It’s so good.It’s so easy.All that bad shit is draining out of me because for the next few minutes, I’m with somebody who likes me, who wants me, and that makes me feel so fucking good.
It’s a red light.
I don’t care.
When I slide into the footwell, Sam gives me a goggle-eyed look like he hasn’t quite caught up with the world.I hook my fingers under his waistband and try to urge his ass up from the seat.
He closes a hand over mine.“Gray.”A nervous laugh.He looks around.
“It’s fine,” I say.“We’ll be fast.”
He’s still not moving his ass, so I try to drag the shorts off by sheer force, but he pulls at my hands again.“We’re in public.”
“We’re at the back of the lot.It’s dark.Nobody will see.Fuck, Sam, I am so fucking hard for you right now.I need your dick for, like, five minutes, tops.”
“Gray,” Sam says.I’m pulling at his shorts again.A hint of his bush appears.“Gray, stop!”
I let go.I sit back as far as I can, which isn’t much.The air smells close, like our bodies and that post-workout funk.We’re both breathing hard, asynchronous, out of rhythm.
“We could get arrested,” Sam says, half-defensive, half-apologetic as he pulls the shorts up.
It’s the apology in his voice that wakes me up.Like he’s doing something wrong and he knows I’m not happy.Which is cosmically fucked up, since, well, you know.
I reach for the handle, but Sam stops me.
“I’m sorry,” I say.The words are rough, and I can’t quite get them out cleanly.“God, I don’t know—”
“Hey, hold on.Where are you going?I’m sorry.I just—I’m not comfortable.”
I want to laugh.Or cry.I don’t know.But he won’t let me out of the truck, and so I do the childish thing and drop my head, because I can’t look at him.
He runs his fingers through my hair and says in a small voice, “I’m sorry.”
Now I do laugh: short, a tumbling-down sound, my face pressed into the upholstery between his legs.“God, Sam, please don’t apologize.I’m the one who should be sorry.I’m the one who fucked up.Whoisfucked up.”
He plays with my hair for a while.The smell of him is stronger here, and I guess even in the midst of fucking up everything in my life, I can still get turned on by him.
“What’s going on?”Sam finally asks.
“I was totally out of line,” I say.I lift my head and reach for the door again.“And I’m going to get out of here and leave you alone—”
“I don’t want you to leave me alone,” Sam says, and he’s got one hand over the handle so I can’t open it.“I want you to talk to me.”
This is Bossy Sammy.And, as usual, it works.
“Uh, right, so—” I have to stop.“You know how I have, um, some issues with attention and validation and all that shit?Well, I—I don’t know, Sam.I had this fucked-up day, and I wasn’t lying about how everything about you turns me on, but I also wanted to…feel good, I guess.I like being with you.I have all these toxic patterns, attention-seeking and needing validation, all kinds of insane bullshit, even though I amseriouslytrying to do better.And I like—Jesus Christ, I am literally going to die from this—I like when you pay attention to me.”Honesty compels me to add, “Especially when we fuck.”
For some reason that makes him smile, but it’s sideways, and it makes him look older.And insanely hot.And then he says, “Is that all?”
“Uh, yes.That bundle of crazy is officially everything.So, if you’ll let me out of the truck—”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
The sound I make isn’t really a response, but it’s kind of a question.
“Of course I want to pay attention to you,” Sam says like this is the most obvious thing in the world.Like we’re—like we’re discussing a fucking grocery list or something.“You just need to tell me.”
Literally the only thing I can think to say is “Uh, okay.”
