by Lacey Black
I move us until we’re both lying on the same pillow. Her dark hair is a striking contradiction to the soft white sheets, and for once, I seem to find a bit of peace in the paradox. She’s the splash of color against my compulsory white world. That thought doesn’t scare me as much as it used to.
Knowing I need to get up and dispose of the protection, I slowly pull myself from our embrace. Not by choice, by necessity. Freedom whimpers again, but her eyes remain closed as she burrows deeper into the bedding. With every step I take to the hallway and toward the bathroom, I’m drawn to the vision of her lying in my bed. One I want to return to as soon as possible.
After taking care of business in the bathroom, I grab a warm washcloth and return to my room. I ignore the hammering of my heart in my chest as I approach her. Her wild hair is splayed across her face, and as I gently move it from her forehead once more, I can’t get over how delicately soft her skin in. So different from her bold and brash personality.
Her eyes open and focus on me. She doesn’t say anything about me standing there, watching her rest, which I’m grateful for. I’m not sure what I’d say anyway. That I like watching her sleep? Especially when she’s in my bed? Yep, both of those things are true. I don’t tell her that, however. Instead, I don’t say anything as I pull the blankets back and gently clean her thighs, completely avoiding the intensity of her stare as she lies there.
As I’m finishing, I notice the redness of her hips. “My God, did I do that?” I ask, feeling instant guilt over the markings on her skin.
Freedom glances down and notices the finger imprints around her narrow hips. She doesn’t say a word, just reaches for the washcloth and tosses it on the floor. She takes my hand and pulls me back to bed, wrapping her leg around my hips and her arm around my stomach, her front pressed to my back. “Get out of your head,” she demands, her voice gravelly.
“What?” I ask, trying to turn so that I can see her.
She holds on tight, not allowing me to shift our positions. “You didn’t do anything to me I didn’t like.”
“But I hurt you.” My entire body seems to deflate.
“No, you didn’t. You didn’t hurt me at all, Samuel. You made me feel better than I’ve ever felt before. And those marks? They weren’t put there in punishment or for pain, right?”
Adamantly, I shake my head. “Of course not!”
“Exactly. I know that. Please don’t diminish what we did because you’re worried about a few fingermarks on my skin. I didn’t even feel it, and if anything, your grip on me only spurred me on.”
I stop and consider her words. She’s right, I know it. But that still doesn’t mean I don’t feel bad for marking her skin. I’ve never done that before—would never even consider it possible to do. Just another reason why I’m so out of my mind with Freedom. “I’m still sorry,” I tell her, relief washing over me.
“Please don’t be. In fact, I hope you do it again next time.”
Next time.
Will there be a next time? There shouldn’t be, but I’m learning I’m not that strong when it comes to fighting whatever pull is between us. I don’t seem to be capable of making sane, rational decisions where she’s concerned.
I hate that.
Instead of arguing, I find myself being pulled toward sleep. My body is exhausted, my mind reeling from what happened earlier. Even though I know I should shower, because I always shower at the end of the day, especially if sex is involved, but for some reason, I’m perfectly content to be wrapped in Freedom’s arms and lulled to sleep.
She sighs, her body relaxing around me. We’re in sort of a reverse spoon position, and I can tell the moment she drifts off to sleep. Her hand stops caressing my chest and her leg lies limp over my hip. Her breathing evens out against my ear as she murmurs my name.
My name.
Not Sammy.
Samuel.
It’s not the first time I’ve heard her say it. Sure, I heard it earlier when her orgasm was ripping through her body, but that wasn’t the first time.
Like a flash of lightning to my memory, I remember her saying it one other time.
When we said our vows.
In that little chapel in Las Vegas.
She looked me in the eye and whispered, “I, Freedom Rayne, take you, Samuel Grayson, to be my husband.”
It was the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.
Chapter Fourteen
Freedom
Night has fallen when I slowly open my eyes and blink. It takes me a few long seconds to get my bearings, but when I do, I relax. I know where I am. The familiar scent of Samuel’s detergent tickles my senses and brings a warm and comforting sensation to my already overly sensitive body.
