Necessary Restorations (The Walsh Series) (A) (28 page)

“Don’t answer that,” Andy said, shaking her head. “What he meant to say was Lauren and I go to an incredible winter farmers’ market on Saturdays, and you should come with us this weekend.”

Please stop. I don’t belong anywhere near your little sister-wives group.

“Yeah, you have to come to yoga. Even if you hate yoga, this chick will make you love it,” Lauren added, pointing to Andy.

“Is that a requirement here?” I asked. “Compulsory vegetable shopping? Let me guess—matching Lululemon workout clothes, too? Is that the price of admission to the clubhouse?”

The table fell silent, and they couldn’t excuse that one as caustic humor. I was officially standing in epic, flaming bitch territory. They both stared at me, frowning, and then turned to each other with puzzled expressions. Sam edged my wineglass closer to me, a clear signal to drink up and shut up.

“When are you going to tell us about Scotland?” he asked, jutting his chin toward Patrick and Andy.

“You won. They’re not married,” Riley groaned.

“It was cold and wet and Scottish,” Patrick said. “Otherwise unremarkable, considering we spent the whole time digging up rocks.”

“You have an impressive ability to not enjoy things,” Matt said.

“Yeah, it’s mostly derived from living with you for the past three decades,” Patrick replied. “But I will say this—Scotland had decent scotch, and quite the healthy supply of it.”

The discussion moved into a review of their overseas journey, and the locations everyone wanted to visit. Nick talked about his interest in a Doctors Without Borders trip, and Matt mentioned his sister, Erin, and her extensive research travels, but Sam stayed quiet.

It was a nice reprieve from their prying questions, and I was able to sit back and breathe. I was horrified by the snarky things I’d said to Andy or Lauren, and I couldn’t bring myself to make eye contact with them. In this mood, I’d inadvertently maim them with my scowly faces.

They picked at the remaining tapas but soon turned their interest to dessert. Lauren attempted to distribute slices of pie, but the guys overrode her, and dug in with spoons. Knowing Sam’s preference for cleanliness—and his flippant comfort with discarding anything that didn’t look ‘right’—I expected him to recoil when the dishes came our way. Instead, he took a small bite from an untouched corner, and whispered to me, “I don’t know what you put in there, but I’m a fan.”

“That’s high praise considering you primarily eat raw nuts and greens,” I said.

He offered a chastened grin, and said, “I know what I like.”

Riley growled, a sound vaguely similar to the one I’d heard from Sam on many occasions, but from Riley it was cartoon comical. The top four buttons of his shirt gaped open, and he slipped his hand inside to scratch his sternum. He looked around the table and said, “I feel like doing something irresponsible tonight.” His gaze landed on Nick. “Come on, Acevedo. Let’s have an adventure.”

“You should know,” Matt laughed. “Riley’s version of irresponsible adventure involves waking up in the bed of a truck on its way to Canada or getting his nipples pierced by a random guy in an alley.”

Riley rubbed his chest, frowning. “Those hurt, man. I still have scars, physical
and
emotional.”

“He’s also been permanently barred from Howl At The Moon,” Patrick added. “Something about getting naked and dancing on a piano.”

“As if that wasn’t standard fare,” Riley muttered. “And if we’re airing all the dirty secrets, why don’t we talk about the party after Matt and Miss Honey’s wedding?”

“Nope.” Nick shook his head, his gaze never wandering from his glass. “Let me stop you right there.”

“Why?” Matt asked. He looked between Sam, Riley, and Nick. “What happened?”

Riley stared at Nick, smirking. A silent exchange of severe expressions, raised eyebrows, and head shakes occurred while the group watched, then finally Riley laughed. “Nothing,” he said, spooning another bite of pumpkin pie. “Acevedo knows how to have a good time. Not surprising for the good doctor.”

I was missing a ton of subtext here, but from the looks of it, I wasn’t the only one. Matt and Lauren were reminiscing in hushed tones about their nuptials while Patrick leaned toward Andy, brushed her hair from her shoulder, and whispered something against her ear. Everyone seemed genuinely nice—or, nice in the ‘we’re family so we talk a lot of shit’ way—and amusing, but it was impossible to keep up with it all. There was so much history simmering between these people, entire lifetimes that I’d never fully understand.

