Sex & Sours Page 20

  I dropped my sunglasses to glare at him.

  “Is there something offensive about fresh air and trees?”

  “You used to live in Vegas, and you’re going to lecture me about the joys of fresh air and trees?”

  “My parents loved gardening. I spent a lot of time growing up outside, learning about herbs and the virtues of a green thumb.”

  “I had no idea. You spend so much time in the bar.”

  Pointing to himself, he said, “Workaholic, remember? I enjoy pushing myself. But it doesn’t leave much time for a life.”

  Another round of the garden and (I fucking hated to admit it) my head actually felt clearer. Damn fresh air. Damn Sam and his smartness.

  “Herbs, huh? Guess you’re a whiz in the kitchen, too?”

  “You’d be mistaken, I’m afraid.”

  I stopped in my tracks. “Wait. Really?”

  He nodded.

  “The great Sam Cooper has a flaw? I must notify the news.”

  He chuckled, rough and low. It was the one he let out when he was truly amused. I didn’t have the brainpower to even tell myself off for cataloging them. Instead, I had a brilliant idea. “Ok. Since you can’t cook, and we’ve established last night was your fault—” I said.

  “Oh, we did, did we?”

  “—you need to take me to breakfast.” Shit, that sounded like a date. “Since I figure we’re friends now.” Not better. Jesus, hungover me sucked at this.

  “Are we?” And goddamn it, why did he have to sound so earnest?

  “Sure.” Abort. Abort.

  I grabbed his arm and started walking us towards a great brunch spot nearby. “Come on. I have a craving for French toast.”

  “Oh, my favorite.”

  Damn he was cute. I made sure to walk with some distance between us. Not too much, but, like, a friendly amount. Whatever the fuck that was.

  Afterward, I should have gone home. Really, what were we doing? We never hung out outside of work. But we were friends now (no thanks to my alcohol-addled brain for letting that term slip), and friends spent time together outside of work, right?

  Even if they also happened to be fucking.

  And look. It wasn’t that I hadn’t had friends before. I’ve had many. Of varying genders and situations.

  So, why did whatever this was with Sam feel so different?

  It felt like a secret to admit that I kind of understood him. I recognized that stubborn streak and need to prove yourself. To cut your own path, regardless of what stood in your way.

  He cared about people, about what they needed, how they should be treated. That was easy to see in how he approached his work, his customers, his brother, hell, even me (now).

  Sure, there were times that he was quiet or overly serious or a little stuffy; but could I really judge him all that harshly when I was at the other end of that spectrum?

  He’d judged me too fast in the beginning, but I was guilty of the same to him. And, if the tables had been turned and I was about to face off with someone who had done one of my brothers dirty for years (and ok, I didn’t think Sam or Harry would say that about me, but come on, I had overstepped on occasion. I wasn’t completely blind to that), I would have acted the same way as Sam. Actually, I probably would have been worse.

  So, yeah. We were friends. Who fucked.

  And who apparently went on garden walks and brunched and then visited a museum.

  It was honestly the city’s fault. The Art Institute was. Right. There. And it was amazing. You live here and not visit. I dare you.

  And ok, maybe it was a little more touristy than, say, the Museum of Contemporary Art, but (and forgive me, this was just my personal preference) I liked the classics. I know. Me. A lover of the classics over modern.

  I got the hypocrisy.

  Sam, it happened, was a fan of them as well, but that was far less surprising. So, we walked over and enjoyed the peace of a mid-Monday crowd.

  As much as I loved it there, it had honestly been a while since I’d visited because Hannah never enjoyed it. She acknowledged its place but cared more about local artists and the traveling exhibits that showed at the MCA (which I one hundred percent supported).

  But still. The classics.

  I don’t know what I expected from Sam. See, the way I saw it, creativity was a personal journey. It’s your way of expressing yourself. What you liked in art and what you created artistically was unique.

  So, I was curious to see how Sam approached it.

