“Hi,” he whispered a rough-like-velvet whisper on a jaw brush of his thumb and my legs trembled so badly, my hands automatically lifted to hold onto his also very hard and very solid biceps to stop myself from going down.
“Hi,” I whispered back.
“Sorry I’m late,” he kept whispering, his thumb kept stroking and my legs kept trembling.
“That’s okay.” I also was still whispering.
His eyes moved down to my mouth, my neck, down to my chest then up, slow and lazy and he didn’t release me and his thumb never quit moving. This meant my legs never quit trembling, my stomach pitched again and I felt another tingle, this one lower and way, way better.
Then he murmured, “Fool.”
I blinked.
Then I asked, “Sorry?”
Sam didn’t hesitate with his answer. “Baby, I don’t know what you’re like in bed but if it’s even half the promise of you, your man was a f**king fool.”
My fingers clutched his biceps, the ones still holding my bag digging painfully into the clasp and I felt my lips part.
Holy cow, did he just say that?
Holy cow! Did he just say that?
“Did you just say that?”
Yes, that was what came out of my mouth and it was both lucky and unfortunate it did because it broke the spell and I didn’t want the spell broken but also, if I was going to keep my secrets and all my gifts, the spell had to be broken or I was in imminent danger of jumping his bones and I suspected doing something like that would give it all away and Celeste would be disappointed.
I didn’t want to disappoint Celeste. But I also knew she was far from stupid, she got me and, even if this was Sampson Cooper and I was Kia Clementine, every word of advice she gave me was one hundred percent right so I had to follow it.
To the letter.
The spell was broken when his lips twitched, his thumb stopped moving but his fingers at the side of my neck gave a gentle squeeze before he answered, “Yeah, I just said that.”
“Okey dokey,” I muttered and his lip twitch became a grin. Then, for sanity’s sake and so I wouldn’t fall back and give into the urge of ripping his clothes off, I asked, “Are we going to stand here all night or are you going to take me somewhere I can show off my dress?”
To that, he replied, “We stand her much longer, we won’t be standing so yeah, I’m gonna take you somewhere you can show off that f**kin’ gorgeous dress.”
Before I could fully react to what his words implied or his compliment, he let me go, grabbed my hand and pulled me to the door. He stopped us in the hall so he could test the handle to make certain it locked upon catching then he pulled me down the hall.
It was then I finally noticed what he was wearing.
He was in a tuxedo which looked good on him and fit well. I was no expert but it fit him so well, I figured it had to be made for him. And I’d had my hands on his jacket, the material was not anything the like I’d ever touched before. It was nicer in a way I couldn’t describe but definitely nicer and I knew it had to be expensive.
The cool part was, he was wearing a black shirt, no tie at all, the shirt opened at his throat.
Still, even without that accoutrement, the suit and shirt were so well made, he wore them with a natural confidence that was magnetic; they seemed more formal than if he had on a white shirt and bowtie.
I couldn’t say in my past two times with him that I’d noticed his clothes at all. I also couldn’t say I’d spent much time the years I obsessed and fantasized about him I’d noticed them either. I was too busy noticing the beautiful male perfection of his features, the even more beautiful male perfection of his smile and the rough-like-velvet beauty of his voice.
But striding beside him with my hand engulfed in his big, strong one, I noticed that, even as a tall, very built man the like who could seem ungainly due to their size, he totally rocked his clothes in a way that was super cool because he didn’t look like he was trying to rock his clothes. In fact, even wearing a tuxedo, he didn’t look like he cared at all.
And more, he had a masculine grace when he moved that probably had to do with him being an athlete and highly trained and skilled soldier. But even with these things, this was a surprise, men of his build, again, often seemed lumbering.
Not Sam.
And let me just tell you, it was hot.
All of it.
While Sam guided me down the hall and stairs, he didn’t speak. What I noticed he did do was walk slowly. A man his height with legs as long as his definitely could take twice the amount of ground with each stride than he was taking and I knew he was doing this for me, my shorter legs and my feet wearing delicate, high-heeled sandals.
This was another indication of his graciousness, not a word, not a show, he just did it, thoughtful, sweet and that settled in my soul too.
Then out the door we went, across the front of the hotel and down four cars, he turned us and stopped me at the passenger side of a bright yellow Lamborghini.
Yes, a bright yellow Lamborghini.
Seeing his car, for some reason, I deflated. Not totally but I felt it.
This was not to say it was not a cool car, it definitely was. And this was not to say I didn’t look forward to my first ever and probably only ride in a freaking Lamborghini, I did, I definitely did.
This was to say it was expensive and flashy to the point of being a shade off trashy and I did not see Sampson Cooper this way. This car screamed, “Look at me! I have money! I have fame! I am important! Bow to me, all you minions.”
Okay, maybe it didn’t say all that but it said enough of it to make me, for the first time, wonder about a Sam who stayed at an expensive hotel, owned an expensive tuxedo that had been tailored for him and ate at restaurants like the one he ate at last night. I didn’t pay, Thomas did and refused to even discuss it (my debt to him and Celeste was growing by the day) but I knew it was expensive and when I say that I mean, if you think of the most expensive restaurant you’ve ever been to, it was more as in a lot more. One bottle of wine was more than a three course meal at a normal expensive restaurant, so it was that expensive.
And the Sampson Cooper I had in my head from all I knew about him and his life before I met him and the man I’d been in the presence of three times who’d been real, who cursed when he felt like it, held my hand when he saw tears in my eyes, that Sampson Cooper, or Sam, did not have a flashy car that screamed, “Look at me!”
He opened my door for me and, with his long fingers wrapped around my bicep, guided me gently into the car, making sure I cleared my skirt and was settled in before closing the door.