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Rory bends her knee, sliding it over my thigh, and I let her weight shift me onto my back so she can get into whatever position she finds comfortable. I'm not complaining that that position happens to lead to her thigh hooked over my hip, her cheek pressed into my chest like a pillow, and her arm draped over my abdomen.

She stills again and I sigh at the sweet torture of it. It's heaven, holding her like this, but my attraction to her is barely controllable when she's just near me, or even in my thoughts. Now, laying like this, with a certain part of my body lined up so close to
it's
favorite part of hers, I'm finding the intensity of my arousal almost painful, and no amount of distracting thoughts seems to help.

Last night's Knicks game, spring training stats, even my Grandma Lena… they don't stay center stage for more than a few moments each. Instead, I feel every square inch of where our bodies align against each other, feel the heat of her skin even through the cotton of her clothing.

Images force their way through my mind. Memories. Rory's innocent curiosity at her own desire. The sweet mortification and the blush that crept over her entire naked body when I'd realized how inexperienced she was with actual pleasure. The honor and humility I felt when I understood the opportunity in front of me. That even though
that motherfucking bastard
had stolen her virginity, I could still be the one to give her that very significant first.

I see it happen all over again in my head. The first time I watched her come. I was fucking mesmerized. It wasn't the first time I got a girl off, not by a long-shot, but it was the first time I cared like that. It was always tit for tat before. I enjoyed it, don't get me wrong, it's a proud feeling—good for the ego and a major turn-on, but that wasn't the motivation for it. More like a happy side effect on the way to getting what I wanted, which was my own pleasure.

But with Rory… it was something different. A transcendent experience in its own right. Feeling her body pulse and contract around my fingers, against my tongue. And
God
, the fucking taste of her. Seeing her body flush, seized by mind-numbing pleasure, and the look on her face—a heady mix of shock and pure bliss. And her cries. Those fucking whimpers. And hearing my name in that lust-coated tone of hers.
Fuck
, she's ruined me for good.

These insuppressible memories aren't helping my current situation. I'm quite sure the bulge in my jeans has never been this stiff and swollen in my life. And that's saying something for an eighteen year old guy. If all goes as planned and Rory gets a good, long nap in, it will be hours before I can get home and relieve some of my own tension.

Rory snuggles into me even more, her soft breasts pressed into my side and chest, and I groan to myself at the heavenly torment. At least I'll have some new fantasy material for later.

I listen to the sound of her breathing, feel the warmth of each exhale through the thin cotton of my tee shirt. I slowly slip my fingers into her hair, lightly stroking them through the soft, loose locks, brushing them off of her face. My other arm slides around her back, holding her in the position she's unconsciously chosen, and I sigh. I've dreamed of getting her back in my arms countless times, but never like this, and it's bittersweet. Because she's here by default, not by choice, and I know it's only temporary.

"I love you," I whisper, only because I know she's a world away, and I let my own eyes fall closed, and drift off, longing to join her.

Chapter Seven

"
I
love you," Sam whispers, his low timbre rumbling against the skin of my neck.

I want to say it back, to tell him I never stopped, but there's a reason I can't—I'm not supposed to, though I can't recall why. We are outside, on a beach I don't recognize, but it's breathtakingly beautiful, and I half think we might be in heaven. I will him to touch me, but he hesitates.
Why?

"Touch me," I plead, and Sam pulls back, his lips twisting up into a smirk, revealing the dimple I love so much.

"Where?" he asks, taunting me, still keeping his hands painstakingly to himself.

"Please," I beg, and he licks his lips.

Slowly, painfully slowly, he presses his hand to my waist, lifting the hem of my tee shirt as he slowly runs the pads of his fingers up, just a few inches.

"Here?" he asks, his voice thickening with desire.

I let my eyes fall close and nod,
yes
.

He rewards me by continuing his path further upward until he's teasing the underside of my bra, slipping his thumb just the tiniest bit underneath.

"Here?" he rasps, and I suspect he's torturing himself as much as he is me, but it's a wonderful torture, and I want more of it.

"Yes," I breathe.

Sam's patience is slipping, I can sense it. His other hand finds my waist, gripping it firmly while the first moves over the cup of my bra, molding me until I moan out loud. He keeps his face hovering just above mine, so close our noses brush, that I breathe his breath, but he doesn't kiss me.