  The way I liked to experience museums usually annoyed people (see: Hannah). I wandered aimlessly, sometimes doubling back on myself, letting my eyes roam until something caught my eye, and I’d have to get closer. Take it in. On and on until I’d had my fill or my time was up.

  I didn’t want to wax poetic about the influences and why this piece worked and why that didn’t, what the style was, or what was so revolutionary about the time period or what the artist intended to say.

  I just liked what I liked. Simple as that.

  Mimi would probably joke that that should be the slogan of my life. She probably had, and I’d taken it as a personal mantra.

  Sam, I was pleased to discover, was as studious and attentive as always, quietly taking in each piece, occasionally pausing but never overstaying his welcome. The time passed quickly as we quietly wandered from room to room, Sam not hovering but never too far from me. It was nice.

  I’d checked in with him once, only to be told, “I’ll be quite alright here without you, you know.” At that, a breath had escaped me, larger than the one I'd remembered taking. It was like relaxing a muscle I’d held tight for a long time.

  And if we did stop at the same piece, he always had something insightful to say. It was comfortable to continue like that for an hour or two, periodically noticing him nearby, always close.

  The quiet was nice. I’d forgotten just how refreshing it could be.

  I liked that Sam was a silent observer.

  I liked even more becoming his silent observer.

  The Art Institute was always beautiful. Warm and comforting, like one of Mimi’s desserts. I knew these rooms as well as my parent’s house.

  Between pieces, I found myself taking as many moments to admire Sam as I did the artwork. It wasn’t difficult to see the beauty there, either.

  Did I want to kiss the soft, contemplative look off his face every time I saw it? Hell yes. (Sometimes the light would shine off of the small hoop in his ear and I was tempted to walk over and pull it between my teeth). But it was more than that, and fuck, wasn’t I in the perfect place for that realisation? More than the strong nose and hypnotic eyes and broad curve of his shoulder; he was gorgeous in his focus. His care. His passion.

  Soon, I was watching him more than the art. Over the last (what had it been now?) four weeks, my understanding of him had evolved. The still, controlled way he held himself had gone from cold to composed. Sterile to pensive. I’d been mistaken, in the beginning, to think that he didn’t express anything. He did; you just had to know what you were looking for.

  The way his fingers would drag under his lower lip when he was turning a decision over. The slightest twitch in his right brow when he was surprised but trying to hide it. How a slow blink and tight smile would signal that he didn’t like the person he was talking to, despite the polite words. The way he spoke in short, sharp sentences (sometimes only a single word in a low, gruff mumble) whenever he was burning with anger.

  The way he said my name. Conveying so much in three syllables.

  Huh. What do you know? I might actually like him.

  31

  Sam

  The water was a steady stream of warmth on my back, Tiffany’s skin hotter against my own as we kissed roughly under the shower spray. Her grip tightened on my ass as I pressed her against the tiles, and she broke our kiss with a gasp as I trailed my lips along her jaw, teasing the extremely sensitive skin below her ear with the scrape of my teeth.

  With a growl,
Tiffany spun us around, and I had barely enough time to brace myself for the cold before the tiles hit my back.

  “You have a seriously great ass. Been driving me wild,” she said, sinking to her knees and palming the tight muscles with her hands.

  Thinking quickly, I reached above my head and redirected the showerhead until the spray hit me on the chest, sparing her the force of the water. Like this, the rivets tickled my stomach like fingertips, warm and insistent, like her hands were everywhere on me.

  She teased a single finger down the cleft of my ass, humming a pleased little sound when I bucked and clenched. I’d not had a woman do that before, but it was definitely something I’d thought about, and I was hard within seconds. “Fuck. You like that, don’t you?”

  Then, with her fingers teasing me from behind, she engulfed my dick in the hot wetness of her mouth, tongue laving along my shaft as she bobbed. Damn, she was incredibly good at that.

  When she swirled her tongue around the tip and moaned, I could have sworn the vibrations reverberated all the way through my spine.

  I knew what I wanted, but I hesitated to ask for it. It meant sharing something with Tiffany that I’d kept to myself, letting her know me in a way no one else did. And that was where I paused. Because who else knew me the way she already did? What was one step further than where we were already?

