the bag, and Lia moaned at the loss. When he fumbled around in her bag, she took it from him impatiently and withdrew the condoms herself.
That move finally revealed her pretty little pink-tipped breasts to his greedy gaze, and while she struggled to tear open a foil packet, he leaned forward and tugged one of her hard nipples into his mouth for a sample. But a mere taste wouldn’t do, and soon he was feasting. He was vaguely aware of Lia wrapping her arms around his head and encouraging him to suckle harder—something he was very happy to do. His clumsy left hand crept back beneath her skirt, this time not content to just stroke; he plundered her with his fingers, easing the way for the invasion to come.
“Oh yes, oh yes. Oh thank you . . .” This last was moaned as she clenched tightly around his fingers when her orgasm took her. He couldn’t recall ever being thanked during sex before, and Sam grinned. It was so typically and charmingly Lia. She slumped heavily against him, her legs giving in until she was straddling his lap, her heat within touching distance of his throbbing shaft.
“Think you can get that condom on me now, sunshine?” he asked, his voice strained.
“Give me just one moment, please,” she begged breathlessly, her voice muffled by his throat.
“I fear we might not have a moment,” Sam said, fighting the urge to smile. That spurred her into action; she pushed herself up and stared at him with barely focusing eyes. She looked drugged, dazed, and a little bit devastated. But despite that, she managed to get him sheathed in the condom, her hands fumbling even more than his left hand had. Sam wasn’t certain how he managed to keep himself from coming in her hands, but he was damned proud of his restraint.
Proud until she lifted herself up and over him, proud until he found himself completely engulfed in her tight heat, proud for all of the thirty seconds it took before he came, violently and messily and quite fucking spectacularly. She was in the middle of her upward stroke and he gripped her skirt with his good hand and dragged her back down onto his spasming cock. Kept her down while he emptied himself inside her.
“Oh my sweet, sweet Christ,” he groaned, his hand leaving her skirt and burying itself in her hair. He pulled her close until her face was nestled in the spot where his shoulder met his neck. She happily nuzzled him there and sighed contentedly.
“That was nice,” she murmured happily, and he found himself glaring at the wall. Nice? Seriously?
He nudged her up and she lifted her butt lazily while he tugged off the condom and clumsily knotted it, setting it aside for later. She sat back down on his lap, her wet nakedness smooshing against his wet nakedness. She didn’t seem to mind.
“What did you do with the other one?” she asked drowsily, and he shifted to look down into her very contented face.
“What do you mean?”
“The condom. That night in the barn?” His brow furrowed.
“You’re seriously asking me about that right now?”
“Yes. It bugged me for a while after that. I kept picturing one of the poor farmworkers picking it up. Or my father.” She shuddered delicately at that thought.
“I didn’t leave it in the barn. That’s disgusting.” He was offended that she’d even think that about him.
“Well, then, what did you do with it?”
He wrinkled his nose. “Put it in my pocket and discarded it when I got to a bathroom.”
“Oh. Good.” She wriggled a bit to get more comfortable, and of course it had a predictable effect on his body. She pushed herself up and peered at him through her messy hair. She moved against him, this time with more purpose, and he sucked his breath in through his teeth at the delightful friction.
“More?” she asked hopefully, and he grinned.
“Sunshine, we’re just getting started.”
Hours and hours and so many orgasms later, Lia sat up in bed with a contented sigh and stared down at the man who had satisfied her so completely tonight. He was wiped out, fast asleep, spread-eagled on his back with his arms thrown out on either side of him. He had dragged her close just before falling asleep, tucking her against his side, but she had wriggled away almost immediately, because it felt dangerously close to cuddling and cuddling was a huge no-no.
Because Sam didn’t have the use of his right arm and because he wasn’t as physically adept as usual, Lia had been on top every time. Sam had been very vocal in both his appreciation of her and his demands. Still, she knew he wanted to do more and that his current weakness frustrated him. But despite that, it had still been streets ahead of anything she’d experienced with Clayton. Lia sighed again and shifted her legs over the edge of the bed and pushed herself up.
“Where are you going?” The gravelly voice sent shivers up her spine, and she fought the urge to climb back onto the bed with him.
“Home. It’s late. Or early,” she rectified with a giggle. “Take your pick.”
“You should stay,” he growled, and she laughed outright at that.
