31. Kenna

31

KENNA

"Love don't make a lick of sense, but ya know it when ya got it." ~ Archie "Witty" Whitlock

"Are you sure this is going to be okay?" I asked as I pressed the waterproof bandage over Sam's sutures. He was sitting on my toilet, shirtless, and I was standing between his legs.

"Yes." He looked up at me with his big puppy-dog eyes, and I had to stop myself from leaning down and kissing him, so I took a step back.

When I did, he asked, "Have you ever taken a shower with someone?"

I was pretty sure he knew the answer to that, but I responded anyway. "No."

One corner of his mouth pulled in a bad-boy half-grin. "Do you want to?"

"No," I lied.

"Why not?"

"I've heard it's not as sexy as it sounds." That was the truth. The word on the street was that shower sex was awkward and more trouble than it was worth.

A fire lit in his eyes, and I could see that he thought what I was saying was a challenge. It wasn't.

"Where did you hear that?" He followed up.

"Multiple sources."

"They could be unreliable sources." His grin grew wider, and the sight of his dimple had the butterflies in my belly doing backflips. "Only one way to find out."

The man was still recovering from ACL surgery, had been in a major car accident that was a bloody mess, and had eight stitches in his head, but would that stop him from flirting? No.

Doing my level best to ignore him, I leaned into the shower and turned the water on. As tempting as getting naked with Sam sounded, I would not be joining him. My decision not to test the waters, as it were, was not made out of any misplaced need for self-preservation. I'd tried that route and failed. Miserably.

If tonight had taught me anything, it was that just because someone is here today, that does not mean they will be tomorrow. I was going to tell him how I felt. That I loved him, that I'd been in love with him since I was six. And I was also going to tell him I knew he didn't feel the same, and that was okay.

I didn't give a shit about whether or not our relationship was sexual; well, I mean, I did, but I'd get over it. Sam was my person. He was my lobster. He was my soulmate. That didn't have to have a romantic element to it. Our love was bigger than that.

The reason I was declining to participate in shower time was because I was scared I'd slip or bump into his knee, his elbow, his head, or something. My shower was a good size, and it did have a bench at one end that I used when I shaved my legs, but I just didn't want to take any chances.

After making sure the temperature was perfect, I stepped around Sam and stood by the door. In the reflection of the mirror, I watched as he stood and slid his sweats and boxer briefs off his legs. I'd already helped him take off his shirt before I bandaged his head.

My mouth watered at the sight of his naked body. From his wide shoulders, broad back, and muscular arms, down to his firm, rounded backside and strong thighs…he was walking perfection.

He glanced over his shoulder. "You sure you don't want to join me?"

My eyes shot up to his, and I felt my cheeks redden with embarrassment for him catching me drooling over his rounded butt cheeks.

"I'm good. Thanks."

"Your loss," he teased as he stepped inside the shower.

I watched from a safe distance as the water poured down his chiseled frame. A tingle ran through me as he squeezed soap into his hand and then lathered it up before slathering it across his chest and down his muscular arms. His body was a work of art—one that I had the pleasure of viewing.

You could do a lot more than view it, a little voice in my head piped up.

It was right. I didn't have to be a mere bystander. I could participate in the activity.

What was I doing? Sam was alive, and he was in my bathroom, naked, showering, and he had asked me to join him. He didn't seem to be in that much pain. He was moving a heck of a lot better than he had been after his surgery. Just because I went in there didn't mean we'd have to do anything. And I'd be careful. Really careful.

"Fuck it," I whispered under my breath as I pulled my sweater up and off my head.

The movement caught Sam's attention, and he turned his head just in time to see the sweater hit the floor. I expected him to make some flirty comment, but he didn't. He just stared at me with a look of reverence.

My heart was racing as I reached behind my back and undid the hook of my bra. As it fell to the ground, leaving me topless, I toed off my sneakers, unzipped my jeans, and pushed them down my body.

When I straightened back up, I noted that Sam's expression had morphed from wonder into sheer, unfiltered desire and need. His face wasn't the only thing giving me that impression. The erection jutting out of his body was also a visual clue to what he was feeling.

I'd never considered myself sexy. Cute? Sure. Pretty? Sometimes. But sexy… not so much. Growing up with a mom who was the spitting image—voluptuous curves and all—of a worldwide sex symbol sort of put my own appeal into perspective.

But the way Sam looked at me made me feel sexy. He made me feel bold. He made me feel powerful. He unlocked a side of myself I didn't even know existed, and no matter what happened between us, I'd forever be grateful to him for that. Using that confidence, I stepped into the shower.

Without saying a word to one another, I squirted soap into my palm, and he began to run his hands over my body. I lathered up and returned the favor. I started at his neck and shoulders, rubbing off the dried blood that was there. His slick touch roamed up and down my arms and back, across my collarbone and stomach, and over my hips and ass, but he avoided the places I wanted him to touch me most, my breasts and between my legs.

Part of me wanted to beg him to touch me there, but another part was finding the act of us washing each other so tender and sensual that I wasn't in a hurry for it to stop or change. I felt cared for, cherished, and loved as his hands explored every inch of me. I hoped my touch made him feel the same.

As we continued to wash each other, I noticed our breaths had synced together. Both of our chests were rising with inhales and falling with exhales at the exact same time. Even though I knew that we were two separate people, as we stood an inch apart with water pouring over us, it felt like we were one.

My hands were gliding across his chest when his arms dropped to his sides, and he roughly demanded, "Turn around. Now."

In our relationship, Sam always let me get my way. He was easygoing and allowed me to take the lead or be bossy , according to my mom. I always knew there was another side to him; being in command and authoritative was in his job description, but he was never like that with me. Until we were intimate, that is, and I loved it. I loved that he took charge. I loved submitting to him. I loved obeying him.

Eagerly, I turned so that my back was facing him. When I did, he let out a low growl as his hands moved to my hips. He tugged me backward with just enough force to cause me to gasp, pulling me to him. I could feel the evidence of his arousal pressed against my butt cheeks as his fingertips dug into my skin.

Sam's right hand moved from my hip and dipped between my legs. His digits easily slid along my wet folds. I spread my thighs farther apart, giving him better access. Water dripped down my body, adding to the sensual atmosphere. I gripped onto his upper arms as his fingers ran along the seam of my throbbing opening. The heel of his palm pushed against my clit, and twisted back and forth in a grinding motion as his fingers teased my sex.

As bursts of pleasure began to explode in my core, I felt tears sting my eyes. I'd missed this so much. I'd missed his touch. His arms. His voice. His eyes. His lips. Everything. I missed everything about him.

His fingers flicked the base of my slit as he rasped against my ear, "Mine, mine, mine."

That one word was all it took to push me over the edge. My body convulsed as I came with a powerful force that made my knees go weak. The intensity of my orgasm was fueled not just by the physical but by the emotional as well. Hearing him claim me and call me his, was everything I'd always wanted. And it was true. I was his. I always had been, and I always would be.