The couch creaks as I shift, knees on either side of his hips, and he makes a rough sound at the back of his throat that goes straight through me.
“Penny,” he rumbles, his eyes blazing with heat. “I’m not gonna lie… you straddling my lap has my brain close to short-circuiting and I’d be a fool to tell you to stop. But… I’m going to tell you to think about it.”
“I know what I’m doing,” I whisper, not sure which part I’m agreeing to—go slower, don’t spook him, keep kissing him until we both forget our names. Maybe all three.
My grip on his shoulders, I lower my head so my mouth can meet his. Sam’s hands hesitate at my waist like he’s afraid of being greedy, then settle there, fingers splayed, both reverent and possessive in the same beat.
Sam takes control of the kiss, which no longer represents the slow rhythm of two people pushing at boundaries. Now he’s kissing me like he’s starved and domineering all at once, a paradox that makes me ache in places only he can touch.
His mouth moves over my jaw, down the line of my neck, where his teeth scrape deliciously against my tenderskin. His fingers flex into my hips, pushing me down onto his very thick and very impressive erection straining at his jeans. He pins me there, head pulling back slightly to stare at me.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice gravelly, “and I will.”
I circle my hips, creating friction between our bodies that almost makes me lose any shred of restraint I have. I manage to whisper, “Tell me to stop, and I absolutely won’t.”
That earns me a laugh that isn’t quite a laugh—more a surprised, can’t-help-it sound he’d never willingly show another soul. I drag my nails lightly over his shoulders, a mapping of muscle, and his fingers dig into my hips. He’s trying to be gentle, but that’s not something I’m interested in. I rock my hips, grind down on his erection, and he kisses me so hard our teeth clash.
A low-grade hiss issues between us, and I’m not sure who let it go. “This is getting intense,” he mutters against my mouth.
“Sam.” I nudge his chin up with a fingertip until he’s looking at me. “Don’t overthink it.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Occupational hazard.”
“Of writing or living?”
“Both,” he admits, that crooked smile tugging at his mouth.
“Then maybe try shutting up for a second,” I tease,leaning in close. “You’re much better with your mouth when it’s busy.”
That earns a real laugh—low, genuine—and then he kisses me again, properly this time.
It’s decisive and consuming all at once, and the way he gathers my hair at my nape makes my spine arc like he’s pulled a string. My skirt rides up my thighs, his palms sliding over bare skin, heat meeting heat. I feel him hard against me, the proof of everything he tries not to say, and a noise slips out of me that is not pretty or polite. He swallows it with another kiss, and I roll my hips because I have to, the pressure exactly where I need it. The couch frame grumbles again, and I couldn’t care less if it collapses under us.
“Fuck,” he breathes against my mouth, and then, softer, almost like he’s scolding himself, “Penny.”
“You keep saying my name like that,” I say, a little dazed, “and I’m going to lose track of basic motor function.”
“Maybe I want you to.” He presses his forehead to mine. His voice goes hoarse. “You taste like trouble.”
“Lucky for you, I’ve always been good at it.”
I lean back enough to tug his shirt up, and he lifts his arms, obedient and wrecked with wanting. The string of lights gives just enough light to see his toned definition under my palms. His chest rises and falls like he’s been running. I press my mouth to the center of it and feel hisheartbeat rally against my lips, rapid and sure. He inhales sharply when I slide lower and graze one flat male nipple with my tongue—curiosity and mischief—and the surprised curse makes me chuckle against him.
“Penny.” He clamps a hand around my wrist, not to stop me, just to anchor himself. “You’re going to kill me.”
“What a way to die though, right?” I say, coming back up and settling fully into his lap, the thick insistence of him nudging through denim and thin cotton.
His mouth quirks at one corner and he slides his hands beneath my skirt with a carefulness that punches all the air out of me.
Sam takes his time, knuckles brushing the inside of my knees, slow journey upward until his fingers skate along the edge of my underwear and pause. The wordless ask is there and I answer with a nod that feels like yes to this and yes to more and yes to him. He strokes me through the thin material once, twice, watching my face the whole time like he’s studying a book he’s trying to interpret. When I rock forward and gasp, he exhales roughly and strokes again, firmer. My head tips back.
“Take them off,” I say, my voice unsteady.
Sam utters a low growl that one might think would be denial, but to the contrary, he maneuvers my body so that with some twisting, squirming and kicking free, my panties are gone. The warm air from the fire kisses skinthat feels oversensitized, and his fingers dip between my legs, stealing my breath from my lungs.
“Oh, wow,” I mutter, flexing my hips. “Oh… just wow.”
The tension builds, his fingers finding the mark over and over and over again. I’m dizzy, barely holding on as my hips circle to garner more friction.
