#sam x reader

The only reason Dean had stayed behind at a different motel was because Sam had suggested it, claiming he’d already checked and found there weren’t two rooms available—specifically, none with two twin beds in one—so he’d have to find another place, leaving the two remaining rooms for you and him. Dean didn’t ask questions, though he did eye Sam suspiciously. He simply dropped the two of you off at the motel before driving on to the next nearest hotel.

The truth was, Sam hadn’t checked anything. He’d been hatching a plan in his head ever since he learned you’d be joining the hunt. He’d harbored feelings for you for a long time but never had the chance—or the courage—to express them. Instead, he’d settled for watching you from afar, sniffing your underwear (stealing just enough so you wouldn’t suspect a thing), and faking injuries just to make you worry and drop whatever you were doing to tend to him. Yes, Sam knew it was wrong; he knew that if you ever found out about that—or about the times he’d masturbated while fantasizing about taking you passionately and roughly—you wouldn’t even look at him again. So, he quickly devised a plan.

When you arrived at the motel, he asked you to grab his bag as well and wait outside while he went to book the rooms. It wasn’t exactly gentlemanly behavior, but it ensured you wouldn’t overhear the conversation he was about to have with the clerk.

“Hi,” He greeted, glancing back over his shoulder at you as Dean drove off and you adjusted the bags onto your shoulders. He turned back to the clerk. “I need a room with a double bed.”

He felt no remorse, smiling with satisfaction as he took the room key, though he quickly wiped the smile away and feigned an awkward expression as he walked back to your side.

“What happened?” You asked when you noticed the look on his face.

“There was only one room.”

“Well, I don’t mind sharing a room.” You shrugged.

“No, I mean… There was only one room with a bed for two.”

“Oh…”

He watched your reaction closely. This was a pivotal moment; you might decide to call Dean and go to another motel, shattering his plan—but instead, he just saw you shake your head.

“It’s fine, it doesn’t matter.”

“Are you sure?” He asked, just to keep you from getting suspicious.

“Yes, it’s already paid for and Dean has already left. Let’s just get this over with.”

You headed toward the rooms, and Sam followed with a smile, catching up to walk beside you. You entered the room and dropped your bags on the floor before looking at the bed and placing your hands on your hips. But for Sam, there was still one more step in his plan—one that could cost him everything, yet one he had to take to ensure you didn’t suspect a thing.

“You know… I can use the couch.” You looked at him with a sigh, as if his idea were silly, but he pressed on to ensure you wouldn’t suspect a thing. “Really. It looks comfortable.” He gave a small laugh, acting as though the idea might be uncomfortable for him, but implying he’d do it just to put you at ease.

You clicked your tongue and took off your jacket.

“Nonsense. We’re both adults.”

With that, you headed to the bathroom, closing the door behind you. Sam smiled again as he took off his own jacket. He could already imagine the feel of your soft skin brushing against his under the sheets—perhaps just because he shifted position and you happened to be close by.

By the time you came out, Sam was already in his sleepwear.

“I’ll go to the bathroom, and you can get changed in the meantime.”

You nodded; before he went in, he glanced at you as you bent down to open your bag and pull out your pajamas. He shook his head with amusement and stepped into the bathroom.

When he emerged, you were already in bed, under the covers, with your back turned to him. He approached like a predator stalking its prey, climbing onto the bed—making it creak—and shifting the sheets to slide underneath. He gazed at your shoulder and the strap of the thin shirt you were wearing. He grew bolder, moving his nose closer to deeply inhale the scent of your hair—not so strongly that you’d notice, but enough to let your fragrance fill his senses. He was tempted to let out a groan but held it back. He didn’t think you were asleep yet; your breathing didn’t match that of someone who had already drifted off.

He lay on his side, watching you intently. Even in the darkness, he could make out your silhouette and the way it shifted and moved with your breathing. He made sure you were asleep before proceeding with his plan and moving closer to you, slowly draping an arm over your stomach and subtly pulling you toward him. He slid his other arm beneath your head and buried his face in your hair, finally breathing in your scent just as he had wanted.

