Birds of California(48)

“Fee,” he says, his breath hot through the fabric of her underwear, “let me, okay?”

So. She lets him.

He takes his time about it, his hands and his mouth and his body pinning her down against the bed, her heel sliding against his back. He’s thorough. Fiona clutches at her hair, at his shoulders, at the mattress, trying not to make an embarrassing amount of noise.

She overcorrects, probably: after a couple of minutes he glances up at her, his brow creased like he’s worried she’s running lines for A Doll’s House in her head. He’s got two fingers curled inside her as he draws slow, purposeful circles with the flat of his tongue. “That okay?” he asks against her skin.

Fiona nods up at the ceiling. “It’s not terrible,” she allows, breathless, then squeezes her eyes shut and immediately comes apart in his hands.

When she opens her eyes again, Sam is grinning at her. His hair is sticking up every which way. “Was that—?” he asks, looking openly delighted with himself. “I mean, did you just—?”

“Maybe,” Fiona says, already yanking at his shoulders. The pleasure is still fizzing wildly through her, like her whole body is full of seawater. She wants to grab him like a life raft and hold. “Come up here.”

“In a minute,” Sam says, still smiling his curly smile against the inside of her thigh—and fuck, the way he’s looking at her. “I want to enjoy this.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re going to enjoy it,” she promises, hoping she sounds more confident than she feels. As much as she’s spent the last few days trying to convince both of them otherwise, the truth is she’s a little overwhelmed by him, Sam Fox with his Big Three TV show and his smile and his six-pack, all the pretty girls he’s probably seeing. She’s afraid of accidentally getting her heart broken. She’s afraid of letting him know he could.

He’s still got his jeans on, the hot length of him pressed against her as he works his way back up the mattress. Fiona reaches for his zipper with clumsy hands, pulling at them and at his boxers.

At least, she’s expecting to pull at his boxers, before she realizes all at once that he isn’t wearing any.

“Oh my god,” she says, and just like that she isn’t overwhelmed anymore. God, he is a ridiculous person. “Are you seriously one of those guys who thinks he’s too cool for underwear?”

Sam sighs theatrically. “I’m not too cool for anything, thank you,” he says. “I just—”

“I’m confused, though, because you were wearing them the other night. So this is a mystery.”

“Yeah, better call up Robert Stack.” Sam fixes her with a withering look. “I’m sorry, sweet pea, would you have stayed the night if I had strolled in here bare-assed for a long winter’s nap?”

Fiona nods. “Point taken.” She’s got her hand around him now, stroking experimentally. His skin is very, very warm. “So is this like a laundry thing, or—”

“Oh my god, fuck you,” he says, but also he’s thrusting into her palm so she doesn’t actually think he’s too mad about it. “Brad Pitt doesn’t wear underwear, for the record.”

Fiona bursts out laughing. “How do you know that?” she asks. “I mean, who told you that? Sam, I don’t think that’s true.”

“It’s true,” he says firmly. He leans over and roots around in the nightstand until he comes up with a condom, ripping the foil open with his teeth and working it on. Fiona sinks her teeth into her bottom lip as she watches—his hand on his cock and the muscle bunching in his stomach, the way he lines himself up close enough so she can just barely feel him. He stays there a long time, teasing, only just grazing the place where she needs him to be. Fiona tries to move, but he’s stronger than he looks.

“Do you want to make fun of me some more?” he asks quietly, the ghost of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Because if you want we could just call this whole thing off, maybe go get some frozen yogurt, and you could try out some more of your hilarious materi—”

“Shut up,” Fiona mutters fiercely. “Sam.”

Sam grins and lets go.

This time she does gasp: the size and the stretch of him, the rangy weight of his body on top of her. “That okay?” he murmurs into her hair.

“Yeah.” It’s better than okay, if she’s being honest—the slow, purposeful way he’s moving inside her, like there’s nowhere on earth he’d rather be. Fiona shifts her hips. “I—yes.”

He smiles then, or at least it sounds that way. “Okay.”

It goes on like that for a while, his mouth on her jaw and his hands everywhere he can reach her, her waist and her thighs and her hair. “Wanna see you,” he tells her finally, rolling them so she’s on top, and before Fiona can think of anything to say to that his fingers are between her legs and she’s coming again, no warning, shocked by the speed and the intensity of it. “Oh my god,” she says. “Oh my god, Sam.” She catches her breath, lifts her head to look at him. “Don’t be smug.”

Sam laughs up at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I’m a little smug,” he says.

“Yeah.” Fiona swallows. “Keep going,” she murmurs, rocking her hips to encourage him. Up close he’s not entirely perfect, with a tiny acne scar near his hairline she’s never noticed before and the beginnings of crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes. She reaches down and collects his wandering hands, curling her fingers around his wrists and pushing them up against the pillows. Sam’s eyes get very dark.