23. Finn

Finn

I expect Sammy to be gentle and searching when he first slides inside me. I expect to have to tell him to go harder, faster, deeper—but it turns out that’s not necessary.

Maybe I’m not the only one who was expecting something different than I’m getting right now—Sammy looked surprised when he told me to beg, and shocked that I followed his instruction. I’ve never done that with a man before, but there was something about it that amplified the pleasure. Like for the first time during sex, I was able to relax. Let things go.

When he notches himself at my entrance, I’m already wet and ready from his fingers and mouth. And when he slides inside, I’m able to take him to the hilt, my hips tipping up to accommodate him, the air exiting my lungs with a swift, all-encompassing sound.

Sammy groans, low in his chest, when he’s deep inside me, and gathers me up into his arms.

I’m not usually a fan of missionary. In Los Angeles, when I would get ambitious with dating or tired of my vibrator, I’d bring a man home. But I liked to be on top, to know I had control and the option of leaving at any moment.

But now, having this massive man looming over me, his hips driving into mine—it’s thrilling. Something inside of me relaxes. My walls come down, and I’m able to hand the control over to him.

I wonder if this is something like his own precipice—standing at the door of the plane, looking down below, throat tight as he tries to decide if he can take the jump. I want to take the jump—I want to fall and trust that he’s going to catch me.

It’s terrifying, but also sexy. And right now, I’m focusing on the former.

“ Fuck , Finn,” Sammy hisses, his hands tight on my hips, “you’re so fucking tight for me.”

I’ve known this man for three months now. I’ve learned everything about him, from the ins and outs of his childhood to which protein levels he needs to work on raising. I watched him fumble his shot with the sweet social media manager, saw him struggle with basic flirting.

If anyone had told me that he was good at dirty talk in bed, I more than likely wouldn’t have believed them. And if they’d told me I’d be on my back, body flushed with wanting, a moan ripping out of my throat at the words falling from his mouth, I probably would have laughed in their face.

But here I am, gasping. Sobbing with need, each of his thrusts deeper than the last, this primal, seeking urge to get our bodies closer, closer, closer . I think the bed is making noise, but I can’t tear my focus from Sammy for a single second to focus on that.

His hands slide up the back of my thighs, to my knees, and he holds me like that, pushing my legs up for a better angle. He hits at something inside me—my G-spot?—and I come apart, body shaking with the release.

“Oh, fuck yeah, that’s right, Finn,” Sammy says, “come on my cock.”

With any other man, this would make me cringe. But for some reason, seeing this confidence and control come from him is different. His hands tighten on my legs, and everywhere he touches me makes the orgasm stronger, the waves coming hard and fast.

Sammy releases inside me, the warm rush of him sending a fresh aftershock of pleasure through me.

“Oh my god,” I breathe, unable to think of anything else. Sammy’s body shudders, then he drops my legs and leans forward, breathing hard. When he lifts his head to look at me, he’s smiling.

“Shit,” he says, the word coming out in a single, breathy laugh.

Shit is right. Sammy Braun just gave me the best orgasm of my life.

***

When I wake up the next morning, one of Sammy’s heavy arms draped over my torso, it’s to the view of thick, swirling white snow just outside the window. I blink, then suck in a breath, surprised at the sense of warmth in my chest.

There’s something about being pulled in close against him, knowing it’s freezing outside, that makes it more than just cuddling. Cozy, somehow. Almost domestic.

Sammy wakes up when I bolt out of the bed, breathing hard at the thought.

“Whoa,” he says, blinking hard and sitting up. I have to avert my eyes when the sheet falls away, revealing his chest. Embarrassingly, my mouth actually waters . I want to crawl back in bed, sit on his lap, and run a line over his chest with my tongue.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say, knowing my voice sounds tight. I’m already thinking about our deal—at the end of this season, I’m going back to California. I know that. Sammy knows that. It’s fine.