You slowly opened your eyes upon waking. Sunlight was already streaming in through the blinds and curtains. You blinked and stretched, feeling well-rested, but you couldn’t move far because something strong was holding you back. Frowning slightly, you took a better look at your surroundings. Your head was resting on Sam’s chest; your arms were wrapped around him, and his were around you. You looked on in confusion. You didn’t know at what point in the night you had ended up like this, but it felt surprisingly right, so you decided not to move—not even when Sam woke up, rubbed his eye, and looked down at you curiously before smiling.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

“I see we moved around during the night.” He joked. You laughed softly, still half-asleep.

“It seems so. Though I swear I didn’t expect it.”

“And do you feel okay like this?”

You smiled and nodded.

“I’d be lying if I said no.” You admitted shyly.

He stroked your hair, and you rested your head back against his chest. In truth, none of this had been accidental. His plan from the start was for you to wake up in his arms—as if you felt so comfortable with him that you subconsciously sought out his touch and protection. He had stayed awake for most of the night, shifting you at key moments until you were in your current position. His plan had worked, and you remained completely unaware of it all.

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You walk up to her, collecting whatever courage you have. You're here to feel alive, after all. You're not going to manage that by skulking in the shadows.

Up close, you notice two important things: one, she isn't wearing a ring; two, she hasn't actually ordered a drink yet.

That's your opening.

"Perdón," you say, clearing your throat. "¿Puedo invitarte a una copa?"

The beautiful woman finally graces you with her attention. Up close, you notice the fine lines around her eyes and brow, a map of experience that suggests she's likely somewhere in her forties. She's frowning now, but in a way that lifts her eyebrows rather than knits them together. Something flickers behind those hazel-green eyes, a spark you might have mistaken for anger if you had more time to study it.

You suspect this might be a 'no' — and far be it from you to push — but you decide to clarify your intent anyway.

"Te ves sola." You tell her she looks alone, hoping the phrase lands as an invitation rather than an insult in this part of Marbella.

She scoffs, gaze drifting back to the cluttered shelves behind the bar. "Did you get that out of a book or something?" she asks with a weary sigh, already rehearsing the refusal.

"As a matter of fact, yes," you reply, offering a small, honest smile. "I did. My Spanish is a bit rusty, I'm afraid. I'm glad you speak English."

She doesn't offer a name or a smile. She just raises her eyebrows — a small acknowledgement of your honesty — and lets the silence sit between you.

You drag an empty wooden stool beside her and settle onto it, which makes her appear slightly taller. From this angle, you can study her profile without feeling too intrusive. You find yourself carefully analysing every detail, searching for anything that might tell you more about the woman standing in front of you. Her attention is on her hands, resting on the counter, thumb rubbing a slow, rhythmic circle into her palm. You wonder if she's just as nervous as you are.

"What's your name?" you ask.

Her hands go still. She lifts her head, contained impatience flickering across her face. When she turns fully, her eyes read yours with practiced intensity, as if she's spent a lifetime dissecting people and has just started on you.

"Why do you want to know?" she finally asks, voice steady.

You get the distinct impression that she's used to being defensive, or perhaps she feels she needs to be. You simply want her to have a good time with you, nothing more, but managing that without pushing her away is clearly going to be your challenge for the night.

Carefully choosing your words, you offer her a smile. "Because I'm going to buy you a drink, and I'd like to know who I'm buying it for."

You promise yourself that a clear no is all it would take for you to back off. You could find other ways to entertain yourself tonight, though none would be quite as interesting, or as beautiful, or as beautifully interesting, as her.

She considers you a moment longer, fingers tapping the counter before she presses her lips together. You're already bracing for the rejection when—

"Sam," she says, extending her hand.

You beam at the small opening she's given you. Taking her hand, you tell her your name. "Delighted." Then, without breaking eye contact, you lift her knuckles to your lips.

She tries to look inconvenienced, but a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.

With her, red means go, it seems.

"So, gin and tonic?" you ask, pulling your stool a little closer. "Seems to be the order of the day around here."

"I'm driving," she says, almost triumphant, pleased to burst your Sam-shaped bubble. "So you'll have to drink alone."

You laugh. "Then what are you doing in a bar?" you shoot back, half curious for a real answer — which never comes. She only turns away again, studying the tankards above and shaking her head.

But she's smiling.

