Maybe Dr. Robertson was right. In his old age, he’s beginning to turn into a big softie. He’s so downright maudlin right now he should be committed.
Sam glances at him, her eyes shining. “Brian, I can’t accept this. You can’t afford it right now.”
“Of course I can. Take it.” He holds up his palms in refusal when she tries to give him back the box. “Didn’t your mother teach you manners? It’s rude not to accept a gift from the condemned.”
“You’re not condemned.”
“I will be soon. Fuck it, Sam, just let me do this for you, OK? Don’t nag.”
“I’m not nagging, and you’re not condemned.” Determination makes her thrust her chin out.
“Well, you’ve got more faith in the jury than my lawyer does.” Hell, and Karen has more faith in the system to treat him leniently than he does himself.
She comes over to him and strokes his rich chestnut hair. “Hey, it ain’t over till the fat lady sings.”
She leans over to settle her lips softly upon his. It’s a butterfly kiss – so light and gentle that it takes his breath away. He feels his groin tightening.
He murmurs against her softly breathing mouth, “In my case, it’s till the ball-crushing Assistant DA sings.”
“Have faith.”
“Trying to.”
They are lost in another kiss. He kisses her with feeling, with emotion. The monstrous rush of abandon fills him, and suddenly, his guts are swimming above his throat, and he has to keep himself from being choked by the overwhelming enormity of it all.
Sam, Sam, Sam . . . I will miss you so much. You have no idea. You have no f**king clue how much I will miss you.
“Then tell her,” the voice of Dr. Robertson echoes across the divide of the last session they had.
I can’t. It wouldn’t be fair. I can’t keep her waiting for me – a man with a future as bleak as a dystopian tundra. She deserves to find someone else when I’m away. Someone like Thor, god of thunder forbid. Or maybe Caleb.
For answer, he seizes her face and kisses her again, this time more passionately. He slips his tongue into her mouth, tasting the sweet, gravy-scented texture of her. The wonderful, wet and endlessly roaming map of her mouth, her tongue, her teeth, her palate. He can drink her in forever like a drowning man.
He feels her hands clasp his shoulders, and then slide down his pecs . . . and down, down to his jeans’ zipper. He hears the soft k-r-a-a-a-c-k of the zip being pulled down. His rod is already hard and pulsing. He does not wear underwear, and she curls her knuckles in the tangle of his pubic bush. She tugs at his nether hair gently as he locks mouths with hers, merging their essences together.
Her hand wraps around his turgid shaft – so stiff that he doesn’t think he can get up. She moves her hand back and forth slowly. Her lips press against his chin, his jawline, as she escalates the intensity of her strokes. His breathing has grown harsher.
“Sammie,” he moans against her cheek.
I’m going to miss this. I’m going to miss us being together. You have no idea how wild you drive me. And it isn’t just sex. It’s the togetherness. The ‘us’.
But he doesn’t say a word. He used not to believe in an ‘us’, and now that someone has shown him how wonderful ‘partnership’ can be, he’s about to have it whisked away from him. So there’s no f**king point.
Slowly, she kneels before him. He is still seated in the dining chair and his thighs are wide apart. With her gaze burning into his, she takes his painfully erect c**k into her gorgeous mouth. She doesn’t wear lipstick because she doesn’t like to smear him with it. Considerate, as always. And she has such an incredibly talented mouth.
His loins shudder as she licks his crown. She tongues him and tongues him until he’s writhing in his seat. His bu**ocks clench as he tries to stave off his orgasm, which is cresting in little white-tipped waves. His mind is turning delirious.
“God, you’re so good,” he murmurs, sinking his fingers into her curly hair.
She circles her tongue around his shaft, darting back to lick his head. Up and down his pillar of flesh again, as if she’s determined to slather every part of his flesh with ripe wetness. Then back to his sensitive head, which is already throbbing with the pressure of his impending release. And when she presses the tip of her tongue into his ultra-sensitive slit, he explodes. He can’t help himself.
He cries out a warning to her as he gushes his copious sap into her willing mouth. On and on it streams, a never-ending tidal wave of life-giving cum. She closes her eyes and laps every bit of it that she can muster, but his penis still jerks unstoppably, and the thick, frothy cream continues.
Finally, he pulls out his still dripping c**k from her mouth. He is panting. He strokes her damp forehead as the cum drips down her chin and spatters his clothed thighs and the seat of the chair. A few drops of it fall onto the new carpet.
He can’t help laughing. Wiping her mouth, she joins him in laughter, until he pulls her up and kisses her creamy mouth deeply, tasting his se**n on her.
“Brian,” she whispers against his lips, “I . . . I . . . ”
She seems to hesitate, unable to say the words.
“You’ll miss me,” he finishes for her before they can both embarrass themselves.
He thinks he hears her say, “Not if I can help it”, but he can’t be sure.
They both cling to each other in a helpless embrace, aware of their own private, unspoken thoughts as the still thundering blood surges within their veins.
10
There seems to be no recourse for her but to take this step. The awaited invitation from Adele Jankovic/Delilah Faulkner to her apartment does not materialize, nor does Sam expect it to – if Delilah truly has something to hide.
So she has to take matters in her own hands. She knew it would come to this. She knew it the day she made the key impression in wax.
Now armed with a perfect set of newly cut keys, she stands before the door of Delilah Faulkner’s apartment. It’s ten o’ clock. Someone in the building ordered pizza delivery, and she slipped in through the main door as the delivery boy was buzzed in.
Her heart is beating in her throat, and she tries to swallow it. Her palms are sweaty in their gloves.
No one is around on the corridor. There are about five apartments on the floor, and no sounds are to be heard – no yelling, no shouting, not even the low hum of an activated TV. Steeling herself (you can do this, it’s for Brian), Sam inserts a key in the door lock of Apartment 501. It doesn’t fit. Damn it, you didn’t get it cut right. Her hand trembling badly, she tries another. It slides in – a perfect fit.