The suite has a small living room with a table, couch, and chair. After rinsing my face and using the toothpaste on the counter and my index finger to brush my teeth, I find an extra blanket and pillow in the closet across from the bathroom. From the shadow of the bathroom light, I can see that one of the beds is messed up, which causes me to realize why Gabe came back to the hotel. Obviously, he had a booty call in between the concert and the promotion party.
Back in the living room, after shutting off my nonstop vibrating phone without looking at it, I remove the little couch pillows and spread out the blanket. The couch is shorter than most. I just fit. Once I lie down, confusing thoughts of the past two days tumble through my head. Sam cuddling with me overnight on the bus. Bryce showing up. Bryce getting drunk. Bryce being a jerk all day. Sam’s passionate kiss. Bryce’s lifeless kiss.
Needing the thoughts to stop, I reach for the TV remote and watch infomercials for over an hour. I finally fall asleep, pleasantly dreaming of vacuum cleaners and omelet pans.
“Peyton,” someone whispers. I try to ignore it and stay in my mindless dreams. A hand gently shakes my shoulder and the “Peyton” whisper sounds again. I slowly open my eyes. The TV is still on, casting the room in shadows. Someone is bent over me.
I gasp slightly, but the shadow of curls on top of his head gives my tired brain the only clue I need. I quickly scramble up into a sitting position. “What are you doing here?”
Sam lowers himself onto the small coffee table and we’re face-to-face. The light from the TV illuminates one side of him. Shadows form under the curve of his cheekbone, beneath his full bottom lip, and below one muscled pectoral. With all the curves and ridges, he’s like a living sculpture. Why is his shirt off?
He leans just the slightest closer. “This is my room.”
“Really?” I say in a confused tone, pulling my gaze from his chest. “Gabe rooms with Romeo.”
His smirk flashes in the grayness. “Apparently, Romeo woke in the middle of the night to a woman screaming Gabe’s name. Since we’re the single ones, he booted Gabe to my room this morning.”
“Oh,” I say, staring at the lush curve of his lips. The urge to reach out and touch them to see if they’re as soft as they look overwhelms me. The urge must come from the fact I’m half asleep. Wake the hell up, Peyton!
He leans a little closer to me. “I should ask you the same thing. Why are you here?”
Because my boyfriend thinks I owe him sex pops into my mind. “I-I don’t want to talk about it.”
I can’t help notice his intent look of interest. “Well, though it’s past four in the morning, I thought you might want one of the beds. Gabe went home with his lady friend.”
The girl in the short dress flashes in my mind. “Um, no thanks. Gabe and his lady friend already used one bed.”
“Oh,” he says, his full lips turning down. “Then take my bed. I’ll take the couch.”
I shake my head. “It’s too small for you. I barely fit.”
“I’ve slept on worse. I insist.”
“Go to bed, Sam. I’m fine.”
“Peyton, take the bed.”
“Go. To. Bed. Sam,” I say, my jaw suddenly tight.
“You still mad about last night?” He sighs and leans back. “Listen, I was drunker than I admitted, and there’s too much be-tween us already. Your boyfriend, my brother, the past . . . making things worse was stupid.”
I look away into the shadows of the room as my chin starts quivering. Damn. I’m becoming an emotional mess.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
My chin quivers more at the concern in his tone.
Sam kneels in front of me, pulling me into his arms. “Shit, Peyton. Don’t look like that. It’s killing me.” He brings me closer to him, rubbing his damp curls along my collarbone.
I put my hands on his shoulders to push him away, but somehow I can’t. The sensation of skin against mine—why the hell is his shirt off?—and the way his hands span my back renders me immobile. The sleepiness of my body disintegrates and I’m more than awake. I’m alive. With a sudden burning lust.
“Forgive me?” he asks, and his lips brush my neck, sending a wave of tingles across my skin and down to the bottom of my belly.
Without thinking, I slide my hands over his shoulders, using my palms to caress the curve of his muscles.
“Peyton?” he whispers, raising his head.
His whisper and the memory it invokes cause chills to run along my skin. I close my eyes, hoping that not responding will be enough to stop what feels inevitable, to stop what I suddenly desperately want. Beyond the desire, a warm rush of tenderness for him flows through me.
“Peyton?” he repeats, and the word whispers air across my lips. The soft breeze of it on my skin is like a prelude to a kiss, like an intro to a lush, pounding, sensual song.
He doesn’t move, though. Yet I can sense him. Feel him close. Too close. Unable to help myself, I lean forward and brush my lips against his, so softly and so quickly that aside from the jolt of want it creates inside me, it’s as though it may not have happened.
The arms around me tremble, and the air snaps with tangible energy as his chest rises with a huge inhale before his mouth crushes mine.
A sigh escapes me. This feels right. Perfect. Wonderful.
We kiss and kiss and kiss. At each touch of our lips and tongues, we grow more frantic. With each kiss, he moves up and closer until I’m lying over the arm of the couch, his muscled weight pressed into me, his belt buckle pressed into my stomach, his hands slowly running up and down my sides. His gentle touch paired with his desperate, fierce lips makes me feel cherished.
I slide my hands from his contoured back to his damp curls—he must have showered, I think wildly, which is why he’s not wearing a shirt—then down again. I can’t get enough of him, his touch, his lips, his smooth muscled skin, and his boyish, just-showered scent. With one leg and foot pinned in between him and the back of the couch, my other foot lowers to the floor. I use it as leverage to arch my body against his.
He releases a groan.
We stare at each other for one long sizzling moment before his lips find mine again as his hand touches my bare knee. The kiss is fast, fierce, and frenzied, a tangle of tongues and lips and teeth. The slide of his hand along my thigh is slow, tantalizing, and magnetic, an intoxicating caress that has me yearning for more. His fingers move higher, brushing my panties, and my entire body jumps at the contact.
He breaks the kiss, breathing hard and burying his face in my hair as his fingers slip beneath my underwear from the side. We both pant above the muffled sounds of the TV. His fingers rub and slide against me, and my hips move to the pulse he sets. I’m moaning and clenching his arms, my body bowed off the couch.
He pauses for a moment, breathing harshly against my skin. I become wild, tearing at his belt buckle, then ripping open the line of buttons on the crotch of his jeans. Spurred by my frenzy, Sam pushes up on one arm and helps me yank the jeans off. When I push my hands inside his boxers and grasp him, his entire body stills as a low growl reverberates from his throat.
“Holy shit, Peyton,” he gasps, then reaches for his jeans on the floor. A second later, he’s tearing a condom open with his teeth, pulling from my grasp, and rolling it on in seconds.
We tug off my underwear together. Poised above me, he lifts my skirt and grips my open thighs.
Nearly tearful with want, I clutch his biceps. “Please, Sam,” I pant.
He comes closer until he is pressed against me. “Tell me you want me. Say you want me inside of you,” he says from a tight jaw, muscles straining in his neck.