Sam's Mistake Ch. 01

***Author's note: This story interweavers with Katie's Escape, but you don't need to read Katie's Escape to follow this story.

~ Sam ~

This was our third interview.

At our previous two, he sat behind his desk, and I sat in the chair on the other side. But for this particular interview, he sat in the chair when I arrived and motioned to the purple couch after greeting me.

I didn't prefer this arrangement, but I was not about to let him intimidate me.

I found the couch overly stiff as I sat and placed my laptop bag down—the abrupt surface near startling as it met my ass cheeks. Trying to think of why anyone would create the illusion of a couch is something I'll ponder later, I decide.

Jake's office was small and already had too much furniture in it. The couch seemed excessive, and it left little space between us. I could feel his heated gaze on my skin as I arranged everything but didn't bother looking at him. He certainly didn't need any encouragement from me.

I also note the precariousness of this setup. At the last interview, I bolted when his flirtatious comments went from shy and vague to pointed and blunt. But at least we had a huge wooden desk between us.

Now there was just air and body heat.

As for the flirtations, that would've been fine if I was single. And not a student. And he wasn't a Ph.D. candidate teaching some intro classes. But those were all true and thus, made any romantic entanglement a really bad idea. And wrong.

Yet, I'd be a damn idiot not to see and feel the tension between us. Despite how much I ignored his advances outward, inside, I was pulled toward him by something.

Something magnetizing, something alluring. Erotic, yet troubling.

You could tell he was dangerous somehow. The way his intense green eyes bore into mine. The slight grin he wore while answering each question or the way he licked his lips and pulled his gaze to my mouth when I spoke.

But none of that mattered. I'm was in a relationship. I was not, nor ever have been, a cheater. And Jake wasn't the first cute guy to flirt with me and wouldn't be the last one I'd shut down.

But the more I thought about it, the murkier things became. The relationship between my boyfriend and I had been rocky lately, and it left me questioning if he was even worth the trouble.

Plus, he couldn't make me come.

With any method.

Granted, he rarely did any foreplay. It seemed like a chore to him when I asked, and his lack of enthusiasm did little to set the mood.

As such, my sexual frustration was as tense as a guitar string. One pluck and ... well, not if my boyfriend was plucking.

So I, very stupidly, faked all the orgasms.

Every.

Single.

One.

At first, it was no big deal. I didn't expect to come the first time we had sex. After the second time, I reasoned he just needed some guidance. A few times after that, I learned coming at all with him was a lofty dream.

Every attempt was unsuccessful, and in the three months of us dating, I realized that not only is he completely hopeless, but he's also kind of boring in the sack.

Case in point, I once got him to switch positions three times, which he later called that "wild sex."

It was all starting to stack up, and I wasn't sure other parts of our relationship were good enough to overlook the horribly disappointing sex.

All of that mess made for a very problematic exchange between Jake Anderson and me. He highlighted the sexual frustration that I was frantically trying to bury. Looking at him or even being around him made me cross my legs so I wouldn't spontaneously jump him. Even more troubling, I knew I never felt this with my boyfriend. Ever.

But, then again, maybe I was desperate for male attention. His unexpected flirtations caught me off guard, and really, he was the only other guy showing interest. Maybe I was idealizing Jake because my boyfriend was lacking. After all, Jake could be a terrible lay too.

But good lord, did he want me to reconsider that point.

I left our last interview rather suddenly because you could cut the sexual tension with the serrated edge of a condom wrapper. Sexual tension he kept stirring up and thickening until the weight caught my breath.

And I tried to stomp that shit down. I flat out stated I had a boyfriend. That deterred him for about 10 minutes. But this cocky jackass kept putting out a slow trickle of sly looks and changing inflections to make very action charged with a different meaning. Jake made these conversations highlight the unspoken attraction between us.

When I reminded him I had a boyfriend for the third time, he responded with a "ask me if I care." Needless to say, I stormed out, shutting him down by not acknowledging the comment at all.

But with today's interview, I was determined to keep it professional. I even had my professional-looking pencil skirt on, which seemed less sexy when I put it on that morning. Sitting there with my legs cinched together, I realized tights would've been a smart move.

