I edged away from him, positioning myself on the opposite side of the elevator. “I’m not on board with this, Sam. I told you. I don’t do families.”
He leaned against the elevator wall, his arms crossed. “You know why they asked so many questions? They’re trying to figure out why a smart, beautiful woman has given me more than ten minutes of her attention. They can’t fathom someone like you wanting to hang around someone like me.”
“Meaning what?” I yelled. “You could have anyone you wanted. You could find a pretty girl who spoke French and wore pearls, and knew how to pick out bottles of Chianti.”
“Uh-huh,” he murmured. “That’s not the consensus from that group, and in case you haven’t noticed, Chianti, French, and pearls are not high on my priority list.”
The doors opened and I moved through the lobby and to the street quickly. It was the type of cold weather that immediately resulted in a runny nose, and I was probably walking in the wrong direction, but I just needed to get away from it all. The wintery air bit my skin but the shock was a refreshing calm on my system.
I was being irrational, and I knew it. But I required breathing space, freedom, independence.
I wasn’t part of anyone’s tribe.
My friends were abundant and I had deep, caring relationships with many, but Ellie was the only person I truly trusted. Not once in the past eleven years had she ever turned me away when I needed her, and there’d never been a whisper of doubt that we accepted each other, baggage and all, implicitly.
Everyone else in my life—all the people who I should have been able to rely on—had given me reasons to walk away, and not a single reason to return.
And Sam . . . I wanted to carve out a special spot for him, and there were so many moments when I believed he deserved one, too. But I couldn’t let that lightning strike again. I couldn’t let myself be abandoned, and it was too soon to know anything for certain.
“I don’t do families that are all up in each other’s business. I see my family for deaths and weddings because they can’t respect boundaries. If yoga and farmers’ markets are part of the deal, I can’t.”
“Would you wait a godforsaken second, Tiel?” Sam jogged to catch up, coming to a full stop in front of me with his hands braced on my arms. “Yoga and farmers’ markets aren’t part of the deal,” he said. “The only deal is that we like hanging out together, and sometimes we do that naked.”
I blew out a breath and shook my head. I was in desperate need of a tissue and the wind was blowing my hair in nine different directions, and somewhere beneath my wobbly spot, I knew I was hurting Sam.
I didn’t want that. That player veneer ran thin, and underneath it, he had his own wobbly spots, too. He was sensitive and sweet, and he needed someone to love all over him the way he deserved.
Sniffling, I said, “Maybe we could go back to my place now.”
He produced a handkerchief from his pocket and waited while I blew my nose. “My place,” he said.
“We’re closer to mine,” I said, nodding in Cambridge’s general direction.
“Equidistant,” he said. “My place.”
I’d never visited Sam’s house, but he always had a renovation story to tell. Part of me expected him to be living in a full-blown construction site with tarps and jackhammers and wet paint. “But we can make almond milk mudslides at my place. Then we can turn the tunes up and dance in our underwear.”
He brought his thumb to my face, tracing my cheeks, nose, and mouth before laying a kiss on my lips. “That does sound like a better idea.”
One of my favorite Cat Stevens songs was playing when we got in his car, and he let me discuss the intricacies of the music while we headed to my apartment. I needed to shake off my nervous energy, and Sam indulged, asking questions and letting me talk the entire time.
I was halfway through blending the modified mudslides when Sam placed his hands on my hips, his palms circling over my clothes. There was a hot insistence in his touch, and he soon dipped beneath my dress and inside my leggings.
“Don’t move,” he ordered.
His body shifted, and he dropped to his knees behind me. True to his word, he peeled my leggings down, one aching inch at a time. His mouth moved over my exposed skin, kissing and licking, and when my clothes were bunched at my ankles, he pushed my legs apart. He drove his fingers inside me, stroking and thrumming my clit until I was bent over the countertop and begging.
And then Sam’s fingers were gone, abandoning me seconds before I came, and I was ready to scream.
Springing up, I rounded on him, my eyes as furious as I felt, and he just smiled. “Did that not go the way you wanted?”
“Rude!” I yelled. “Very rude!”
I was wet—not simply aroused—and I sensed my fluid coating my thighs. It was almost embarrassing, and I was somewhat convinced I’d find a puddle on the floor very soon.
“Maybe.” He grabbed a handful of my dress and yanked me against his chest. “You’ve had a rough night,” he said, and I nodded. “It’s going to get a little rougher.”
My default reaction to overwhelming situations was laughter, and when those words washed over me, I dissolved into giggles despite his dark, severe tone.
