What Sammy Always Wanted

You've been coming to Sammy's house since you were in your early twenties, back when your dad first married Elaine and you didn't know where you fit in the new family. Sammy was the one person who made it easy. Elaine's best friend since forever, forty-one now, warm and funny, with a way of tilting her head when you talked that made you feel like the only person in the world. Tonight is like every other night. Her living room smells like vanilla and the tea she's steeping in the kitchen. You sink into the corner of her sofa — your corner, the one with the worn cushion — and listen to her hum while cups clink. She comes back in wearing a soft grey sweater that slips off one shoulder, jeans, her dark hair loose. She hands you a mug, sits closer than usual, and tucks her feet under herself so her knee rests against your thigh. "So," she says. "Tell me everything."

You tell her about the breakup — the one three months back, the one you've been quietly getting over. Sammy listens the way she always does, eyes on you, thumb tracing the rim of her mug. "Good riddance," she says finally. "She never looked at you the way you deserve to be looked at." "How's that?"

Sammy sets her mug down on the coffee table. Then she looks at you for a long moment — longer than she ever has — and something in the room shifts. "Like this," she says quietly.

You don't move. You're not sure you're breathing. "I'm sorry," she says, but she doesn't sound sorry. She sounds careful. "That was either the bravest or the stupidest thing I've done in years."

"Sammy—" "Let me say it, okay? Before I lose my nerve." She smooths her sweater over her thighs, a rare nervous gesture. "Every time you've sat on this sofa, telling me about some girl who didn't appreciate you, I sat here wanting to reach over and show you what it feels like to be wanted properly. For three years, that's been my secret. Tonight it just fell out of my mouth."

You stare at her — at the woman who's held every secret you've ever had, sitting a foot away with her knee against your leg, telling you she's wanted you this whole time. "Say something," she whispers.

"You're Elaine's best friend." "I'm a grown woman who fancies a grown man. Elaine will survive." A small, crooked smile. "Do you want me to take it back?"

You answer by reaching over and tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. She closes her eyes at your touch like she's been waiting years for it — because she has. "No," you say. "Don't take it back."

Sammy turns her face into your palm and kisses it — soft, lingering, her lips warm against your skin. When she opens her eyes they're darker than you've ever seen them. "Come here, then," she murmurs.

You close the distance. The first kiss is careful, almost shy, both of you discovering. The second is not careful at all. She makes a low sound into your mouth, her hand coming up to grip the front of your shirt, and suddenly three years of restraint breaks loose on both sides.

She climbs into your lap, straddling you on the sofa, her weight settling over you in a way that makes you groan. Sammy smiles against your mouth. "There it is," she whispers. "I knew it was in there."

"You're going to be smug about this, aren't you?" "Mm-hmm." She rocks her hips once, deliberate, and you feel how warm she is even through denim. "I've thought about this exact position about two hundred times. Let me have my moment." You grip her hips and pull her down harder against you, and her smugness dissolves into a gasp.

She pulls her sweater over her head and drops it. Underneath she's in a simple black bra, full breasts spilling soft above the lace, and she watches your face as you look at her. "You like?" she asks, a little breathless. "You have no idea."

"Then show me." She reaches back, unclasps it, and lets it fall. "I've been wondering what your hands would feel like since the day you fixed my kitchen tap." You take her breasts in both hands, thumbs brushing her nipples until they harden, and she drops her head back with a low, throaty moan.

You lean in and take one nipple in your mouth, and Sammy's fingers slide into your hair, holding you to her. "Oh — yes, like that," she breathes. "Slow. God, you listen so well. I always knew you would." Her hips keep moving against you, grinding in slow circles, and you're so hard it's almost painful. She feels it and laughs softly, wicked and low. "Poor thing. Let me take care of that." She slides down off your lap, onto her knees between your legs, looking up at you with those dark eyes.

She undoes your jeans with unhurried, practiced hands and frees your cock. Her eyes widen just slightly, and her smile turns genuinely hungry. "Elaine has no idea what she's missing," she says, "and I'm keeping this."

Then her mouth is on you — hot, wet, deliberate. She takes you deep, working her tongue along you, pulling back to stroke you with her hand and murmur against the tip. "I've dreamed about this. You have no idea how many times." You thread your fingers into her dark hair, and she hums around you like you've made her whole night.

She brings you right to the edge, then pulls off with an obscene pop, wiping her lip with her thumb, smug again. "Not yet, love. The first time I make you come, I want you inside me." She stands, shimmies out of her jeans and panties, and stands before you completely naked, soft and strong and utterly unashamed, one hand on her hip. "Well? Your turn. Fair's fair." You strip off your shirt while she watches, and her eyes travel over you slowly, hungrily, like she's memorizing you.

She pushes you back against the cushions and sinks down onto you, taking you in inch by inch, her head falling forward, a long low moan leaving her. "Oh my god," she whispers. "Oh, that's — okay. That's better than I imagined, and I have a good imagination." She braces her hands on your chest and starts to ride, slow at first, rolling her hips, her breasts swaying with every movement. You reach up to hold them, thumbs on her nipples, and she speeds up. "Just like that — don't stop —"

The room fills with the sound of her — her breath, her moans, the wet rhythm of her riding you. Sweat shines on her collarbone. Her eyes stay locked on yours. "I want you to come with me," she gasps. "Can you feel how close I am? Three years, love — three years —"

You grip her hips and thrust up to meet her, and she cries out, her whole body tightening around you, pulsing, and that's all it takes. You bury yourself deep inside her and come hard, groaning, her name on your lips while she shakes above you.

Afterwards she collapses against your chest, both of you breathing hard, her hair sticking to your neck. She laughs softly — a warm, easy, Sammy laugh — and presses a kiss to your collarbone. "Well," she says. "That's going to make tea time interesting." "You're still making me tea?" "Always." She lifts her head, cheeks flushed, eyes soft. "That's the deal, love. You keep coming over, keep telling me everything. And now, when the conversation deepens..." She grins. "It can deepen further. Any time you like."

You stay tangled together on the sofa until the tea goes cold, and neither of you cares. She traces lazy circles on your chest and makes you laugh with the story of the first time she noticed you — a barbecue two summers before your breakup, when you handed her a drink and she thought, well, that's a shame, he's off-limits. "Not off-limits anymore," you say. "No," Sammy says, propping her chin on your chest with a satisfied smile. "Not off-limits at all. And love — next time, don't wait three months to come see me. My sofa misses you. Among other things." She kisses you once more, slow and promising, then pads off toward the kitchen to make fresh tea, wearing nothing but your shirt.