“No?” Sam definitely isn’t buying it; the corners of his plush mouth twitch in barely concealed amusement. “That’s not what you were accusing me of just now? Being so desperate for more face time with you that I snuck out here in the middle of the night and absconded with your—” He stops himself mid-sentence, lifting one perfect eyebrow. “That one?” he asks, gesturing with his chin in the direction of the armchair in the corner, where the missing boot is lying on its side like a wounded soldier.
“Oh.” Fiona nods. She remembers now, toeing it off mid-makeout—distracted by Sam’s hot mouth moving down her neck, his fingertips playing over her body like a piano. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he says, scooping it up off the rug and holding it out in her direction with a smile. It’s a real one, open and fond, and Fiona’s stomach swoops dangerously. When she reaches for the boot he holds on an extra second, tugging gently. She feels the pull right between her legs. “You want me to go back to bed so you can finish sneaking out of my house?”
“I wasn’t sneakingout,” she protests. “I was just trying to save us both from wanting to kill ourselves, that’s all.”
“Thoughtful.” Sam rubs the crown of his head, his dark hair sticking up in every direction. “Do you want to kill yourself right now?” he asks.
Fiona considers that for a moment. Infactwhat she kind of wants to do is push him back onto that boat of a leather couch and climb on top of him, but she’d sooner shove this boot down her throat than tell him that. “...No?” she asks, then completely fails to follow it up in any meaningful way.
“No?” Sam smirks. “Tell you what,” he says. “You stay there and consider your own suicidality. I’ll make breakfast.”
“You don’t know how to make breakfast,” she accuses, following him back into the kitchen. She’s still holding the boot.
Sam opens the fridge and pulls out a dozen eggs and a bright yellow tub of Earth Balance. “Can I ask you a question?” he says. “What is it about me that makes you feel compelled to heckle me one hundred percent of the time?”
That stops her. “I—” she starts, then breaks off and tries again. “I—”
Sam raises his eyebrows. “You?”
Fiona drops her shoe on the floor, pops up onto her tiptoes, and kisses him.
Sam lets out a quietoofsound and kisses her back, his hands coming up to cup her face. His chest is burning-hot through her tank top. Fiona sifts her hands through his hair and bites at his bottom lip, at his tongue, at the shadow of scruff along his jawline. She reaches down to squeeze his ass, and he groans.
“I like you,” she admits quietly, her voice muffled against his shoulder. When she kisses his neck she tastes salt. “That’s why I heckle you all the time.”
Sam laughs out loud, the sensation of it rumbling pleasantly down her legs. “How old are you, twelve?”
“Basically,” she admits.
Sam nods like that tracks. “Well,” he says, reaching up under her tank top and tugging at her nipple through the fabric of her bra, making her gasp. “Grow up.”
He boosts her onto the counter, then hooks his hands behind her knees and spreads her legs apart, stepping between them. Fiona winds her arms around his neck. She rocks herself against him, she can’t help it, like he’s a scratching post and she’s got an itch.
“Fiona,” Sam murmurs against her mouth. He’s hard, the length of him thick and hot and urgent even through three layers of clothing. “Come back to bed with me.”
Fiona hesitates. She wants to. Fuck, she wants to. And it’s not like she isn’t already imagining it—his fingers and his cock and his wet, clever tongue, those soft white sheets against her skin—but she can’t help but feel like she’d be giving something up in the process. Something she isn’t quite ready to lose.
“Tell you what,” she says, kissing him one more time before nudging him away and hopping down off the counter. “Let’s go out.”
“Okay.” Sam’s lips twitch, uncertain. “But that is... not the same thing as bed.”
“You’re right,” she says, reaching for his hand and lacing their fingers together. She can see the question on his face—Is this a no for now, or is this a no forever?—and she wants to tell him it’s just a no for now, but she doesn’t know how to say the words. “But also, waffles.”
Sam looks at her for another long moment, then nods. “Yeah,” he says, still a little breathless. “I’ve got an audition, but after that.”
“An audition?” That makes her smile. She leans back against the fridge, raises her chin. “What for?”
Sam loops her arm around his waist, steps closer. “None of your business.”
“Oh, you want me to guess?” Fiona mimics. “Why didn’t you just say so?” She thinks for a moment, stroking an imaginary beard. “Hot male nanny on an intergenerational dramedy,” she suggests. “Hot client on a legal procedural. Hot corpse on a minor CSI franchise.”
“Aw, honey.” Sam gazes at her through his eyelashes. “You think I’m a hot corpse?”
“I think you’re the kind of person theycastas a hot corpse,” she corrects.
“Understood,” he says seriously, and kisses her again. “Anyway. Want to tag along? We can go get waffles after. Or, rather, you can get waffles and I can get a sensible yet tasty grain bowl.”