I realize I’m wrapped around his back, my leg thrown over his and my arm around his chest. His hair—which is still longer than I’ve ever seen it—prickles my nose, but that doesn’t cause me to move. Oh no, I don’t want to move.
Ever.
There’s a soreness between my legs that makes me smile and want to slide against him like a cat in heat. We’re both as naked as the day we were born, and all I can feel is the heat of his skin pressed against mine. It’s tantalizing. Intoxicating. Hormone-inducing. Because all I want to do is hump him.
Again.
And maybe again after that.
My stomach growls, reminding me we didn’t eat dinner before arguing over my use of his living room for massage clients, and I’m regretting that now. Not the sex. Oh, no. Never the sex. I’m regretting not fueling our bodies beforehand for round two.
“Was that your stomach?” he whispers, his voice like whiskey and sex.
“’Fraid so, Sammy. You didn’t feed me before you plundered me with your summer sausage.”
He goes completely rigid in my arms. “Seriously, Freedom?” he asks with a deep exhale, slowly turning in my arms. This time, I let him.
His blue-green eyes are a little hesitant as he faces me, and when they finally do, I see a whole plethora of emotion. Guilt—probably still from his fingermarkings on my hips—desire, and even shyness. That last one’s my favorite.
“I’m starving. What time is it?” I ask through a yawn.
“After eleven,” he replies, stretching his arms and treating me to a delicious view of his chest. The blanket dips down and I spy a peek of something else down below the waist. It’s big and hard and raring to go for that round two I’ve been thinking about. My lady parts start to weep with joy. Samuel notices where my eyes have fallen and slowly puts his arms down, covering up his impressive hard-on. I mean, seriously. Some guys have been just blessed in that department, and Samuel is one of them. How he hasn’t had a line of waiting women a mile long is beyond me.
“I don’t usually eat after seven o’clock. Studies show it increases the risk of heart attack and stroke and keeps your body from winding down,” he states, and the truth smacks me upside the head. Samuel is very black and white. There are rules that must be followed, or it doesn’t add up to him. I’ve known this, pretty much my entire adult life, but seeing it now, in the dark of night and while lying in his bed, is a stark reminder of how very different we really are.
Rolling my eyes, I say, “Live a little, Sammy. I’ll make you some eggs.”
His stomach growls like mine, and that’s probably the only reason he relents. “Fine, thank you. I think I’m going to grab a shower,” he says, standing up and trying to hide his erection from me as he practically runs from the room.
A snicker bubbles from my chest as I slip from the bed and look for my clothes. They’re a wadded up mess on the floor, which usually doesn’t bother me in the least, but I opt for another piece of discarded clothing. I slip on his button-down and secure most of the buttons. The shirt is huge, but it smells absolutely delicious, like woodsy cologne and fresh deodorant.
I head to the kitchen and pull out the carton of eggs. The bread is in the pantry and I’m able to find the toaster in one of the cabinets. In the fridge, I spy
a small carton of fresh mushrooms and a brick of white cheddar cheese. As the skillet heats up, I pop a few slices of wheat bread into the toaster and slice up the mushrooms.
When the skillet is ready, I scramble half a dozen eggs and add the chopped shrooms, stirring it occasionally to keep the eggs from scorching. When the mixture starts to fluff, I drop the bread and add the cheese and a lid to the skillet, all while humming whatever tune is stuck in my head.
“Something smells amazing,” he says behind me.
Spinning around, I find Samuel standing in the doorway, his shorts hanging low on his hips and a bright white T-shirt molded to his torso. His eyes meet mine, then suddenly drop, right along with his mouth. He slowly takes in my appearance from my bare feet, up my legs, and to the large shirt hanging loosely on my petite frame, the sleeves rolled up a bit, so they don’t hang in the food.
“I hope you don’t mind, I borrowed your shirt,” I tell him, spinning back around as the toast pop up to slather yogurt butter on the top.
