I know she’s not a virgin. Samantha has got an awareness about her that comes from having had sex before. She knows where I’m coming from. But I’d be willing to bet she’s never been very adventurous, sexually speaking.
That’s not uncommon in the women I find most suitable for this type of…relationship. But I think there’s something else going on with Samantha. It doesn’t really matter what it is. I’ll work around it, help her overcome it. In fact, now that I think about it, the challenge of it will just make the end result that much sweeter.
I keep my hand where it is, moving neither lower nor higher. I don’t want to press her just yet, but I won’t retreat either. Instead, I pull her in snug against my crotch. I want her to feel every inch of me. Tapping Galen’s sides, I urge him into a gallop.
I know she’s thinking about my words, about my hands on her body, about the rhythm of the horse and how it might feel to be coming all over my fingers while the wind is whipping her hair and the sun is kissing her face. I want her to think about it now. And I want her to crave it later.
And she will.
I know she will.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - Samantha
“Wakey wakey! Eggs and bakey.”
I peek up at Chris from under my arm. I don’t bother to roll over. “I want my key back.”
“Could you repeat that? I can’t understand you with a pillow in your mouth.”
I lift my head. “I want my key back. You have used it in a manner contrary to its intended purpose. I hereby revoke your access. You are deniiiiiiiied!”
“In that case.”
Silence.
A pillow hits me in the back of the head.
“All right, all right! I’m getting up. You better have brought me something delicious and sugar-filled, that’s all I have to say.”
“Of course I did. I assumed this would be a rescue mission. I called you six thousand times last night and got no answer. When you weren’t at the coffee shop this morning, I did the math. You either had a long night of sweaty, satisfying sex, you’re hung over, or you’re pouting. Which is it?” she asks. Before I can answer, she chants quietly, “Please be the sex, please be the sex, please be the sex.”
“None of the above.”
Her expression is crestfallen. I doubt there is another person on the planet who takes more interest in my sex life than Chris. Myself included.
“What? No sex? Not of any kind?” I shake my head. “That is a major date fail.”
“It wasn’t a date,” I mutter.
“So it is pouting! What happened? Spill,” she orders, handing me a coffee, kicking off her shoes, and curling her legs beneath her.
I knew she would ask. It’s exactly why I didn’t answer the phone last night. I didn’t want to address her questions. Or my concerns. I need time to think, to figure out what to do.
I’m in over my head and I know it. But what’s possibly worse is that it’s all over a guy who began as the embodiment of a fictional character. It’s psychotic! That alone should’ve been a red flag. But it wasn’t. Well, it was, but not enough of a warning to stop me. And now it’s too late. I’m beginning to see that Alec Brand is much more dangerous than Mason could ever be. Alec is practically identical to Mason in most ways.
Only Alec Brand is real.
“Nothing happened. He iced my ankle, gave me some ibuprofen and then took me to see a sea turtle nest he’d stumbled upon.”
“Then what?”
“Then nothing. He took me back to his house, we got in his Range Rover and he brought me home. End of story.”
Chris hmphs in disappointment. “Are you going to see him again?”
“I don’t know.”
And that’s true. After speaking such…heated words into my ear after we left the dune-secluded nest, Alec put Galen into a gallop and didn’t say anything else until he dropped me off at my door. And, even then, it was just a polite goodbye and hope-you-feel-better type thing.
I just don’t understand him. He keeps me off kilter with his whiplash-inducing changes in temperature—from burning hot to cool as a cucumber. I don’t know what to think or what to expect. How can I possibly plan or anticipate when I have no clue what’s going on?
The rational part of me says that the only planning I need to do is on how to avoid him at all costs. That’s what I should be thinking.
Only I’m not. I spent the majority of my evening and a good portion of my sleepless night thinking of what it felt like to be pressed against his body, moving with the rhythm of the horse, with his words still ringing in my ear.
It felt so natural. The tension was building so perfectly. If I weren’t such a train wreck, it would be all too easy…
Why, oh why can’t I be normal?
“Well, this guy needs to get in the game.”
“Maybe it’s best if he doesn’t, Chris.”
“Oh, bullshit. This is the one. I can feel it. I can see it on your face. You just have to give him a chance.”
Common sense tells me she can’t possibly know that. But I desperately want to believe her, to throw caution to the wind and just jump.
“I wish you were right.”
“I am right.”
“If you are then I’m wasting a lot of money on this therapist you forced me to talk to.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“She says I should stay away from him. From Alec.”
Chris is quiet. I’m sure she doesn’t know what to say to that. She was convinced that Dr. B would be able to help me with all of my problems, sending me off after a month or two to live happily ever after with the man of my choosing. What Chris fails to realize is that happily ever afters are reserved for fiction. I write them, but that’s probably as close as I’ll ever get to one.
She recovers after a minute or so. I’m not surprised. As a rule, she’s pretty unflappable. “To that I would say this: You think too much. That’s always been your problem. I was hoping Dr. B might help you get out of that, and I’m not convinced that’s not still going to happen. Maybe this is some sort of proven psychoanalytical technique. What the hell do I know?”
“Funny, that’s just what I was thinking,” I tease.
“Well, smart ass, I’ll tell you just what the hell I know. I know you’re smart and funny and gorgeous and talented, and you deserve to be happy more than anyone I know. And, dammit, I’m gonna get you there if it’s the last mother fu—”