Page 70 of Next in Line
“Sam!” I cry in shock, and then he jerks his head up and rocks his hips into me in one smooth thrust. He’s slow and steady at first, his eyes enjoying the sight of me leaning back, his body on sensory overload as we both embrace the skin-on-skin contact.
As his pace quickens, one of my arms is braced on his shoulder and the other is braced on the mirror behind me. He smoothly stokes the orgasm I had earlier like a fire of embers in need of a little puff of oxygen. And when the flames finally take flight inside me, he speeds up his motions, thrusting into me in perfect progression.
Our eyes remain locked on each other. Every movement feeling right and perfect. Connected. Sam and I are connected, not just sexually but emotionally as well. He knows what I need and gives it to me without even asking.
My orgasm is on the precipice, and I nod once at him. Without a word, he moves faster inside me, hurrying his own release so we can come together this time. And all of it—the bareness, the connection, the emotions of the evening—feels completely overwhelming. As though I need them to stop and never stop all at the same time.
I cry out when everything inside me tenses and releases. I sit up to bury my face in his neck as the climax shoots through me with no mercy. Seconds later, Sam groans a deep, vibrating sound, and then I feel himself let go inside me.
Our breaths are ragged and loud in the quiet of the bathroom as he trembles in my arms, his forehead slick with sweat, and my dress rucked up between us. With a quiet exhale, he pulls out of me, and I can feel his seed dripping between my legs.
He pulls his pants up and grabs some tissues on the counter, gently swiping between my legs until I’m no longer drenched. His face looks troubled as he bites his lip and throws the paper away.
“I’m sorry, Maggie.”
“What are you sorry for?” I ask, lowering myself off the sink and watching him in confusion.
“That should have never happened.”
I huff out an arguing laugh. “I’m pretty sure I made it happen.”
He swallows as if there’s a knife down his throat. “I know, but it really shouldn’t have happened.”
A horrifying thought crosses my mind. “Are you trying to tell me you’re not clean or something?”
His face falls. “What? Fuck no. I’m clean. Maggie, I’m fucking clean.” He takes a step toward me and grabs my face in his hands. “I swear to fuck I’m clean.”
“Then why do you look completely freaked out right now?” I ask, my eyes dancing all over his features.
He inhales through his nose, and I can hear a shuddering in his chest as he leans in and kisses me on the forehead. “Because you’re killing me.”
“What?” I ask, yanking out of his hands with annoyance. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I need to go. I’m going to tell Miles I’m not feeling well. I can’t be around you and him at the same time. Not anymore.”
“Not anymore?” I ask, reaching down and grabbing my tights from off the floor. “What are you talking about? What’s changed, Sam?”
He moves to the door and stares back at me with a grave look on his face. “Everything.”
And without another word, he leaves me in the women’s restroom of Pearl Street Pub more confused than ever before.
Well, This Day Was A Waste of Bait
Monday morning comes, and Miles comes striding into my office bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. “Hey man, feeling better?” he asks, dropping into the seat on the other side of my desk.
I push a hand through my hair and try to play it cool. “Yeah, sorry I bailed Friday night. One of those food trucks didn’t agree with my stomach.” I lie, which honestly should feel like second nature by now.
“That’s all right. Megan was in a mood for the rest of the night anyway, so our pub crawl turned into a pub fail, and we called it early as well.”
I nod and wince as I think about the million different times I wanted to text Maggie over the weekend but then couldn’t bring myself to do it. Regardless of what happened Friday night, she’s still after her ex, and I’m still who I am. And now that I’ve taken over the business, it’s definitely not the time for distractions.
“Did you think Meg was okay Friday night? She seemed kind of weird,” Miles states, propping his boots up on the edge of my desk and biting into a cookie he brought in from the comfort center.
“How so?” I ask, my arms tensing.
“Just like…emotional. I tried to get Kate to give me some dirt because she clearly knows something, but she’s a locked vault.”
I shrug my shoulders slowly. “I don’t know, man.”
