He sounds exhausted and drunk, and I can only imagine how miserable he is. This is not the kind of pain that anyone can get over. Maybe it can lessen some, but it can never disappear. His hurt and his self-loathing are brutal, and I would give anything to take those feelings away. I can’t, I know that, but I’m aware of my need to show him that I’m not scared off, that I don’t think of him differently. How could I? We all have something miserable in our pasts. I’m no different.
Sam has shown me raw pain, so I can show him mine.
I tell him my truths, letting them pour out of me in fragmented bits, “When you and I met? My entire world came undone that day at the hospital. My father had given me this bracelet.” I put his hand on my wrist. “The bracelet is a lie because he vanished with no explanation a few days after the car accident he was in with my sister, Amy, and I was left with a mother who never should have been a mother.
“She grew to hate me—hate everything really—more than she already had, and she nearly destroyed me. Amy became a mess of a selfish, mean drug addict. She tried to kill herself. I mean, it was so bad that she wanted to die. Not just escape temporarily, but actually die. She was done. I don’t believe it was an accidental overdose. I think Amy couldn’t tolerate this world any longer. As difficult as she is and as hard as our relationship is, she is my sister, and I can’t stand the thought of her dying.”
I inhale and feel the shudder when I release it. “Then, she asked me to leave, so I did. I left Chicago to save myself from falling down a rabbit hole of crazy that I might never get out of…so I wouldn’t try to kill myself, too, or slip into some kind of permanent delirium. To get away from the guy I was sleeping with, the one who made me shut down and disappear every time I let him fuck me. I let him…I let him use me and treat me terribly. It allowed me to escape the real world.
“I wanted to save myself when I left. The only thing I thought to do was to go to the one person I knew who I could intrinsically trust. You.” I brush his hair back.
“We all have pain of some kind. You lost two people who meant the world to you. You went through hell, and you’re still here. You get to hurt. But it is going to be okay.” I lift up and ease my mouth over Sam’s. “It’s going to be okay because while you get to hurt, you also get to heal. And you get to be you again.”
I kiss him with everything I have, drowning in some messed-up hope that I can ease his devastation. While he tastes overwhelmingly like whiskey, he tastes even more like love.
I pull back enough to whisper words into his mouth, “Let me be your good.”
Sam’s body tenses, and his heart pounds against me. “Can you let me be yours?”
I answer by continuing to kiss him, and he relaxes under me, letting my body sink into his.
BY LATE JUNE, the Bishop family has had me to dinner four times. I’ve taken a liking to beach clambakes more than I would have imagined, and April and I have perfected making a fire pit out of hot rocks.
April is from Nebraska and only moved out here a few years ago, and Micah finds it very funny that the two girls with little oceanside experience dig a better clambake pit than his own kids. It’s easy to see how someone could have the Bishops as a second family, the way that Sam’s friend Costa did. They give generously and love unconditionally. For people like me, who are essentially alone, being taken in and embraced is so foreign and so needed.
Then, there is Sam himself. We can’t seem to get enough of each other. Since that day on the dock, we’ve been inseparable. When boundaries fall and truths come out, it can bring a closeness that is unshakable. Despite our emotional intensity, we haven’t slept together. In fact, we haven’t done more than kiss. I think that it’s because of how strongly we feel for each other—how quickly that connection hit us—that we’ve almost been scared to take our physical relationship further as though it would be too much. As extensive and heated as our kissing and groping has been, we’ve always let it wind down in a way that feels natural.
I don’t know. Maybe we feel an obligation not to jump into bed after revealing so much to each other. Sam let me in on something very painful, and I think it’s hard for him to trust that I still see him as him, not as a monster responsible for a child’s death.
So, really, I guess that I’m not sure why we haven’t slept together, but I’m over whatever has been holding us back.
Right now, Sam is in my kitchen, finally cooking that risotto dinner that got delayed. I’m in my bedroom, fussing over what to wear. More specifically, what I want him to rip off me because I cannot take this much longer. I go with a deep purple-and-black push-up bra and underwear set. There’s a hint of lace—just enough to avoid being slutty, but enough that I’m going to get him to cave on this whole holding-out thing. That was fine and probably smart, but now, it’s time. I pull on a loose top and straight-leg pants, both of which should take about three seconds to remove.
I step through the doors and outside to the deck to take in the view. I could never grow tired of overlooking the ocean.
Sam’s garden of circle plots catches my eye, and I smile at the flowers that he’s planted—dahlias and calla lilies, I think. The soil is dark, and I can tell he must have just watered them today. I squint. The grass around them though is nearly dead, which is quite odd.
The salty air gusts cause me to shiver, but for a few minutes more, I stay on the deck, searching the wooded area by the house, as I compulsively rub the bracelet that remains on my wrist. Again, I sense that I’m being watched. I think it’s my phobia over my mother finding me. Not that she would ever do something as undignified as to hide out in shrubbery, but still, I’m allowed to be paranoid. An obsessive part of me needs to check and recheck the area outside the house until I’m sure she’s not there.