  When she pulled off with an obscene pop to lick down past my balls, teasing the tender skin, I felt white hot lust rip through me until I was convinced I had briefly passed out.

  She pulled off, a question in her eyes as she stroked, and, to answer her, I pulled at the hand that had been gripping my hip, dipping my head down to suck at two of her fingers, delighting in the way her eyes widened with lust. Her smile grew lascivious when I removed them and lowered her hand back to my ass where I wanted it. “Would you finger me?” I asked, my voice raw and needy.

  She dropped her forehead to my hip. “Fuck, Sam. You don’t know how hot that is.”

  I rocked against her, sliding my dick against her cheek and moaning when she sucked a deep bruise on the sensitive skin beside it. “Is that a yes?”

  “Fuck, you’re so sexy. Yes.” She pulled back from the spray to look up at me, her hair darkened from the assault of the water and eyes glazed with lust, like a wet dream come to life. I gently brushed her drenched hair away from her face, stunned at her beauty. “Have you done this before?” she asked.

  I felt giddy and breathless, my skin aflame. “By myself. Have you?”

  “A few times. Do you have lube?”

  My skin flushed from cheeks to chest. I reached over to a small alcove in the wall, grabbed it, and passed it down to her. It normally stayed in my bedside table, but I was extremely glad that I’d forgotten to return it there yesterday.

  She took the bottle from me, eyes fluttering around a moan before staring up at me as though I’d just handed her a winning lottery ticket. “You’re somethin’ else, honey.” My dick twitched as she poured lube onto her fingers, and the sight alone pushed me closer to the edge. I took a few long, steadying breaths.

  If I was something else, she was beyond comprehension. Even in my wildest experiences, I’d never felt brave enough to express my fantasies. With Tiffany, I wanted to explore all of them. Wanted to know what turned her on and be the one to give it to her.

  “You look so fucking good; just the thought of it is getting you off, isn’t it? I don’t even need to touch you.” She bent forward, licking a hot stripe from root to tip as her fingers massaged the tight ring of muscle.

  She dropped her smile back around my dick, sucking in earnest while she began to ease a finger into me gently.

  My head roughly thudded back against the shower wall. This was the hottest thing to happen to me, and I was torn between watching her and letting my arousal burn me into cinders.

  She held me firm in her grasp, my body at her complete whim. Every choked sound ripped from me as I pulsed with broken, needy little thrusts into her. My hands fell limply to her shoulders, content to let her set the pace, have the control.

  When a second finger joined the first, I was sure I would combust. I could feel everything tightening, peaking, and at the curve of her fingers against that perfect spot, the one I could barely reach myself. I was undone, pulsing hot and heavy into her mouth. My shrieked orgasm was loud in my ears, and every fiber of my being was now completely lost and spent.

  I didn’t know how I continued standing. Didn’t know how I’d get out of my shower, even to walk the few feet to crash on my mattress. Barely knew how I was processing thoughts right now. As my brain rebooted, I became aware of Tiffany still kneeling on the floor of the shower, nuzzled into my hip, while I tenderly stroked her hair.

  “You’re incredible.” The words were barely above a whisper, and as soon as they left my lips, I panicked. It was the closest to an endearment as we’d gotten, and I wasn’t sure I hadn’t crossed a line.

  “Honey, I could say the same thing about you.” The sugar-sweet drawl that crept into her voice on occasion caused me to open my eyes to gaze at her. She’d collapsed back so that she was sitting on the floor of the shower, eyes glazed as if she’d been the one to have the mind-bending orgasm. “Damn, Sam.”

  Damn, indeed.

  After stumbling our way out of the shower, we dried ourselves as best we could in our current states and made the half dozen steps to crash next to each other on my bed.

  “That was fucking hot. Was it … what you expected?” It was the first time I’d heard her as anything other than confident.

  “I think the results speak for themselves,” I said with a lighthearted laugh. “Really makes you wonder why sodomy isn’t more popular.”