“Just getting in the shower,” I tell him. “I don’t want us to miss our flight.”

But it turns out our flight is delayed, then delayed again, then canceled because of the snow. We sit in the airport lobby long enough that the sun starts to set, and I have to start pacing just to stay out of the hard, uncomfortable seats while Sammy tries to pull strings to get us on another flight.

I’m just turning around and starting my second lap around the seating area when Sammy catches me by the wrist. I feel the contact all the way down to my toes, my eyes landing on a shiny object tinkling merrily in his hand.

“What is that?”

“ These ,” he says, closing his fist around the object. “Are keys. To our rental.”

“To our rental,” I repeat numbly, staring at him. Around us, other travelers are moving around, talking loudly, panicking about the delays and cancellations. I’m wearing a pair of black leggings and a sweater—one of the most casual outfits I’ve worn around him.

“That’s right,” Sammy says, grinning. “Traded an autograph for priority on the last big car at the rental place. Jeep, I think. Should be good for getting through the snow. Now come on, we’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

I’m too old to feel giddy with a sense of adventure, but that’s exactly what I feel. If I was on my own, driving from Detroit to Toronto—a four hour trip in good weather—would be a frustrating, quiet torture. But with Sammy, it’s different.

We barely get out of the Detroit metro area before Sammy’s pulling off the highway and into the brightly-lit parking lot of a supermarket.

“What are you doing?” I ask, blinking at him as he reaches over and unbuckles my seatbelt.

“It’s a road trip,” he says, like that answers my question

“Okay,” I laugh, the sound bubbling out of me like, “Oh-kay?”

He hops out of the rental and circles around to my side, opening the door and grinning at me. Snow lands softly in his hair, and I can hear the powdery crunch of it under his boots as he positions himself closer, his hands on my hips.

A huge parking lot light shines brightly just behind him, almost giving him a halo. I swallow, hard, a wave of tenderness for him washing over me. It’s not like I need help to get out, but I like the sensation of his hands on me, even through my sweater and coat.

“Come on,” he says, leaning in close, the scent of his cologne washing over me.

Then we’re in the supermarket together, and he’s insisting we get way too many snacks for just four hours in the car. Candy, chips, chocolates, sandwiches in plastic, fruit in domed containers, and even a little tub of potato salad.

“I love potato salad.”

“Sammy, you’re not going to be able to eat all this in just four hours. Plus, we ate at the airport.”

“Anything we don’t eat on the road trip will be something we can bring to the cabin as a gift,” he says, a finger against his temple, like he’s the smartest man in the world. People we pass look at him, then double-take. It could be his size, it could be them recognizing him. I pull my hood up over my head self-consciously, wondering if anyone might be snapping pictures.

After we’ve loaded our pounds of food into the car and situated the cold stuff in a compostable cooler, Sammy slides back behind the driver’s seat and pulls out onto the highway.

“Wanna grab me some peach rings?”

“We just left! Why didn’t you grab them before we started driving?” I’m feigning anger, but can’t stop the laugh that rolls through me as I unbuckle and turn around in the seat, rummaging through the bag for the peach rings.

Distantly, I can register that this is dangerous—especially driving through the snow like this—but there’s this sparkling, new sense of adventure draped over the whole thing. The novelty of my first road trip with Sammy Braun.

My only road trip with Sammy Braun.

“You’re the passenger,” he says, his hand sliding over to the back of my thigh as I lean over the seat to get his food. “It’s your job to get me what I want.”

A shiver runs through my entire body, and I grab the peach rings, twisting around and dropping back into my seat. Once I’m buckled, I rip the bag open and hold it out to him, wrinkling my nose as the sweet aroma drifts through the car, pungent and summery.

“I can’t believe you like these.” I should be encouraging him to stick to approved snacks—protein chips and foods with a low glycemic index. But more and more, I’ve been forgetting to work around him. Plus, it’s fun to see what he likes outside of chicken breast and roasted broccoli.