That aside, I needed a few more interviews, which was problematic, obviously. However, after thinking about it non-stop for several days, I figured I could easily find another professor or Ph.D. student to interview after this last one with Jake.

Re: a much less attractive one who wouldn't hit on me.

But right then, I had to get through this last interview.

I tucked my hair behind my ear then moved the rest over to one shoulder, a nervous habit that I find oddly soothing.

Clearing my throat, I got as comfortable as I could under his gaze and the cement-like couch cushion. Seriously, this so-called couch might bruise my ass bones — I assume there are several ass bones.

"Let's just dive right in, shall we, Jake?" I wanted to make eye contact but chickened out after I finished asking. Instead, I jotted the date and topic for the interview at the top of my notepad.

"Sure," he said, leaning back in the chair and placing his ankle over his knee.

"Great. I wanted to talk more about your work with human-computer interaction and classroom computer use. I was curious about engagement levels in classes that require a personal computer. I know we touched on that before, but I had more questions when I was typing up your answers." Eyes fixed on the notepad, I rested the pen on the paper, ready to take notes. Try as I might, I was not ready to meet those intense, sea-green eyes.

"Yeah, sure. Generally, I know when people aren't paying attention. It's fairly obvious. But ultimately, I have no control over it. I know professor Steinberg gets offended, but I let it slide. It's their college experience, it's their money. I'm just here to give them the information they need. What they choose to do with it is up to them."

"Mmmhmmm," I nodded while scribbling, "well, are you not concerned with their success? Also, that's your time they are wasting. How do you not care about that?"

"I mean. I used to care. But I have grant proposals to write, my thesis, networking, reading. Whatever. I can only do so much, plus I'm still learning instruction. Maybe I'd care more if I was an actual professor," he replied in a cool yet precise tone.

"Wow, so you just don't care?" I blurted out, finally looking up at him. He was entirely too casual about what he was saying, and it unnerved me even more the moment I saw it in his face.

This guy's ego could fill up a gaping void in the middle of the universe.

He let out a small laugh and looked down. "Sam, I do care, I promise," in slow motion, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, getting that much closer to me before looking up at me. "It's just that I've been going and caring about college for seven years now. I prioritize what I care about a lot more after being slammed with essays, presentations, scholarship applications, grading bullshit assignments, and classes. You're a grad student. You know that there is zero capacity for extraneous bullshit."

I allowed a hesitant nod. I did know. Academia could suck the life out of you if you let it. I'd been going to school for five years straight—even summer classes. I was exhausted most of the time, burned out. Next fall would be my last year, and I'd have the job hunt to worry about on top of everything.

"Yeah," I sighed in agreement as our eyes met, "I do care about different things now. I get it." For the first time, the tension faded, and I felt a moment of compassion. Whenever someone talked about the pitfalls of pursuing graduate degrees, an instant bond seemed to form because we knew. We could both relate.

His eyes fell to my mouth again. I immediately scooted back and cleared my throat, breaking the moment.

"See?" He sat back in the chair, finally giving me room, "I'm not trying to be insensitive. I just know that some students are checked out. I feel for them," he shrugged.

"So, what do you care about? Where are you putting your priorities?" I chanced another look. I somehow felt like each glance was like Russian Roulette. I never knew what look I'd get. Yet, I knew it was never innocent; it always had devilish charm. A look so potent, I feared I couldn't handle all it promised.

And was terrified of returning it by accident.

"I care about my thesis, it's halfway done, and I'm getting good feedback," he said with audacious confidence, the tone surfacing a sting of annoyance. A lot of people get good feedback on their work. Has he never heard of 'quiet confidence'? "I care about sleep, exercise, and sex, of course. I find sex really relieves the stress."

I swallowed and adjusted in my seat as I pondered his words. He's implying that writing a thesis is effortless and can be done in your free time or something.

I snapped my eyes up, a sharp, writhing look burning into him. "I meant, what do you care about in the classroom, not about your life outside of work."

With a lazy grin, he tilted his head, "I knew what you meant."

Good lord, this guy was obnoxious. And how did he do this again? How did he turn this professional interview into a fucking flirt fest?