I finally go back into my room, and I shut and bolt the doors. I back out of my bedroom, afraid to turn my eyes, and try to shake off the spooked feeling. When I get to the living room, I’m already feeling better. Each time I walk in here, I see the furniture that Sam brought up a few weeks back. He angled the giant chaise toward the fireplace, set the lamp that I love next to it, and placed a tall bookshelf just off the kitchen area. Every item in here feels like home.
I brush my fingers over the main wall and smile. Sam has insisted that I let him repaint the apartment, but I can’t decide on a color, so every day, he slaps a splotch of a new paint shade for me to assess. There are fifteen up right now, and I still haven’t decided. But he has the patience of a saint, and maybe I’m reticent to choose because I’m growing rather fond of the paint-sample routine. I stop though. Something new is on the wall that he must have done while I was getting ready. I run my fingers over the paint colors as I read what Sam has written under each sample.
Every single paint swatch is for me, because of me.
I catch myself resting a hand over my heart, and I practically roll my eyes at how much I’m swooning. I don’t care though. I keep tracing his words with my fingers, stunned by what he’s done. How deeply he knows me and cares for me is so evident on this wall. Not to mention, it’s just freaking adorable.
My feelings for him border on overwhelming. He’s the first person I’ve been involved with romantically who lifts me up instead of smashing me to the ground. Sam has a gentleness and loyalty about him that is irresistible, and I’m proud of myself for responding to such a healthy relationship. It means that I’m getting healthy. Maybe I’ll never be able to explain what propelled me to Maine, and my impulsivity and urgent need to see him again defy explanation, but from the first moment when I saw Sam in that hospital stairwell, my draw to him was powerful and eternal and impossible to deny.
I glance to the open kitchen and take him in—his broad shoulders, the start of a summer tan on his forearms, his hair again falling into his face and hiding those gorgeous eyes. The way he concentrates on what he’s doing, the way he can focus, arouses me.
Sam glances at me and quirks a smile.
After I’ve read and
reread everything he’s written five times, I drop my hand and go to him. I come up behind his tall frame, and my arms encircle his chest. “Bishop—” I start.
“I love when you call me that. You’re the only person who does.”
There’s a shyness and sweetness in his voice that I adore.
I nuzzle my face against his back.
“Okay, so the basic risotto is done, and this is where we flavor it. We’re doing lobster, caramelized onions, parmesan, fresh basil, and a hit of heavy cream.”
“Bishop,” I say again. This time, I press against him and ease my hands down to his stomach.
“Yes?” By the tone in his voice, I know he’s smiling. He empties small bowls with ingredients and stirs the rice mixture.
I’m sure this dish he’s slaved over will be really amazing. But lifting his shirt from under his belt is more enticing, so I do that. I also slip my fingers under the waistline of his jeans. And because I can’t stand not to, I inch a hand lower. He’s definitely hard.
Sam shuts off the stove and turns to me. “Stella.”
“The wall…” The words to thank him escape me.
He steps in and twirls a finger through one of my curls. “You have trouble with colors. I was just helping.”
He leans in and kisses me, and it only takes a second before we are both breathing hard. I can feel the shift in our passion tonight. The urgency is upped, the need for each other demanding and no longer able to be delayed.
As we fumble toward the bedroom, he walks behind me and keeps his hold on my waist. Once there, I lean back into Sam while his hands roam over the front of my shirt, and I catch my breath when he slowly travels his fingers over my breasts. His mouth is on my neck, his lips and tongue wetting my skin as his kisses grow more aggressive.
A wonderful shiver rips through me when his hands start to move under my shirt and over my stomach. There’s no way that I’ll be able to stand for very long, so I turn to face him and wrap my arms around his neck. When he grabs my ass and pulls me against him, I can’t help but let out a sound. It’s probably in the whimper category, but I don’t care.
God, I want him so much.
I walk us backward and sink onto the bed, and he crawls over me, keeping his weight on his arms but settling his waist between my legs. I lift up into him, desperate to be closer.
But then, he freezes. “I don’t think…Stella, we should probably wait.”
His expression is so sweet, yet it shreds me.
“Wait? Wait for what, Sam?” I can’t hide the confusion in my voice.
“It’s just…” He softly kisses me, briefly, on the mouth.
“You don’t want this?” Could I have fabricated what I thought was between us? I am still recovering from my past and prone not to understand things as they are, so maybe that’s what I’ve done.
But I’m looking into his eyes, and I know—I just know—that I am right about us. We both feel this connection, this inexplicable bond. Now, only concern and warmth are on his face.
Sam tips his head and gives the hint of a smile. “I’m dying to be with you.”
“So, what’s the problem?” My legs wrap over his, and I pull him back onto me.
“What you said a few weeks ago. About the last guy you were with. About disappearing during sex. It kills me that it was like that for you because that means that whatever happened was all kinds of fucked-up wrong, Stella. It’s not okay, and it’s not how it should have been for you. I keep thinking about that, and it’s really been bothering me, so I don’t want to rush things.” Sam pauses and drops his head onto my shoulder. “He hurt you, didn’t he?”
