Chapter Seven
Ian
Is that all?
I couldn’t fucking get Sam’s casual words out of my head.
I spent days—nearly a full week—worrying about how to tell her about my alcoholism. I practically put on a goddamn crash helmet, and braced myself for brutal disappointment when I shared one of the most important and private parts of my life. And instead of pointing to the door and wishing me well, Sam tilted that beautiful head of hers, nailed me with her brilliant green eyes and smiled. Told me that she thought it was great.
And that fucking kiss—perfection. Magic. I hadn’t dared stand up after she gave me one last kiss and walked away. One, because I wanted to watch the sway of her curvy body as she headed toward the exit. That heart-shaped ass and those shapely thighs moving with every step. And two, my cock was so fucking hard that I was surprised when I didn’t find the imprint of a zipper along my shaft when I went to the bathroom later. At that moment, even after those hot kisses, it somehow seemed like bad manners to sport major wood, there at the senior center after knitting class.
But that first kiss. That kiss was an affirmation. I didn’t think I’d ever forget it. I wanted more. And I would do my level best to get it, I decided.
Sam Stanfield’s house was the exact opposite of mine—instead of the sterile condo, a perfect rectangular slot for single guys to keep their stuff, she had a spacious two-story Victorian house, rambling and a little shabby, painted a cheerful yellow. Lace curtains—curtains that looked handmade—hung in all the windows, and a windchime clanged its mellow tune in the cool evening breeze. Under my feet, the floorboards of the porch squeaked noisily, like the house’s welcoming committee.
I liked it, I decided. Anything that was her, anything that reminded me of her, I liked. And this house, this warm and interesting place full of character and noise, felt like her all over.
I hadn’t even reached the front door—no bell, just an old-fashioned knocker—when a dog barked loudly inside.
“Marge,” a voice—Sam’s voice—shouted, as feet softly thumped on wooden stairs. “Go lay down, Marge, it’s fine.”
I took a deep breath as the footsteps neared the door, and there was no stopping the smile that bloomed across my face as she swung the door open. She grinned, too, and blushed again. It was fucking intoxicating, that blush—and I couldn’t wait to kiss her cheeks while she did it, to feel the heat of that flushing skin against my lips.
“You’re here,” she breathed. She opened the door wider and gestured inside. “Come on in.”
I liked the inside even more than the outside—artwork everywhere, old family photos, sun-faded rugs and unpainted wood. It was golden and beautiful, and full of life. Everything my place, with its overwhelming cleanness and sterile white walls, wasn’t.
“I haven’t eaten dinner yet,” she said as she plopped down onto the couch, propping her feet up on the coffee table. I thought we could order a pi—"
Pizza, I assumed, but I cut the last words off with my lips as I moved in for a long, hot kiss. I couldn’t wait, not in this place, not with this woman. And not now, when I knew that she liked me for exactly who I was—who I really was, rough spots and all. Her arms curled around my neck as I maneuvered her onto her back, our bodies pressed together as I nipped and licked and explored that full, sensual mouth.
“Sorry,” I murmured as I broke away, enjoying the dazed look on her face. “I interrupted again. I couldn’t wait to kiss you.”
“Pizza,” she finished weakly, her arms still locked around my neck.
I felt the light press of her fingertips, those blunt dye-stained nails, on the nape of my neck and didn’t bother to hide the needy, full-body shudder that rolled through me, or the slowly growing erection that pressed insistently against the vee between her legs.
“You know what, it’s okay,” she murmured huskily. “Dinner can wait. The pizza place is open late.” She looked up at me, biting her lower lip in an adorably shy manner. “My bedroom is upstairs. . . if you’d like to see it.”
I wasn’t about to refuse such an open invitation, and it didn’t take us long to make it up to her room, where I immediately pressed her down onto the middle of the bed to pick up where we’d left off downstairs. Her legs wound around my hips as she dragged me in again for another kiss, teeth and tongues and gasping sighs as we devoured each other.
I’m going to eat her alive, I thought desperately. And maybe she was going to do the same to me and I was completely okay with that.
I rocked my dick against the soft place between her legs, savoring each sigh as I bumped up against the center of her pleasure, grinding harder and harder until she gasped for breath in my ear as I sucked fiercely on the side of her neck. My hands roamed everywhere, up and down the curves of her torso, until I reached up to cup one of her round, luscious breasts and squeezed the firm flesh.
She arched into my touch, and I flicked my thumb across the rapidly hardening nipple, visible through the thin cotton of her shirt. I reached down to toy with the hem of her shirt, and she heard the silent message loud and clear. Together, we shucked the top away, then her blue jeans, until she wore just a plain white bra and panties.
“Sorry, I didn’t bust out the matching stuff today,” she said, voice breathy as I pressed open-mouthed kisses to the tops of her breasts and she twined her fingers in my hair to keep my mouth close.
I pulled one bra cup aside, admiring the hard pink nipple for a long moment before ducking down to suck it into my mouth. “I don’t mind,” I said around the warm flesh pressing against my tongue. My other hand slid down between her thighs, fingers caressing the gentle swell of her folds over the pink floral cotton. “You look fucking sexy just the way you are.”
My fingers moved to the other breast, yanking the cup aside to plump and pinch the firm nipple, eliciting soft gasps from Sam as her hips rose to meet my seeking fingers. The fingers that stroked along her inner thighs, moving just inside the elastic band of her panties, inching closer and closer until my knuckles brushed lightly against her pulsing clit.
“Tell me what you want, Samantha,” I said between soft kisses on her breasts, her collarbone, her neck—wanting to be sure this hunger was mutual. “My fingers? My tongue?”
“Yes.” Her voice was a sigh as she moved her hips in time with my gentle strokes. She reached down, hooking her fingers in the waistband of her panties. “Your fingers and your tongue.”
I chuckled as I moved lower, pressing a kiss against the front of her panties, breathing in her sweet smell, my mouthwatering as I pictured what I was about to do to her. “Yes, ma’am.”