"It's okay, I'll get you a soft drink. They must sell those here."

Without waiting for a reply, you flag the bartender and order two Cokes.

This time, she turns her body fully toward you. Anyone who studies body language would call that progress, a bigger opening. You don't label it, your mind and eyes are busy with something else. Namely, the work of art that is Sam.

She's in worn-in jeans and a belt you try very hard not to picture on the floor. She's mostly legs, which is a relief; you'd rather not dwell on her torso. The tank top doesn't help, not with the way it hugs her just right, or the way her necklace stands out against the dark blue under the bar lights.

When your gaze finally returns to her face, she's watching you closely.

"What do you want?" she asks, more curious than hostile.

You lift your glass to hide your smile, teeth grazing the rim. The sweet, acidic taste touches your tongue as your eyes drop to her mouth. Sam lets out an incredulous little laugh and looks away.

You stand, moving a fraction closer into her space while still leaving her plenty of room to walk away.

"Okay, okay. Honestly? I just want to feel alive again," you say, laughing at yourself. "And I think that involves a Coke, a kiss, and figuring out why someone as beautiful as you would be alone in a bar when she's driving."

She tilts her chin up, eyebrows arching. Her hazel-green eyes search your face, still studying, still weighing you.

So you keep teasing. "Especially at a place that only takes cash. No traces left behind…"

"Mm, are you Sherlock Holmes now?" she asks, genuinely amused.

"I don't know," you say. "If you identify as a mystery, I can certainly be."

That draws a real laugh out of her. The corners of her eyes crinkle, which, combined with the sound of her laughter, makes you feel almost dizzy.

So much for a quick decision. You've walked into a trap you didn't see coming, one you set for yourself. You need her now, and Sam…

She steps closer, and your heart stutters. For all your talk, it's been a long time since you've done anything like this.

Her gaze drops to your lips, and you take that as an invitation to inch forward. She doesn't back away, but her brow draws together. She turns her head to the side, her curls brushing your nose, and that's when you realise just how close you already are. With her head still turned, she bites her bottom lip, pouting.

Carefully, you tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes close and she exhales a deep, shaky sigh.

"Fuck's sake," she mutters.

And then, she kisses you.

It isn't rushed the way you'd expect. For someone kissing a stranger, she's surprisingly careful, so much so you feel yourself melting into her. She catches your bottom lip and sucks slowly, leaving you almost too stunned to react. You kiss her back, knowing the balance shifted in her favour the second your mouths met. She keeps you there, lips locked, until she needs to breathe.

You don't let her, not yet. You lean in again, catching her mouth half-open, your tongue grazing hers. Sam responds immediately, sweeping her tongue around yours.

You stay like that for a while, until her hands slide to your waist. She draws you closer, pressing your body firmly into hers. You loop your arms around her neck, using her shoulders to steady yourself as you try to grind against her.

She breaks the kiss. Her green eyes are dark now as she searches your face, surprise flickering in the way she studies you. You're close enough to feel her breath against your mouth, and you breathe her in. The pull low in your stomach tightens, insisting on more.

You lift your hand and carefully trace her lips. They're soft, warm, and still slightly wet from your kiss. Her eyes flutter shut when you touch her, and your chest tightens. It doesn't seem like she's used to this kind of attention, maybe not in a long time.

Which is why you close the gap again and kiss her, hungrier this time. She meets you head-on, taking control of the pace, slowing you down or urging you on. Her tongue never stops moving against yours, even as her hand comes up to hold your chin between her fingers, keeping you exactly where she wants you.

Your hands, which had been resting on her shoulders, wander down her torso, grazing over her breasts to the hem of her trousers. You tug — and she answers with a low groan, before turning you hard against the counter—

"¡Oye!" the bartender calls out, rapping his knuckles on the wood next to you. "¡Anda, que no es plan!"

The two of you jump, and heat rushes to your cheeks. Sam stares at the bartender, lips pressed into a tight line, annoyance written all over her face. Her chest is heaving against yours. She feels like a storm held together by will alone, heavy clouds always gathering behind her eyes.

You finally manage an apologetic glance at the man behind the counter, and he just shrugs. "Aquí se viene a beber, no a esto."