This is an impossible question for me to answer. Physically, no. But Jay hurt me, I hurt me, my mother hurt me, my father, my sister…the list goes on and on. “I’m okay.”
He hesitates and then says, “You flinch sometimes when I touch you. Just at first.”
I didn’t realize this. Okay, fine, I think. Maybe I’ve caught myself a few times, but I thought I hid it better.
I slip my hands up next to my head and work them under his palms. “That’s not about you. It could never be. This is different. We’re different.”
“You don’t have a good history, and I want to be careful with you.”
I love that he says this and that he sees more about me than just what I’ve told him.
“You will be careful with me. I know that. You have a history, too. Everyone does. A slew of one-night stands with tourists probably isn’t how it’s supposed to be either. We both have damage, but I want us to be together so much. You have to believe that. Sam, it feels like we’ve been waiting forever, not just weeks.”
“I don’t want you going through the motions, sleeping with me, because you think you’re supposed to or something. You can’t…you can’t ever feel like I’m using you. Or that…God, I don’t want you to think I’m some asshole guy who just wants to get laid. If you want this and you’re ready, then I am. Just promise, you won’t disappear on me, that you’ll stay present and…grounded.”
“I won’t disappear. You can give me something that I haven’t had before.”
Sam thinks for a minute. “You’ll let me show you what it’s supposed to be like when you care about someone?”
I’m glad that I left the light on in this room, so I can see how fucking gorgeous he looks when he says those words. “Yes.”
He smiles back and grinds into me. He is definitely still hard. “When you really, really care about someone.”
“Yes.”
Sam kisses me, letting his lips barely touch mine, before he puts his mouth to my ear and whispers, “When you love someone.”
Again, he’s left me virtually speechless, but I whisper back, “Yes.” Every part of me is electrified and totally aching for him, for his body, for his heat, for his entire being.
“And we can stop anytime you want. You just tell me.”
“I won’t want to stop,” I breathe.
“You might change your mind. That’s okay.”
“Bishop, please fuck me.”
He laughs softly. “I’m not gonna fuck you until you promise. It’s important.”
I push on his chest and make him look at me. “I promise. I promise you everything. I want you in a…in such a pure, clear way. For no substantiated reason, I drove halfway across the country to find you. I could have gone anywhere, but I drove to you. I want you, and I want us.”
Now, I’ve left him speechless.
But only for a moment.
Sam sits up and lifts his shirt over his head.
Jesus, he is so beautiful.
“And to clarify,” he says, “I’m not fucking you tonight. I’m making love to you.”
He tosses his keys from his pocket and undoes his belt, and I nearly come apart.
Then, he gives me a mischievous smile and asks, “You ready? Because this will probably take a while.”
Oh God, I am totally ready.
He eases off my shirt and ever so slowly slides my pants down. Then, he runs the outline of my bra with one finger. I put my hands on his arms while he takes his time kissing me and teasing my skin with his tongue. By the way he touches the fabric of what little I have on, Sam—I can tell—is a guy who appreciates lingerie.
After he’s had his fill, he finally pulls down my straps and undoes the hook in the back, and I finish taking it off. His touch on my breasts is both gentle and confident, and I love watching him move over me. I also love how my body shivers when he takes my nipple between his fingers with just the right pressure, and then he grazes his mouth over it.
It’s as if I’ve never had sex before, which certainly isn’t true. But I’ve never had sex with Sam Bishop, and this is clearly an entirely new game.
He teases and delivers with every move, and it’s fucking hot. I find that I’m almost intoxicated by how he touches me. His care is unparalleled. I put a hand over his, feeling each movement and pattern, trying to comprehend this mix of tende
rness and raw sensuality.
A deep rumble of thunder rolls outside through the cove, and rain starts to patter against the deck. The last time we kissed when there was thunder, we stopped. This time, we won’t.
Every move Sam makes is slow and deliberate, and I know it’s going to be a while until he’s inside me. But I can wait because the way he touches me is exquisite, and I could stay like this forever.
I close my eyes and feel his mouth continuing to explore, and he is thorough and perfect when kissing my neck, my shoulders, down my arms, over to my stomach. I curl my hips up, wanting more, wanting him to move his mouth lower. I crave what I’ve never had before, what Jay never did for me.
With Jay, sex was about control and power and getting what pleased him. He had no interest in my pleasure. It was why I tuned out and faded away when we were together. Or maybe I sought out someone like him to punish myself for all my inadequacies. But I should have been stronger. I should have stopped him and protected myself—as I should have done against my mother’s words and actions.
You are useless.
Such an unpleasant person to be around.
The way you forget and mix things up? I don’t know what in heaven’s name is wrong with you. It’s a good thing you have me.
“You still with me?” Sam asks.
I nod.
He is lying beside me, propped up on an arm, his free hand caressing my shape. “Open your eyes.”
I do what he asks.
“Look at me,” he says, placing a hand on my face and turning me to him. “You with me for real?”
I find deep familiarity and comfort when I meet his eyes. It’s like coming home to a place I never knew I had. This is where I’m supposed to be—with him.