Again, she laughs.
“Fine, laugh it up,” I grumble as I stand, hellbent on retrieving my clothes and my dignity, and getting the hell out of here.
Except, this is my room…
“Stop,” she says, standing up and grabbing my arm. “I’m not laughing at you, honest. I’m just happy the impeccably dressed, always has it together, anal Samuel Grayson is proving to be human after all.”
“Did you call me anal?”
“Is that all you got out of that?” she asks, her gaze locked on mine. Her hand caresses my thigh, goosebumps peppering my entire body. It’s also the moment I realize I’m still standing in my underwear, and she’s wearing tight black pants and a tiny little top. Her nipples are poking through the thin material, and my mouth starts to water.
“My eyes are up here, Sammy. All I’m saying is I’m glad to know you make mistakes just like the rest of us,” she says.
“Oh, believe me. I make mistakes.” The unspoken meaning is evident and sadness flashes in those gorgeous brown eyes, making me feel like shit. Even though I made a terrible mistake, getting drunk and marrying my sister’s best friend, I’d never want Freedom to feel guilty or unwanted. There’s definitely a want there, it’s just not supposed to be acted upon.
“I have an idea. Why don’t you go shower and wash off the oil. I’ll go down and get you a chamomile tea,” she says. When I glance at the clock, it’s nearing one in the morning. I’ve never been a night owl, let alone multiple days in a row. Yet, I can’t seem to find the desire to go to sleep.
“I don’t think tea is going to help,” I tell her, rubbing the back of my neck. Not with her standing there looking like pure temptation in yoga pants.
“Just go shower, Sammy. I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she says, heading toward the door.
Before she opens it, she pulls a keycard from the waistband of those pants. “Seriously, Freedom?” I ask, rubbing my forehead.
“What? It’s not like I have pockets, and this tank would have shown the rectangular card.” Then she leaves the room, questions swirling around in my brain. Like is she really going downstairs dressed like that? Or how did I not see that keycard outlined in those tight pants? Like most situations involving Freedom, I don’t have any answers. She’s an enigma in bangle bracelets and lavender essential oil.
Stepping into the bathroom, I turn on the shower. I strip from my underwear as images of Freedom in that lovely dress earlier today and then hotter in black leggings parade through my mind. Suddenly, my cock is standing at attention once more, my blood flowing straight to one concentrated area.
Exhaling, I get under the hot water, unable to shake the pictures in my mind. Even as I lather up my hair and then scrub the oil from my skin, she’s all I can see. It’s no wonder when I rub the washcloth over my balls, they draw up as lust races through my veins. That’s why I find myself with my cock in my hand, resting my forehead against the cold tile, and stroking myself. Sweet release barrels down on me as I stroke faster, my body burning with the need to come.
“Freedom.” Her name spills from my lips. It’s a plea, a balm to the ache deep inside me.
Evidence of what I’ve done washes down the drain as I try to regain my breathing. I slip under the water again, rinsing away the remaining soap, and turn the knob. Reaching for a towel, I dry off my legs as my hotel room door shuts. “Freedom?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Uhh, how did you get into my room?” I ask, drying off as quickly as possible.
“A key?”
I wrap the towel around my waist and step into the bedroom. “Where did you get a key?”
She just shrugs, as if she didn’t somehow lift my room key and let herself in like she was a guest here. I pull a pair of clean underwear from the dresser, along with a pair of shorts. When I glance over, Freedom’s lying in my bed, her face void of any makeup and with her hair tied high on her head.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting ready for bed?” she replies, as if it’s crazy I’d even ask such a question.
“Why? In my bed?” I ask, hating how perfect she looks lying under the covers.
“Why not? It’s late, Sammy. I’m tired, and your bed is right here.”
“But your bed is in your room,” I tell her, choking the life out of my underwear with my hands.
“It is,” she says with a yawn. Her eyes start to droop, and I realize this fight is fruitless.
I head back to the bathroom and throw on my underwear and shorts. I should probably also slip on a shirt, but for some reason, I don’t. Instead, I head back to my darkened bedroom and find Freedom snuggled under the blankets. Sighing in resignation, I slip under the sheet, hugging the edge of the bed.
After a few minutes of silence, I feel her hand on my arm. It’s startling, but not because of her touch, per se. What’s startling is the way I crave it, how much it comforts me at the same time. She moves, lifting my arm and resting her head against my chest. I’m completely stiff, yet I have no control over my arm, as it wraps around her shoulders and holds her close.
“Tomorrow, we’re having fun. We’re going on the roller coaster,” she says in a sleepy voice.
“Uhh, no, Freedom. I draw a hard line at roller coasters. You remember the plane ride, right?” Her hair tickles my neck, but it feels so good, so I don’t move it.
She yawns again and burrows into me farther. “Yeah, but you got a tattoo. That means you’re