He's right. The bar was full when you came in, and it's even more crowded now: groups of friends, couples, people dancing, a little bit of everything. You don't particularly want the attention and, from what little Sam has shown you, neither does she.

She turns back to you, still irritated. "Now what?"

"You said you're driving?"

She hesitates for a fraction of a second, then nods. "Yeah. Come on."

She drains the Coke you bought her, and after you pay, you follow her outside.

Her car is parked a few feet down the road: an old red Mazda, compact, long straight hood, four doors and just enough room. You feel almost ashamed for thinking that last part.

She stops at the car and fits the key into the driver's-side lock while you wait by the passenger door. Before she turns it, she lets out a deep sigh and looks up at you.

"Look, I've got to make this clear," she says. "This is a one night only thing. When we're done, you go your way and I'll go mine."

You nod immediately. You weren't expecting anything else from this encounter anyway.

She seems a little relieved, though those clouds never quite steer too far from her eyes. She gives you a small smile and unlocks the door. "Do you live around here?"

"No, I live in Estepona," you answer without thinking. "Why?"

She tips her head back, studying the sky, lips pressed into a tight line. "That's what, forty minutes? My place is closer."

Then she slides into the driver's seat — and that's when you finally realise what's happening.

You get inside the car, eyeing the two seats behind you. "Wait, but… what's wrong with the car?"

"I'm not a fucking teenager," she says, like it should be obvious, cranking the key in the ignition. "I need enough space to fuck. You'll get there one day."

You don't have the presence of mind to hide your shock, or the rush of delight at her bluntness. You can't even come up with something to soften the joke about her age as you fumble for your seatbelt. A giggle escapes you, helpless, and you clamp your thighs together.

Not exactly the sexiest sound you've ever made.

The drive is quiet. Sam doesn't seem like the type to smother silence with small talk, and you find you actually like that. Instead of talking, you use the time to think about how fast this is moving, and to watch her.

She's a puzzle. Yes, you've only just met her, but everything about her feels contradictory. She won't drink, but she's in a bar. She's blunt, but kind. She wants nothing to do with you after tonight, but she's taking you to her house. It feels like there's a part of her she keeps permanently locked.

You can't help wondering if she's really letting you in — and why.

Sensing your scrutiny, she glances over. "Thinking?"

You don't answer right away. The white and yellow lights of the road streak across the glass and wash over her. She drives one-handed, the other arm resting on the open window. The wind is cool against your face, carrying the faint scent of her hair product.

It's almost too much. You're almost pulled to lean in and kiss her.

Instead, you clear your throat. "I was meaning to ask, where are you?"

"In the hills," she replies, without missing a beat.

"Oh, wow," you breathe. "That's far."

She hums. "Closer than Estepona." After a beat, "Still want to do this?"

You look at her again. The road has narrowed to a dark, twisting strip. It makes sense, since you're heading into the hills. Sam handles it like it's nothing, though, following each bend by muscle memory. The only sign it's any work at all is the flex of her biceps.

Your gaze snags there, tracking the shift of muscle every time she turns the wheel. It drifts down to her hands, knuckles tight on the steering wheel, veins standing out as she moves — and you swallow hard.

Noticing your silence, she throws you another glance. When she finds your eyes focused on her hands, she raises her eyebrows at you.

Letting out a puff of air, you slide down the window next to you, desperate for some air.

"For goodness's sake," you finally answer. "Drive faster."

You're almost nodding off by the time you arrive. You're not in the habit of taking rides with strangers — much less going home with them to fuck — but there's something about Sam's presence that makes you instinctively trust her.

The sleepiness drops the moment you see the house. You know it's hers before she says anything: it's the only one out here, a large spread of land sitting on top of the hill.

She parks near a low stall where a black-and-white donkey stands dozing. A few trees dot the property, and the grass is unevenly cut, long in patches, short in others. It gives the whole place a quietly rural feel.

"You have a donkey!" you blurt as you climb out of the car.

"And some chickens," she says, smiling. She turns toward the house and jerks her chin for you to follow. "This way."

You trail after her, and you think — oh, you fear — that something dangerous is already blooming inside you, surging up before anything's even happened. Why does it feel so special to be here, like she's laying herself bare before either of you has shed a single piece of clothing?