“I…” he grabs one from the bag, his huge hand crinkling the plastic as he does. His voice chokes up, and he spares a glance away from the highway to look at me. “I don’t love them. But—my mom always got them for road trips. Something from her childhood, I think. They just click for me when I drive. Like peppermint for Christmas, or hot dogs on the Fourth.”

“Oh. I—” I don’t want to say I’m sorry. I already know that he lost his parents in a car crash—what else is there to say about that? If I had my professional hat on, I would use this moment to dig further into his past, to try and unearth anything holding him back on the ice.

Instead, in a moment that surprises me, I find his hand on the center console and lace my fingers through his. His entire body is a ply heavier than mine—his fingers thicker, his palm wider and stronger, but there’s something nice about it. His hand is warm, mine is cool. We balance each other out.

“Do you want to tell me more about her?” I ask, clearing my throat and glancing out the front windshield. We’re on a long stretch of highway with nothing but the dark shroud and flashing flurries of snow around us. There’s not another car for miles except the trucks slugging along, plowing and dropping salt.

There’s a long moment of silence, and I think he might just let it go. It might be for the best—I’m not exactly stoked to talk about mothers. The thought of mine—both of them, or neither of them—makes my chest tight. There’s something so difficult about parents having to be human, going through changes and morphing along with their children. I wanted the people who raised me to be monoliths.

But instead, they changed. They wanted something different. When I came back to them, they’d found a new family. I try not think about that—the fact that I was so easily replaced.

“She was…” Sammy starts, then stops again, clearing his throat. “If I’m being honest, the two of you are complete opposites.”

I laugh without meaning to, and he glances at me, eyebrows raising.

“Sorry,” I say, laughing again. “I’m just— so curious to see where this is going.”

“Well, she was like, willowy? You know? Sometimes, when I was a kid, I kind of thought of her like a ghost. Like she would drift from room to room with this dreamy look on her face. She was a painter—back then, I didn’t realize it, but that’s actually so cool. You don’t hear a lot about the people who grow up and get to make a career from their art.”

“So, we’re opposites because she was an artist?”

“Do you have a secret hobby I’m unaware of?”

“No,” I admit, laughing again, “you have me pegged—there’s not a single creative bone in my body.”

“Not just the art,” he says, sighing. “My parents worked well together because my dad was so solid. He always knew what to do, he was always where he needed to be. Loved schedules and plans. You’re more like him, I think. But my mom was very…soulful. She followed her heart even when it didn’t make sense.”

He pauses for a moment, thinking, then says, “You know those moments in your life when you realize you could do anything you want? That, like, you’re making certain choices because it makes sense, but you don’t have to. Like, at any moment, you could put a shoe on your head. Or lie down on the floor. Or…do you get the point?”

“I think so,” I chuckle. “We can do whatever we want. But we just keep doing what we’ve always done.”

“Right. But my mom wasn’t like that—she did whatever she wanted. Once, she woke me up in the middle of the night. It was right after we moved to Minnesota, and I remember feeling just…like I didn’t belong. And she woke me up in the middle of the night, took me out to this lake near our new house. Spread out a blanket and we laid there and looked at the stars. It was…weird. But so much like her.”

“That sounds great,” I say, and I mean it. My chest feels tight. Sammy had great parents and lost them too soon. My parents gave up on me. I wonder if there’s anyone who has a normal relationship with the people who raised them.

“What did your dad think about the lake trip?” I ask.

“Oh,” Sammy laughs, deftly maneuvering around a plow truck, his face shadowed by the flashing yellow light. When I shiver, he reaches over and turns the heat higher, then taps on my heated seat. It all seems like a way to avoid the question.

“I think…he pretended not to know about it,” he says. “But he did. I think he had a lot of his own lake moments with Mom, too. Part of that balance.”

Without meaning to, I glance down at Sammy’s hand in mine, throat getting thick. My hand is perfectly warm now. Balance.