I swallowed a swath of words aimed to bruise his wild ego. It just figured that he would say some shit like that. Like he has an entire contact list of fuck buddies to call up and 'relieve stress.'

I cleared my throat again, along with all the cutting remarks, "let's move on." I flipped the paper with my interview questions and scanned for something to change the subject.

"You don't think sex relieves stress?" He asked, the curious and challenging tone pushing at me.

"That isn't in the scope of my project." I finally find a good question but still pretend to look because my face is hot, "I have a few more questions, then we can wrap up," I managed to say.

Wait, what question was I going to ask? I search down the paper. I can't find it now.

"Let me guess," his voice licks over my skin, "sex with your boyfriend is bad, isn't it? That's why you're so high strung." Not so much a question as a statement, but what else could I expect from someone like Jake?

Instead of responding, I kept looking at the sheet of paper. Blinking and pretending I could read the now fuzzy-looking words that all lumped together until they resembled a caterpillar.

I'm an overly educated grad student. How is it that I can't read or manage to speak one word?

"Can he even make you come?" He pressed when I didn't respond.

Now, my body froze. At that moment, the only thing I could move was my eyelids, which blinking as if blinking would undo everything that was just said. The same question rolled over and over in my head, one I knew I couldn't ask but was all I think: how can he tell?

Finally, my brain and mouth connect to form words. "That is not in the scope of this interview. Let's. Move. On," I repeated, my tone a little sharper this time.

Seriously, how?

I swore everyone who knows to secrecy. It's too humiliating of a confession.

"Your silence speaks volumes," he mused.

I opened my mouth to respond, but the brain-mouth connection short-fused— again. Not one word came out.

Shit.

Shit.

Words, Sam. Words. Say them.

"Where are you getting this from?" I blurted out, trying to make my defensive tone less 'the lady doth protest too much.'

Finding more words, I let them spill out. "I didn't say that. Of course he..." I finally looked at him with a stern, angry face.

Big mistake.

The words left yet again, my brain now just a lump of grey folds.

I swallowed and cleared my throat. "Uh, makes me c- come. That's ridiculous. You're ridiculous!" At that, I stood up, looking down at him as he sat in the chair, "You're jumping to wild conclusions based on little evidence. You Ph.D.'s think you know everything and act like you're god's gift to intelligence. It's gross, really. Besides, you can have good sex and not come." The words rushed out of my mouth, suddenly ready to spill out and rip Jake a whole new asshole.

"What?!" He exclaimed with an incredulous laugh like I just said astronauts are officially called space people.

"You can't honestly believe that unless you've never come during sex."

I swear to god if he mansplains what good sex is, I will lose my shit.

My eyes widen. Who the fuck does his guy think he is?

He rubbed his jaw, eyes raking up my body, "Someone as hot as you deserves better."

"Shut up!" I scold like an angry elementary teacher. I bent down frantically, gathering my things with shaking hands. "You're such an asshole. Why did I even come back here after the shit you pulled last time? That whole 'ask me if I care' crap like that's even appropriate at all." Still fumbling over my things, I told myself to calm down first, then immediately get the fuck out.

"Plus," I continued, the words were just flying out on their own volition, "you're implying people who aren't classified as hot or gorgeous don't deserve better or deserve to come, which is horrible and narrow-minded and honestly just rude and ok, my boyfriend can't make me come, so what? That's none of your concern." I clamped my mouth shut as I heard what I'd just said. Confessed.

My eyes widened even more this time. I turned slowly to look at him, hoping to hell he wasn't listening.

The smirk and all too satisfied look confirmed my worst fear. Yes, he heard. He listened. He knows.

"Stop that!" I barked out, "stop looking at me like I'm some charity case or worse, some absent-minded, undersexed housewife who you personally deem in need of a good dicking."

Wait, did I just say 'a good dicking?' Why am I still blurting stuff out? Have I not learned the consequences of that already?

Although it would've been a funny thing to say in front of my roommates. Or anyone I knew well, really.

Yet, there was nothing funny about the perpetual hole I was digging, despite the shit-eating grin on his face.

He pulled his head back and laughed, clapping once for dramatic effect. In a smooth motion, he stood while holding my gaze.