Nick and Riley started planning their night out, and I could not have given Sam more insistent glances if my eyeballs popped out of my skull and pounded on his chest. I’d been outrageously impolite and I wasn’t comfortable being grilled by his family, and I just wanted to leave.

We eventually made it out of their loft, but not without a carousel of hugs and swapped phone numbers, and the same incessant request to spend more time getting to know me.

“Are you okay?” Sam asked once the elevator doors closed. He pulled me tight to his chest, his forehead crinkled with confusion. “You did
not
seem okay in there.”

I edged away from him, positioning myself on the opposite side of the elevator. “I’m not on board with this, Sam. I told you. I don’t do families.”

He leaned against the elevator wall, his arms crossed. “You know why they asked so many questions? They’re trying to figure out why a smart, beautiful woman has given me more than ten minutes of her attention. They can’t fathom someone like you wanting to hang around someone like me.”

“Meaning what?” I yelled. “You could have anyone you wanted. You could find a pretty girl who spoke French and wore pearls, and knew how to pick out bottles of Chianti.”

“Uh-huh,” he murmured. “That’s not the consensus from that group, and in case you haven’t noticed, Chianti, French, and pearls are not high on my priority list.”

The doors opened and I moved through the lobby and to the street quickly. It was the type of cold weather that immediately resulted in a runny nose, and I was probably walking in the wrong direction, but I just needed to get away from it all. The wintery air bit my skin but the shock was a refreshing calm on my system.

I was being irrational, and I knew it. But I required breathing space, freedom, independence.

I wasn’t part of anyone’s tribe.

My friends were abundant and I had deep, caring relationships with many, but Ellie was the only person I truly trusted. Not once in the past eleven years had she ever turned me away when I needed her, and there’d never been a whisper of doubt that we accepted each other, baggage and all, implicitly.

Everyone else in my life—all the people who I should have been able to rely on—had given me reasons to walk away, and not a single reason to return.

And Sam . . . I wanted to carve out a special spot for him, and there were so many moments when I believed he deserved one, too. But I couldn’t let that lightning strike again. I couldn’t let myself be abandoned, and it was too soon to know anything for certain.

“I don’t do families that are all up in each other’s business. I see my family for deaths and weddings because they can’t respect boundaries. If yoga and farmers’ markets are part of the deal, I can’t.”

“Would you wait a godforsaken second, Tiel?” Sam jogged to catch up, coming to a full stop in front of me with his hands braced on my arms. “Yoga and farmers’ markets aren’t part of the deal,” he said. “The only deal is that we like hanging out together, and sometimes we do that naked.”

I blew out a breath and shook my head. I was in desperate need of a tissue and the wind was blowing my hair in nine different directions, and somewhere beneath my wobbly spot, I knew I was hurting Sam.

I didn’t want that. That player veneer ran thin, and underneath it, he had his own wobbly spots, too. He was sensitive and sweet, and he needed someone to love all over him the way he deserved.

Sniffling, I said, “Maybe we could go back to my place now.”

He produced a handkerchief from his pocket and waited while I blew my nose. “My place,” he said.

“We’re closer to mine,” I said, nodding in Cambridge’s general direction.

“Equidistant,” he said. “My place.”

I’d never visited Sam’s house, but he always had a renovation story to tell. Part of me expected him to be living in a full-blown construction site with tarps and jackhammers and wet paint. “But we can make almond milk mudslides at my place. Then we can turn the tunes up and dance in our underwear.”

He brought his thumb to my face, tracing my cheeks, nose, and mouth before laying a kiss on my lips. “That does sound like a better idea.”

One of my favorite Cat Stevens songs was playing when we got in his car, and he let me discuss the intricacies of the music while we headed to my apartment. I needed to shake off my nervous energy, and Sam indulged, asking questions and letting me talk the entire time.

I was halfway through blending the modified mudslides when Sam placed his hands on my hips, his palms circling over my clothes. There was a hot insistence in his touch, and he soon dipped beneath my dress and inside my leggings.

“Don’t move,” he ordered.

His body shifted, and he dropped to his knees behind me. True to his word, he peeled my leggings down, one aching inch at a time. His mouth moved over my exposed skin, kissing and licking, and when my clothes were bunched at my ankles, he pushed my legs apart. He drove his fingers inside me, stroking and thrumming my clit until I was bent over the countertop and begging.

