"Come on," Sam says, taking my hand. "Let's get out of here. I need real food and at least three hours of not thinking about economic theory."
I let him pull me toward the door.
Sam
We barely make it through the door.
Devan's hands are everywhere—my waist, my hair, sliding under my shirt—and I'm not much better, shoving his jacket off his shoulders while trying to kick the door shut behind us. We're a mess. We're still half-dressed from the bathroom, clothes hastily re-buttoned, and we smell like sex and each other and the cheap soap from the dispenser.
I don't care. I need more.
"Bed," I gasp against his mouth.
He starts walking me backward, and it's so easy for him—he's got six inches and probably sixty pounds on me, all of it muscle. Usually I love that. Usually I want him to pick me up and throw me around.
Not tonight.
I plant my feet and shove against his chest. He stops, confused, and I use his momentary hesitation to spin us around.
Now he's the one with his back to the mattress.
"Sam—"
I shove him again. Harder this time, both hands flat against his chest. He falls back onto the bed, catching himself on his elbows, staring up at me with wide eyes.
God, he looks wrecked. His hair is a disaster, his shirt is untucked and missing two buttons from earlier, and his mouth is swollen from kissing me in the hallway, the bathroom, the elevator. The great Devan Morse—all six-foot-three of him—sprawled on his back and looking at me like he doesn't know what hit him.
I did that. I get to do that.
"Stay," I tell him.
His throat bobs as he swallows. "What are you—"
"You spent all day protecting me," I say, pulling my shirt over my head and tossing it somewhere. "In your head, at least. Worrying about me. Trying to figure out how to fight me without hurting me."
I crawl onto the bed, straddling his thighs. He's so big underneath me—his thighs are thick, solid, and I have to spread my knees wide to fit around him. He reaches for my hips automatically, but I catch his wrists and pin them to the mattress.
Or I try to. His arms are twice the size of mine. If he wanted to break my grip, he could do it without trying.
He doesn't.
His breath catches.
"Now it's my turn," I say, leaning down until my lips brush his ear. "You did so good today, Devan. You fought for me. You respected me."
He shudders underneath me. His whole body trembles, and I feel it everywhere we're touching.
"Let me take care of you."
"Sam." His voice is rough, cracked. "You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." I sit back up, keeping his wrists pinned—or at least, keeping up the pretense that I could. "I want to. I want to watch you fall apart. I want to be the one who does it."
His pupils are blown wide. His scent is going haywire—pine and storm and desperate, aching want.
"Can you do that for me?" I ask. "Can you let go?"
He stares at me for a long moment. I can see the war behind his eyes—the part of him that always needs to be in control fighting against the part that's so tired of holding everything together.
