Tied to Sam Ch. 02

'No, Sam, don't stop. Don't stop.'

I'm pleading with him, needing him to keep us together. To make us together. Rewarded by his sharp intake of breath. By the snap of his hips up into me. I moan. Maybe it's Sam who moans, I can't tell the difference. I'm undone. Completely undone. Undone and complete.

I grip him to me, digging my fingers into his hip, fighting to keep my eyes on his, calling him to me.

He reads me. Sets up a merciless rhythm, lips pressed together, full of concentration, intent. That's what does it. That he understands what it's going to take to get us there; that he knows it's what I need from him. To reach that place. A place of love and awe. It's how I thought of it the very first time we ever did this. The first time for both of us. I open myself out to him. Let it cascade over and through me, bursting and bubbling over and around us. Consuming us. Drowning us, and giving us life.

Sam's body tightens for a few heart-stopping moments, his head dipped, before he jerks and releases. And again, and again.

'FUCK,' he grunts, not quite shouting out, but it reverberates in my ear.

God, I love him so much. How he gives himself to me like this.

We fight for air, gasping, feeling each other's pulses through my contracting inner muscles, his throbbing cock.

'Fuck,' he says it again. More like an exhalation than anything. No. Not that. Like a prayer. Huh.

We slide down, onto Sam's lap and then sideways, down onto the bed, not letting go. Sam's come already sliding out of me, hot, ticklish, making me shiver. He clutches me more tightly; thought still beyond him.

Returning to life on earth takes a while.

When my skin prickles and chills, Sam pulls the bedcovers over us. When I shift my body against his, I smile, feeling the jeans he's still wearing - barely wearing - shoved low down on his thighs. I brush at them. He sighs, pushing air down his nose, then rolls on top of me, pinning me underneath him. I struggle between us to wrap my hand around his and pull both our arms up over my head. He threads our fingers together, the hard rub of our gold rings a reminder. I pull my other arm up. Sam joins them together; holds us there.

His phone is beeping steadily, informing us he has messages. The rain suddenly beats and slides against the window. We are quiet. Listening to each other and to all the other sounds of a Thursday afternoon.

Sam sighs again, his breath tickling the side of my neck, his weight pressing me down.

Someone's front door slams, the sounds of keys, rustling bags and squeaking trainers echoing through the communal corridor of Sam's floor.

I shift slightly, and Sam starts to raise his head and his hips.

'No, stay,' I whisper, and he settles warm and heavy on me.

Perfect.