Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 81986 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81986 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
I laughed a little at his curse but also his tenacity. And truth. If he’d tried to find some greater purpose to the tragedies of my life, I would have resisted. Instead, he’d cried with me and admitted life sucked.
“You’re here. That helps.” Eyes finally drying, I leaned into him.
“I can do that. I can be here.” When he said it like that, slowly and deliberately, like a promise, I believed him. And maybe he’d show up like this for any friend or person in need, but when he held me close and kissed my temple, he made me feel like the only thing that mattered in the universe. “What do you need, Worth?”
“You.” The admission slid free surprisingly easily. “Take me home. Make me forget about all this for a while. Make love to me.”
I’d never called it that, but telling Sam I wanted to get fucked felt unnecessarily crude. And inaccurate. I wanted to not think, wanted my teeth to rattle and bones to shake, but more than any physical sensation, I wanted the emotional solace only Sam seemed to provide.
Make love. A slow smile bloomed across Sam’s face. “I can do that.”
Chapter Sixteen
Worth
Sam kissed me in the great outdoors at the Make-Out Mountain overlook as he held me tightly, the late-afternoon sun beating down, and he kissed me in the car before we headed back to Safe Harbor. Soft kisses. Little promises. Anticipation. And by the time we stumbled into the house, our kisses had turned more urgent.
“You taste like cherries.” Sam laughed against my mouth as he shut the side door that led to the kitchen with his foot. Grinning, he lifted our linked hands to his lips, kissing the cherry-juice stains.
And I couldn’t help but chuckle along. “We’re both a mess.”
“I do have a fancy shower.” Sam tugged me toward the stairs. “Come on.”
“Think Delilah will be okay with Buttercup?” I asked. The dog had scampered in ahead of us and had presently installed herself on the sofa in the living room, looking very much uninterested in her humans making a dash for the stairs. Sam’s seldom-seen cat was lurking on the back of the couch at the other end.
“It’s Buttercup I worry about.” Sam gave a fond look to his large, sleek Siamese, who always managed to look like she was dreaming up recipes for my internal organs. She’d been rather vocal during Buttercup’s first few days, but the protests seemed to be lessening with fewer yowls. “But so far so good. Queen Kitty hasn’t declared war.”
“No war is good.” I spared a last glance at the unlikely animal duo before letting Sam lead me the rest of the way to his bathroom. The room seemed far larger than its attic confines, and its modern sensibilities, with the walk-in glass shower and deep, Japanese-style tub, never failed to relax me even when the rest of the house continued to make me slightly wary. I hadn’t worked up the courage to open the door to my old room, but in the third-floor bathroom, I didn’t have to think about anything other than how damn good Sam looked while peeling off his rumpled church clothes.
I paused my own undressing efforts to watch Sam. I’d slept next to him for a week now, made out with him, but I hadn’t truly seen him naked apart from incidental glances while changing. Rather than avert my gaze this time, I feasted on his pale, freckled skin, lean muscles, and a surprising amount of reddish-brown fuzz on his chest and belly. Clothed, he had a slightly narrower build than me, but naked, there was nothing delicate about him. Powerful thighs and calves from all the time on his feet, muscled forearms from hefting supplies, and a softness to his belly from having more important things to worry about than ab definition.
“God. Sam…” I wanted to sink to my knees right there, bury my face in his stomach, let him stroke my hair like he had when I’d cried. My mouth watered, needing the weight of his long, slightly curved cock on my tongue. But I settled for whistling appreciatively. “Damn. You’re hot.”
“I’m sure San Francisco has far hotter.” A flush crept across Sam’s bare chest. Perhaps he was one of those people who blushed all over when they came. I couldn’t wait to find out.
“They don’t have you.” Of that, I was sure. Not that big cities lacked good people, but Sam Bookman was one of a kind. Hot, wholesome, sexy, bossy, nurturing, and entirely unaware of his own charms.
“True,” Sam said lightly as he opened a white paper sack sitting on the sink.
“Tyson’s Drugstore is still in business?” I cackled. I loved that Sam had somehow snuck in condoms and lube—on a Sunday, no less. When he’d said he wanted to be the best I’d ever had, I’d believed him, but his dedication to the cause was mighty impressive. “You’re a brave man. Kids used to go three towns over to avoid getting their condoms in town.”