"Sam," he said with a casual, confident smile. His eyes meeting mine, holding that soft yet deviant behind his eyes, "life is too fucking short to have bad sex. Especially when I'm here with all the good dicking you'll ever need. Choice words by the way, although not exactly how I'd phrase it."

Scoffing, I took a step back, "I'm not into you AND I'm not a cheater. Never talk to me like that again, you fucking arrogant piece of shit," I gritted out before stomping off.

Was I angry? Yes. Infuriated. Livid.

And wildly turned on.

Fuck, I wanted him. His confidence was seductive and pulled me in like quicksand. Which is why I had to fight this with everything I had.

And sure, I did deserve better. But not because of the whole being 'hot or gorgeous' like he said. I deserved better because... just because.

But was Jake 'better'? Sure, he's hot. He says all the right things. I'm wildly attracted to him. But that doesn't mean he's good at sex.

But maybe I could suffer another disappointment just to find out...

No, your boyfriend.

Even though he is kind of an asshole.

And terrible in bed.

And made me feel like a burden for asking about foreplay.

And said it's unfair that men have to 'do all the work' during sex, even though I'm on top most of the time.

My brain wouldn't stop going back and forth like a terrible game of ping pong. Arguing with itself so fast, I couldn't tell which side was winning.

But there is no other option than to turn him down.

I'm not a cheater.

Even if I did want Jake to screw my brains out, I first needed to break up with my kinda-sorta boyfriend/guy I'm seeing.

Well, okay. Break up with him in defined terms. We were kind of fighting and deciding what we actually were. He was weird about "labels" and didn't even really like being called my "boyfriend," but what the hell else would I call him?

More anger bubbled up. I hated him. I hated my boyfriend. I hated MEN.

Okay, not really, but I was steeped in rage aimed at the male species at that moment.

Unable to say another word, I stomped towards the door; my hand reached out for the handle well before I could grab it.

"Just say the word, Sam," his voice called out, stopping me in my tracks, "and I'll fuck all the frustration out of you," I couldn't let him talk to me like that; I wasn't about to leave this room without destroying that obese ego.

I turned on my heels, claws ready as I faced him.

He smiled at me. "I'll make you come so hard, you'll see that your little boyfriend has been a waste of time," I took a deep breath and gathered all the will power I would soon need.

Rage rose inside, pushing out everything else. He just assumed I wanted him without any signals! And yes, I did want him.

But, once again, how? How. Did. He. Know?

I threw my stuff on the ground and stomped towards him, and in one swift move, slapped him. Hard.

He smiled, eyes alighted with amusement.

Not the reaction I aimed for.

I slapped him again. He takes it. He likes it.

I pushed at his shoulders, shoving him back a step. He looked playful and dangerous as he dragged his tongue over his bottom lip.

I felt my resolve thinning. Come to think of it; he'd been wearing at it all long. Chipping it away piece by piece

Defiantly, I stared at him while realizing how little of that resolve was left.

I'm not a cheater.

I'm not a cheater.

"You must really think a lot of yourself to say shit like that," I bit out.

"Does he eat your pussy? Does he even know how to make you come at all?" He shot back.

My nostrils flared, my fists clenched into tight balls, ready to swing again into that perfectly stubbled cheek.

What is his deal? Why is he like this? Why is he saying all the things I want to hear?

Before I could stop myself, I shoved him again, forcing all the confusion, anger, and fear into the push. Startled, he stepped back while raising his eyebrows as if to challenge me.

The look confirmed what we both knew. I just verified everything he said. And I continued to egg him on every minute I didn't walk out the door.

But I wanted a fight. I didn't care how hot Jake was; I would not let him get away with this fuck-boy behavior.

"Hit a nerve, did I?" His hand smoothed over where I'd pushed him, just above his left pectoral muscle. I thought how hard it felt as his smile spread wider. "Guess that means no. Such a shame," he tsked, "I'd be down there, dragging my tongue from your cunt to your clit until you're begging for my cock."

"Please," I spit out, "you think I haven't heard that kind of shit before?" I stepped back, trying to keep my distance from him. "I bet you've got a rock hard 2 inches and the stamina of a sloth. The only adjective that's been used to describe your dick is 'cute.'"