And then Sam’s fingers were gone, abandoning me seconds before I came, and I was ready to scream.

Springing up, I rounded on him, my eyes as furious as I felt, and he just smiled. “Did that not go the way you wanted?”

“Rude!” I yelled. “Very rude!”

I was wet—not simply aroused—and I sensed my fluid coating my thighs. It was almost embarrassing, and I was somewhat convinced I’d find a puddle on the floor very soon.

“Maybe.” He grabbed a handful of my dress and yanked me against his chest. “You’ve had a rough night,” he said, and I nodded. “It’s going to get a little rougher.”

My default reaction to overwhelming situations was laughter, and when those words washed over me, I dissolved into giggles despite his dark, severe tone.

“Oh, Sunshine,” Sam hissed, slipping his fingers into my mouth. I tasted myself on him, and I wanted to be revolted but I was too fucking turned on to care. His eyes darkened as I sucked, his groan hoarse and exactly as desperate as I felt. “I am going to own you tonight.”

He pushed me against the refrigerator and freed me from my leggings and panties. Ducking under my dress, his tongue swirled over my clit and it only took a few well-placed licks to prime my body for explosion.

And once again, he stopped a minute too soon. Wailing, I beat my fists against the refrigerator. This was torture, and he knew it.

“Saaaaaaammm,” I moaned.

He offered a knowing grin and placed feathery kisses on my thighs and pelvic bone and just barely between my legs. “Do not doubt that I’ll gag you.”

“I’ll finish this myself,” I said, but the threat sounded whiny and petulant.

He chuckled, his warm breath tickling my leg, and he continued teasing. He didn’t believe me.

Unable to see past the screeching urge for release ringing through my body, I bunched my dress at my waist and brought my hand to my center. I’d barely grazed my clit when Sam’s hand curled around my wrist and pinned it to my side.

“Don’t you dare,” he said. He stood, leaning into me while I squirmed, angling for his hard length where I needed it. “
I’ll
make you come. Only me, and only when I’m ready.”

“You’re such a dick,” I yelled, burrowing into his shoulder.

“And you love it.” He dragged his scruffy chin across my chest, inflaming my nerves and drawing out a shiver that didn’t seem to stop. “How long should I make you wait?”

I shook my head, whimpering, “No more.”

“Should I fuck you right here?” Sam asked. He lifted my hands above my head and speared his hips against me, and the impact sent vibrations rippling through my body. “Or against the counter? Your ass looked fucking edible bent over like that.”

He traced the line of my arm, over my breast and belly, and brushed my folds. It was a delicate touch, like he was stroking something incomprehensibly fragile, and desire sparked in my veins until I was trembling.

It was an agonizing, throbbing need, but Sam didn’t stop. His body trapped me there, his chest flush with mine, his grip tight on my wrists, and I could feel the drumbeat of his heart pounding in time with mine. He whispered filthy things about how much he loved touching me and teasing me, and how he wanted my arousal dripping all over his wrist, and that my pussy belonged to him.

I hated hearing those words—my ladybits were my own, thank you—but I craved them, too. It was primal and animalistic, and if my hands were free, I would have closed my fist around his cock and said the exact same thing.

I took tremendous pride in belonging only to myself, but right now, with my body heaving in spectacularly painful need, I wanted to be Sam’s. He could claim my pussy, my orgasms, my everything.

“Do I need to restrain you?” he asked, and even the scrape of his teeth on my earlobe was too much stimulation.

“Sam,” I rasped. “
Please.
”

He released me, but I didn’t have long to miss the weight of his body. He led me into the bedroom, yanking the rest of my clothes off in the process. His were quick to follow, and then he was over me, his palm splayed between my breasts, pressing hard.

He pushed into me, slow and deliberate, and he kept me anchored in place while he stroked all the way in, his hips snug against mine, and then all the way out. I didn’t think it was possible for him to torture me any more than he had, but this—
this
was the most licentious torture imaginable.

Eventually, he shifted his hand down my body until the heel of his palm rested over my mound. When I edged up to meet his thrusts, that pressure sent hot, crackling snaps of electricity through me.