“Uhh, no. Not at all,” he answers. I can picture him running a hand through his hair, which makes me smile.
I feel his presence beside me as he grabs a pair of plates for the eggs and takes them to the table. He sets out a fork and napkin for each place setting, making sure they’re properly positioned on the placemat. I join him, flopping the pan down in the center of the table, much to his dismay. Samuel quickly grabs a potholder and places it correctly beneath the pan of eggs.
“Smells delicious,” he says as he takes a seat across from me.
“Right? I’m so hungry I could eat the ass end out of a cow,” I state bluntly, scooping up a forkful of fluffy eggs.
Samuel chokes. I glance across the table and witness him pulling his fork out of his mouth and trying to swallow the food he just inhaled. “Jesus, Freedom.”
“What?” I ask, reaching over and banging on his back a few times.
“Do you have to be so…crude?”
It takes me a second to realize what he’s talking about. “Huh, you know, I don’t know why I say that. I mean, I don’t even eat cow, let alone cow ass,” I chuckle.
When he doesn’t reply, I look back his way, our eyes locking once more. He doesn’t reply, but I can see the hint of a smile on his face as he takes a much smaller bite of eggs. We eat in silence for a few minutes, which might be a record for me, but there’s something so easy and natural about sitting here with Samuel.
“So, what’s it like to work at a funeral home?” I finally ask, unable to take the silence any longer.
He looks my way but doesn’t reply right away. It’s as if he’s a little skeptical about answering. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you want to know about the funeral home?” he asks.
I shrug. “I guess it looks interesting to me, you know? I mean, you see people at their absolute worst, but have to still make the best out of the occasion, right?”
Again, he just stares at me. After a few long seconds, he clears his throat. “Yeah, actually, that’s very accurate. My job isn’t very glamorous, but it’s a necessary part of the life cycle, and my goal is to do it with dignity and compassion.”
“You sound like the front page of the website,” I snort.
“Well, I did design it,” he states, matter-of-factly.
I push my plate forward, my belly full of delicious eggs. “So…you see them, like, naked?”
He gives me an exasperated look. “Really?”
“Well, it’s true. They’re all nudey and you have to touch them. It’s not that different from my job,” I reply with a shrug. “Except mine are still breathing when I put my hands on them.”
“I guess,” he says, finally finishing his food.
“It’s really cool that you do what you do. Not a lot of people could actually deal with death and bodies all day, Sammy. And I’m always hearing about how wonderful you are to work with. Families choose your funeral home because of you, not because of the Hansons. You’re amazing at your job, Samuel.”
When silence falls on the room again, I peek his way. “I don’t know what to say.”
I lift a shoulder and reach for the plates. “You don’t have to say anything.”
He reaches out and grabs my hands, halting my progress. “Thank you.”
My breath catches in my throat as my heart pirouettes in my chest, and I swear his thumb dances along my hand. “It’s the truth,” I tell him, my voice sounding like someone else’s, even to my own ears.
We stare at each other, caught in a trance where it’s only him and me. Like we’re the only ones in the world. “I, uh, I’ll get the dishes. You cooked,” he says, as he takes the plates from my hand and heads for the sink.
“Thanks.” I gather our glasses and napkins and meet him at the counter. “I think I’ll go take a shower,” I add, waving a thumb toward the doorway.
Just as I get to the hallway, I hear, “Hey, Freedom?” I glance over my shoulder. “No one has ever asked me about my work before. Hell, I’m pretty sure my family doesn’t even understand the importance of what I do, both to my employer and to me. So, just…thank you.”
I nod once and give him a smile. I’m not sure what to say, so I don’t say anything at all. It’s not that his family doesn’t think his work is valuable or important, but it’s the fact they don’t understand fully. No one thinks about the people who actually direct funerals. The person who goes to the hospitals, the morgues, wherever to retrieve the bodies. The condition they may encounter. The scene. The smells. All they see is the final result, not what it takes to get a deceased individual to that point. Samuel’s job is probably harder than any I know, and the respect I have for him is tremendous and unwavering.