The hand on my waist opens wide, so big his thumb reaches the underwire of my bra while his pinky grips my hip. Suddenly he slides the whole thing down and around to my ass, pulling my body flush against his. I moan again when I feel how badly he wants me against my stomach. He leans down to my ear again, and brushes his lips back and forth over the lobe before taking it gently between his teeth.

"Do you see what you do to me?" he rumbles.

I nod again, relishing the most powerful feeling I've ever known—the effect I have on Sam.

"Tell me you want me," he demands.

"I want you," I say without hesitation, and he groans in response.

"What's our safe word?"

"Calculus."

With that, Sam lifts me by the back of my thighs, and I wrap my legs around him. Suddenly we're inside a bright hotel room, lit by only the afternoon sun, though I've no idea how we got inside, and I'm almost sure it was just evening out on the beach.

Sam lays me gently back onto the bed. It's then that I realize I'm dreaming. That otherwise Sam would never be here, touching me like this and telling me he loves me. But right now, I don't have time to care. Because I have him. Even if I know I'm only dreaming, right now, Sam is mine, and I'm going to savor every moment of it.

We undress hastily, and I pull him down to me. Finally he kisses me deeply, but I'm afraid to close my eyes, afraid that when I open them he will dissolve into nothing.

"Sam."

"Sleep, baby girl," he murmurs.

What?

I don't want to sleep. Sleep is just about the last thing on my mind right now.

I'm about to tell him exactly that, when my fear comes true, and he dematerializes right in front of me.

NO!

No.

No, no, no.

I keep my eyes shut tight, praying for sleep to swallow me back up. But no matter how much I try to fall back into my subconscious, my wakefulness grows until it's no longer deniable. The rush of disappointment rolls over me and I feel the perpetual ache in my chest grow with it. It's then that I realize I'm curled up against something large and firm, and I freeze in a long moment of consternation.

I brush my fingers over soft cotton, and breathe deeply.

I recognize the scent instantly. A combination of Sam's after-shave, his body wash and something that's just inherently
him.
My eyes fly open.

I am wrapped around him like a vine, his thick, denim-clad thigh between mine, and his chest my perfect pillow. I both hear and feel the comforting sound of each steady, thumping beat of his strong heart. The muted pink light sweeping in through the blinds tells me it must be nearly dusk, and we're in my bedroom. I haven't the slightest clue how we got here.

The last thing I remember was forcing half a grilled cheese sandwich down my throat despite my lack of appetite just to appease Sam. And then realizing I wasn't going to make it through the rest of the school day. I told the girls I was going to grab something from my car, but really I was just going to drive home. Though I can't say I remember doing it.

But here I am, and so is Sam.

I rack my brain trying to remember something. Anything. But the balance of the afternoon is a muddlement of partially remembered dreams and very little else.

I lift my head slowly, just enough to peek up at him. He's out cold. Well, that's not accurate. He's fast asleep, yes, but there's nothing
cold
about him. His body is so appealingly warm, and the little skin that's no longer in contact with it regrets it instantly. I press my face back to his chest and try to think.

He starred in almost all of my dreams in what must have been a pretty long nap. First he was in my car. I was driving. Or maybe he was driving. And then I think he was upset about something, but I have no idea what, and I think I hugged him? I don't remember the details.

But then Robin was there, and Sam was gone, and Robin did what he always does, until Sam reappeared, but he couldn't hear my screams. Robin went after him, and I begged him to stop, but… but
what
?

The next thing I remember the scene had changed, and Robin was gone, but Sam was okay. He had stopped him, and he was telling me everything was okay, that Robin couldn't hurt me, and that I was safe. And I really did feel safe.

God
, I wish I could remember more. As much as I remember from that last dream. Though I sure am glad I remember that last dream.

It felt so real at first. The sensation of his skin on my body, of his breath in my ear, the deep gravel of his voice… it all has an unfathomable effect on me. My fingers move barely, practically of their own volition, over his tightly packed abs.

I stop them. I don't want to wake him. I don't know what will happen when he wakes, and I suspect it will probably include him saying goodbye and leaving. Especially since it's probably later than he'd intended us to sleep. Assuming he'd intended it at all.

But he must have.

I realize now that I must have fallen asleep before I could drive home. In retrospect, it's probably a damn good thing that I did, considering I probably shouldn't have been driving anyway. I don't know what I was thinking, taking a risk like that. I guess the point is that I
wasn't
thinking—I was too damn tired to think.

