“You know I don’t like it,” I tell him as he slips the phone into his pocket and sits next to me.
He shrugs. “I don’t tell you what to write, you don’t tell me what to photograph.”
That’s the kind of logic I don’t approve of, I think, knowing he’s right. We drink our wine and watch the red trails of the sunset fade into evening. Sam and I sit close together on the couch and I don’t protest when he links his fingers with mine.
“You’ve been quiet at dinner.” He rests his glass on the arm of the chair.
I glance over and catch the ridiculously sharp angle of his jaw in the firelight. His eyes twinkle and I want nothing more than to tug at the tie holding up his hair and watch it spill over his shoulders.
“I’ve just been immersed in my book, I guess. It’s hard to come back to reality sometimes.”
“I know the feeling. I spent eight hours in the darkroom yesterday.”
Incredulous, I move so I can see him better.
“What?” he asks.
“It’s just really nice to hear someone say that. None of my friends at school ever got my intensity or drive. They made me feel like a freak for the am
ount of time I spent working on my novel.”
Sam uses a finger to push a strand of hair off my cheek. His hand lingers on my neck. “Your friends must not have the creative passion you possess.”
Between the heat of the fire and Sam’s proximity, I break into a sweat. It’s only been days since my encounter with Clinton but the familiar ache returns to my loins, this time stronger than ever. If Clinton was here I’d take him up on his offer for another round. But he’s not. Sam is and my feelings for him are just as strong.
He frowns and asks, “What’s wrong?”
“Can I tell you something you won’t divulge to the others?”
“Of course.”
I’m glad with the firelight he can’t see me blush. “I kissed Clinton the other night.” I wait for the reaction and start to pull my hand away but he only tightens his grip. He also doesn’t look remotely surprised. “Did you know? Oh my God, did he tell you?”
“Who?”
“Clinton!” I whisper-yell.
He laughs. “No, he didn’t tell me anything but…well,” he makes a face, “secrets are difficult to keep in this house.”
I’m not exactly sure what that means but I add, “It was a one-time thing. Completely out of character. At least my character, that is.”
Sam gives me a long look. He’s not intimidating like Dylan or Clinton but he carries himself with confidence. Why wouldn’t he? He’s fucking gorgeous. When he looks at me though, with those emerald green eyes, I feel like he can see into my soul.
“Did you feel better after being with him?”
“We didn’t have sex.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I look down at my hands and remember what Clinton said about not feeling shame. “I felt better actually. Like, when I went down to his room I had all this pent-up energy—just bubbling up inside. Once we kissed and, you know, we let that out on one another I felt more balanced.” Sam’s fingers tighten around mine. “I’m not really experienced in things like this. I hope I haven’t ruined the dynamics in the house or something.”
He shifts toward me and clasps a hand behind my neck. “God no, Morgan. Dylan told you that first night. We’re here for you in any way you need.”
His tongue darts out, licking his lips and for the second time I feel like I could fall into a man. When I don’t respond with anything other than a rapid heartbeat and shortened breath, he tugs me into his arms until I’ve got my back pressed against his chest. His feet bookend mine, soles burning against the hot fire, and my dress has shifted up, exposing my upper thighs. I feel the length of his hardness against my lower back and I fight the urge to press into it.
Why? Because this is crazy. I feel crazy.
Slowly, Sam begins to trail his fingers up and down my arms, leaving a blaze of goosebumps in their wake. His breath is hot against my neck and he whispers in my ear. “Let it go, baby. All that doubt and anxiety. You’re carrying the weight of the past on your back and it’s a boulder that will take you down.”