“You’re welcome.” With a smile, I turn and head for the guest room to gather my things for a shower.
My body is still humming as I slip under the spray of hot water. I pull my hair up on top of my head in a messy bun, just because it takes so damn long to dry, but wash every other part of my body, using Samuel’s bodywash. As I run the cloth over my hips, I wince at how tender they are. There are definite fingermarks, but that only makes me smile more. I feel…marked by him.
And I love it.
When I’m finished, I grab one of the big, fluffy white towels that smell like sunshine and spring rain and wrap it around my body. I moisturize my face and draw a smiling face in the fog on the mirror—oh, he’s going to hate that—and head back to my room. When I reach the hallway, I notice his door is only slightly ajar and the room dark. Apparently, he went back to bed after he washed our dishes.
I slip quietly into the guest room and pull a fresh T-shirt from the drawer. It doesn’t smell as good as the button-down I wore earlier, but it’s probably not acceptable to head back to the bathroom and take it off the floor. But when have I ever been worried about something being socially acceptable?
That’s exactly why I slip out of the room, naked, and retrieve the discarded white shirt Samuel wore today. Quietly, I make my way back to my temporary room, throw my arms in the shirt and secure the buttons. I find my hairbrush on the dresser, remove the hair tie, and try to untangle the mess I call hair. When it’s finally brushed out, I flip off the light and climb into bed.
The first thing I notice is the cold sheets. They smell clean, but they lack any…heat. Any familiarity. I hate it. But I snuggle into one of the pillows, curl up on my side, and try to go to sleep.
It doesn’t work.
Even though the clock reads midnight, I can’t sleep. I toss. I turn. I count sheep. Nothing works. My mind wanders right back to the feel of his arms around me, the way his lips molded to my own, the way his cock moved inside me. My nipples start to tingle and I’m pretty sure I’m getting wet already.
Sighing, I flop onto my back, wishing I was back in his bed. In his arms. Surrounded in his heat as I drift off to sleep.
That sounds a thousand times better than lying here, alone, and wishing for sleep to cl
aim me.
That’s probably why I find myself getting out of bed and padding quietly to the door. I’m noiseless as I slip across the hall, his door barely moving as I enter his personal space. Instantly, I’m wrapped in everything the other room is lacking, and as I climb into his bed, there’s a smile on my face.
I try to move quickly and silently, and I’m grateful Samuel doesn’t seem to notice he has a bedmate. As soon as I relax against the pillow, I feel the weight of the day just drain from my body. I’m exhausted and finally feel like I can fall asleep.
Just as I close my eyes, I feel his arm swing over my body and pull me toward him. The heat of his chest is pressed against my back, and all I can do is wait. Wait for him to bust me. Wait for him to ask me what I’m doing. Wait for him to boot my ass from his bed.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he relaxes against me, spooning my back with his much larger chest. I can tell he’s still wearing his undershirt and shorts. The hair on his legs tickles my own legs, but I only seem to burrow in farther. My eyelids finally start to droop as sleep finally calls.
Just before I succumb to the darkness, I feel his arm tighten around me and his lips rest on my shoulder. “Good night, Freedom,” he whispers.
I don’t answer. Instead, I fall asleep with a smile on my lips.
Chapter Fifteen
Samuel
As I embalm the lady who owned the bakery in downtown Rockland Falls, my mind keeps flashing to waking with Freedom in my arms for the last three mornings. I’ve learned in a short time she’s not a morning person. She requires an ungodly amount of coffee just to function, and she loves to dance in the kitchen when she thinks no one is watching. Or maybe she knows I’m there, observing, and is doing it just for me.
I’ve also noticed how my house suddenly feels different. Sure, there are splashes of color in the living room I’ve had to adjust to—throw pillows and some potpourri shit that smells like lilacs—but it’s more than that. It’s the panties I find drying on the shower curtain rod, the chipped coffee mug in the sink that I would have long thrown away, and even the tofu and kale in my refrigerator. It’s all part of her, part of her quirk, her passion.