  The mattress shook with the rhythm of her laughter, and the still relaxed state of my mind had me reaching over to pull her closer until she was draped over my side.

  I breathed in the soft, floral scent of her hair, running my fingers along the shaved side, the feel of it fine like fur, and heard her sigh softly. Her warm breath ghosted along my damp skin as she spoke, “Religion ruining it for the rest of us.”

  “That’s a rather pointed statement. Bad memories?”

  She hummed. “You could say that. I spent years going to Sunday school.”

  “That explains so much about you. And now you don’t believe?”

  “Oh, I believe there’s something out there, but they’re probably an asshole.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “They created this incredible thing, the planets, the universe, mountains, animals, people, and then what? They got bored and fucked off, or even worse, are just up there watching all this fucked up shit happening and not doing a damn thing to stop it.”

  “What if it’s a lesson in humility? In human redemption?”

  “Catholic?” she asked.

  “On my mother’s side.”

  “Funny,” she chuckled. “Does that mean I have to call you Saint Sam now?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  There was a teasing scoff. “Where’s your sense of fun?”

  “I’m fairly sure you swallowed it in the shower.”

  Watching her gape at me in shock was almost as satisfying as the raucous laughter that followed.

  Our stomachs rumbled, and I joined in her laughter. “Not a word,” I said as I reluctantly swung my legs off the bed and pulled a pair of loose sweatpants on. I hadn’t eaten in hours and could only imagine Tiffany was in the same position. Padding softly into the kitchen, I mentally checked off our options. I was far too tired to cook and was sure we’d both fall asleep before any form of take-out arrived.

  Blinking against the bright light of the fridge, I cataloged a handful of items that would work—dates, strawberries, prosciutto, a few cheeses. After piling a generous amount on a plate, I added a handful of cashews and crackers and walked it back to the bedroom, where Tiffany sat propped against the headboard, the bedside lamp casting ethereal shadows across her sharp features.r />
  “Eating in bed, Sam? You rebel.”

  Climbing in beside her, I leaned over to place a teasing kiss on her lips, careful not to jolt the plate in my hands. “Maybe you bring it out in me.”

  Her lips chased mine, and we kissed once, then twice more before parting. Tiffany passed a wry glance at the assortment. “Nice spread.”

  I moved to stand. “Should I whip up a lasagna, then?”

  Her grip around my wrist halted any further movement. “Don’t you dare. Get back here.”

  We ate, passing stories of our childhoods, our families, our first experiences in bartending. Tiffany had a wonderful way of crafting a story, embellishing with a natural flair that would make a comedian jealous. I’d known a number of entrepreneurs take courses on public speaking to learn the ease with which she spoke.

  “Then, there was the time Audrey caught me in the storeroom with the Don Julio delivery woman.”

  “Please tell me you’re joking.”

  “What? I cleaned up afterward.”

  “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

  She playfully poked my side. “Excuse me, but how many times have we fucked in your office? Mr. ‘you better be quiet, someone will hear you’.” I felt her body tremble with soft laughter. “Besides, haven’t you worked in Vegas? Surely, you’ve seen some strange shit.”

  That was an understatement. I chuckled. “There might be a few stories.”

  When I added nothing further, she rolled her eyes jovially. “Fine, don’t tell me.” The food was long gone, and we’d settled in beside each other, a small distance between us. I wondered if she might leave. I hoped she wouldn’t.

  It was easier to forget like this, that we weren’t coworkers, that I didn’t have to separate the bar from us. Here, we were just two people sharing space. I could leave all that behind.

  “I hope you’re proud of yourself,” she said, apropos of nothing. At first, I assumed it was a tease, but her tone was soft and tender. “No matter how it ended, you still did all that work, started those bars, and made a name for yourself. You might not have them now, but you’ll always know what you’re capable of. And you’ve been able to carve out a second chance for yourself. Not a lot of people get that.” Her body, so close to mine, and her words, so intimately whispered in the dark, hit me with unexpected force.