But in here something new is stirring.
Without thinking, I kiss him again. No hesitation. No filter. Just need. His hand comes up instantly, cupping my cheek, his palm warm and steady as he tilts my head and deepens the kiss.
This time, there’s no soft testing. No waiting.
His mouth claims mine with quiet urgency, his tongue sweeping against mine in a rhythm that steals every coherent thought from my head.
It’s not rough. It’s intentional.
Like he’s been holding this back and waiting.
My fingers tangle in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, anchoring myself to the heat of his body and the way he kisses like it means something.
Because it does.
Even if we can’t name it yet—this thing blooming between us in the quiet dark—it’s real.
When we finally part, his forehead rests against mine, both of us breathing like we’ve just surfaced from something deeper than we meant to fall into.
“Charlotte…” he murmurs, voice rough, strained.
“I know,” I whisper. “Me too.”
And we lie there, wrapped in warmth and tension and something dangerously close to hope, as the morning sun finally rises.
“Well,” he says, his voice still thick from sleep, “I need to get up before I do something ungentlemanly like.”
That earns a slow smile from me. “Oh? I’m intrigued.”
“Which is exactly why I’m getting up.”
He throws the blanket back and stands, and I immediately miss the heat of his body next to mine.
“I’m gonna shower first,” he says as he stretches, the hem of his shirt lifting just enough to reveal a teasing glimpse of skin. “You can grab some clothes from my closet.”
I blink. “I’m wearing your clothes?”
“You are.” He flashes me a lazy grin as he walks toward the bathroom. “And you look damn good in them.”
Heat. Instant. Low and curling deep in my stomach.
He winks and disappears into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him.
I sit there for half a second, stunned and overheating, before leaping out of bed and making a beeline for the closet.
Inside, it’s warm, wood-paneled, and packed with more flannel than any man should own. I quickly grab a pair of sweats and a soft navy button up.
I’m just turning toward the mirror when the bathroom door swings open and Sam strolls in the closet.
Wearing nothing but a towel.
White. Low-slung. Water still clinging to his skin.
My lips part. “Oh my God.”
Because he’s built. Like statue-worthy. Ripped in a way that’s both unfair and completely distracting. He’d put a Greek God to shame with those abs.
He smirks. “Thank you, darlin’.”