“I don’t think so. But thanks for the offer.” She leaned over and planted a kiss on his lips. Just because she could. And because he looked rumpled and sleepy and gorgeous. His left hand lifted to the back of her head and kept her there while he deepened the kiss. She made a small sound of surrender, and her hands went to his chest and then smoothed up over his shoulders and his throat until she was cupping his jaw.
She took another taste, her tongue lazily sweeping over his lush lower lip before, with a reluctant sigh, she lifted her head. His eyes caught and held hers.
“You okay?”
“More than okay,” she said with a smile. “This was a good idea. I feel fantastic. Thank you.”
He chuckled.
“Always so polite, sunshine. I’ve never been thanked for sex before.”
“I was thanking you for the orgasms,” she corrected primly, feeling brazen, and was pleased when his laugh deepened.
“Never been thanked for an orgasm, either.”
“Well, I’m happy to rectify that oversight,” she said with a blush. “I should go.”
She gathered her clothes and, despite already being stark naked, took them to the en suite and dressed there. His laughter followed her into the bathroom.
When she emerged from the bathroom, it was to find him clad in a pair of briefs and sitting on the edge of the bed.
“You sure I can’t convince you to stay?”
“We’re flinging, remember? Staying over doesn’t fall within the fling guidelines.”
“You have guidelines? How do you have guidelines? Where would you even find them?”
“On the internet.” He gaped at her.
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“You found actual guidelines?” He couldn’t seem to wrap his head around that idea.
“A few. I chose different ones from different lists and tailored a set of rules to suit our situation. Is that weird?”
“A little.” He nodded and then smiled. “But I suppose it’s also practical. Maybe you should share this list with me? I should know the rules so that I don’t overstep.”
“Of course you won’t overstep. I think men kind of live by these rules when they’re involved with someone unimportant.”
“You’re not unimportant,” he snapped, actually sounding offended. “I’ve never called you unimportant.”
“I only meant—”
“I’m just not ready for a relationship. I’ll never be ready for a relationship. I don’t believe in marriage and long-term monogamy. It’s unnatural. But that doesn’t mean that I think less of you. I think you’re pretty fucking great.”
“That’s nice of you,” she said, smiling weakly before clearing her throat.
She didn’t look convinced, and that frustrated Sam. He didn’t want her to think that she was just some random place-filler chick. The thought made him pause, because essentially she was exactly that. A fun, sweet bit of short-term entertainment . . . He’d been adamant that she not romanticize this arrangement between them, and she was doing exactly the right thing in establishing a clear set of guidelines up front about what they could expect from each other and this fling, for lack of a better word.
But why did it make him feel so damned uneasy and unsatisfied? He wasn’t sure. He watched as she gathered her things, feeling a hollowness settle in his gut as she turned to him and rewarded him with another of those beautiful, sweet smiles.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” she promised, and he nodded. He didn’t want to speak, not when the only words that would come out were more pleas for her to stay.
She hesitated and looked like she was about to say something else. Sam waited, hoping she’d change her mind about leaving, but in the end she said nothing. Just nodded at him and left.
He listened to her car start up, the cold engine coughing a bit before it turned over, and he instantly worried about her safety in that ancient Fiat. He checked the time and was shocked when he saw that it was after three. It was much too late for her to be out alone.
He immediately started pacing and, after ten minutes had passed, picked up his phone and called her. She answered on the second ring.
“Brand? Are you okay?” He shuddered in relief when he heard her concerned voice.
“That’s my line, sunshine. I didn’t know it was this late—you shouldn’t have left this time of night.”
“The roads were quiet; I was home in five minutes.”
“Next time you stay the night.”
“No. I’ll leave earlier.” He didn’t much care for that answer and seethed silently in response to it.
“Brand? You still there?”
“Yes,” he gritted.
“Did you call to find out if I got home safely?”
“Yes.”
“That’s really sweet, thank you for your concern.”
“You’re always so polite,” he said, for lack of anything better to say, and she laughed.
“I don’t know how to be any other way.”
“I like it,” he said, and then before he could stop himself, “I like you.”
She didn’t respond to that, and he sighed. That was probably for the best. He was in an odd mood. He didn’t understand himself right now.
“Lia?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you. For the orgasms.” He heard her harshly inhaled breath and smiled.
“Y-you’re, um . . . you’re quite welcome.” His smile widened into a grin.
“Lia?”
“Yes?”
“I can practically hear you blushing.” His observation startled an exasperated laugh out of her.
“Good night, Brand.”
“’Night, sunshine.”