Sam must have seen me head to my car. He must have found me and driven me home. And then held me because he knew it would keep the nightmares away.

Immediately I know that he didn't hold me the whole time. Because Robin showed up. And though we've only fallen asleep together a few times, I know in my heart that it wasn't a coincidence. That Sam kept him away.

And Sam's presence also explains this last dream of mine.
God,
do I wish it could have been real. That it could
be
real. His body is something no girl could resist. It's just perfectly sculpted, heavily muscled in all the right places, but still lean. And curled up against it is a precarious place to be.

I peek up at his face again, suddenly incredibly aware that I should be savoring this moment. This stolen opportunity to observe him so close. I watch him sleep, greedily taking in every feature—from his full lips, so incredibly soft-looking next to his masculine jawline, his straight nose and chiseled cheekbones. His lashes are so thick any girl would be jealous, and his hair is adorably disheveled from sleep. He looks positively perfect, and I commit this exact sight to memory.

I let my gaze skim over his body and I take my time rediscovering his chest—my pillow—and that tight six pack of muscles that I so vividly remember twitching at my touch in Miami. His tee shirt has ridden up an inch, and I see the faint trail of hair that leads from his navel into his waistband. I let my fingers lightly trace down that same trail.

And when my eyes continue lower, I swallow my gasp. Though Sam is lost in sleep, his body seems to be having the exact same idea my subconscious had. And that now my very conscious mind has as well.

He strains so much against his jeans that I think it must be painful for him. I feel an answering heat between my legs, my body reacting as it always does when we're this close. Which hasn't been since Miami.
God,
it's been weeks. And I think about him all the time. I miss him in every way imaginable.

And from the looks of it, he's having a similar reaction to sleeping with me like this. He's pressing right up against the zipper fly of his jeans. It really does look painful.

Why would he go to take a nap in his jeans? What could be less comfortable?

Unless he was worried about making
me
uncomfortable.

Of course
. He was being respectful of me.

I realize now that it's likely he didn't even get into the bed with me at first. Which is why I had that nightmare. And that that nightmare is the reason he's holding me now.

A blush creeps over my body as I flood with shame.
Of course
that's the reason he's here, in bed with me, holding me with his jeans on.
Of course
he would make himself uncomfortable, just to comfort me.

But it's ridiculous—why he couldn't have just taken off his jeans and slept in his boxer briefs. I've slept with him in a lot less than underwear. With nothing, in fact. And he's well aware of that. He could have taken off his stupid jeans.

And suddenly I resent the jeans. I'm
angry
at them. Like they're a living, breathing entity. One which represents everything between Sam and me right now that is wrong and stupid. It shouldn't be like this.
We
shouldn't be like this. Even if we can't be together. There shouldn't be a pair of fucking
jeans
between us.

I make to get rid of the offending entity. I slip my thumb and forefinger over the small brass button, and push it through its hole. I slowly and carefully grasp the zipper pull, and slide it down over him.

Sam groans in his sleep, and the sound douses my desire with gasoline, setting it aflame. I cautiously, painstakingly, push his jeans down over his hips, and then use my feet to kick them down and off of him. He almost stirs a couple of times, and the third time, his arms tighten around me, and pull me back against his chest, nuzzling his face into my hair.

I want to sigh. This is better. Not perfect, we're still mostly clothed, after all. But better.

I rub my cheek over his heart, slipping my leg back over his thigh, but he's now pulled me a little higher, and his very conspicuous erection—now covered only by tight, black boxer briefs—is positioned so close to where I crave him most. I turn my face into his shirt to stifle my own groan. It only now dawns on me that there might have been another reason for him to have kept his jeans on.

His whole body rises and falls with his deep, slow breathing. He must have really needed a nap too if he's sleeping so soundly right now. I wonder if he's been asleep as long as I have, which must have been, what? Four hours? Maybe five?  

My fingers twitch over his stomach again and he startles in his sleep. He doesn't wake—he resettles, but not before sliding his hand down to cup my ass and pulling me even more on top of him. He holds me firmly, but not too hard, and the slightest resistance would make him let go, I'm sure of it, but that's the last thing I want. But now I'm practically on top of him, and nothing good can come of this.

I make to slide back to his side, but I move over him and we both moan.
God,
that felt good. I move again, just the slightest bit more to the side, and it's as far as my body wants to go, it feels like heaven.