She waits for you at the front door, holding it open. You murmur a quick thanks as you step into the living room. It's large but cosy, helped by the dark yellow walls. A dining table sits near the entrance, and a couple of sofas face a big TV.

When you look back at Sam, she's rubbing the tips of her fingers, watching you with a kind of guarded apprehension. Your gazes lock and, after a few seconds, she offers you another small, almost shy smile.

"Ah." She clears her throat, turning to close the door. "I'm gonna grab something for us to drink. Make yourself at home."

While she disappears into one of the rooms, your eyes wander, taking in every detail. There's a bookshelf to the left, close to one of the doors, and you drift toward it. A few portraits of a younger Sam sit on the top shelf, and a record player occupies the bottom. You let your fingers walk through the small stack of vinyl beside it until one stops you: Every Breath You Take.

Hoping she doesn't find that slightly stalkery of you, you put it on. For the vibes.

Just then, she reappears, carrying a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other. She's taken her shoes off, and without them she appears to be slightly smaller. Watching her walk toward you is enough to make your heart turn somersaults. She is that beautiful, even more so inside her own space.

Sam doesn't seem to notice you looking. Her eyes fall on the record player and she smirks.

"Nice choice," she says. "I don't feel threatened at all."

That gets a genuine laugh out of you. "Just focus on the bass line, not the lyrics."

Still wearing that irresistible smirk, she arches an eyebrow at you as she pours wine into both glasses. "Oh, I see."

She offers you one and you take it. The wine is warm and bittersweet going down, settling somewhere near your heart — or maybe that's her fault, or the damn bass line threading through the background, taunting you as you watch her every move.

The drink is quick to work its magic, its warmth washing away what little inhibition you had left. You feel lighter, happier, hungrier for the woman in front of you.

Said woman seems lost in her own little world for a moment, savouring the wine and occasionally stealing glances at you. But when the song reaches I feel so cold, and I long for your embrace, she reaches out with her free hand and pulls you closer. Her hand rests on your shoulder, then trails up to your neck. Your eyes flutter shut, and a pleased sigh escapes you, her touch alone enough to undo you.

Sam seems amused by your reaction, breathing a small laugh against your face.

"Where did all that wit and bravery go?" she asks, teasing.

"It got me here, didn't it?" you reply with a breathless laugh.

But she's got a point. Ever since she touched you, you've felt the ground shift slightly under your feet. Not that you can be blamed for it, not when she's out here effortlessly looking like a piece of art.

Still, you bring your hands up to trace her arms, feeling the strength beneath her soft skin. She shudders, just slightly, and you think you just evened the score without even trying.

You let your hands travel down to her waist, pulling her closer. You begin to sway slowly to the beat, and she responds by resting her arms on your shoulders. Being this close, there's nowhere to look but her face — and you find that to be your biggest mistake.

Under the low yellow light, Sam's eyes shine a muted shade of green. You can trace every line time has left on her face, and you want to kiss them all. Her hair smells so good it's almost pulling you in.

The song ends, and she takes the chance to pull back a few inches and reach for her glass, sitting on the edge of the counter beside the now-silent record player. You're watching her when she turns back.

"Don't," she says.

"What?"

"Look at me like that," she finishes, setting her glass down again.

That takes you aback. What did she find in your gaze? What have you been telling her without realising it?

"How do you want me to look at you, then?" you ask.

Her eyes widen just slightly, searching yours. The sky behind them looks less clouded than it did at the bar, the heaviness replaced by something softer, aimed directly at you.

And while you're busy studying her, she kisses you. It's warm and tender — very much so — and you can taste the wine on her lips. She wraps her arms around your neck, keeping you close as she deepens the kiss. You're almost dizzy, drunk on her, by the time you break apart.

Your eyes flutter open and meet hers. Her cheeks are slightly flushed, her breathing just a beat too fast. Then, she smiles.

"Like this," she says, answering the question you'd already forgotten you'd asked.

Something shifts when she says that, something primal, surging up from within you. If this is how she wants to be looked at, you're more than ready to give her that.

This time you kiss her first, surging forward to catch her lips. Your hands find the hem of her trousers, telling her what you want. Her hand comes up to hold your chin, firmly, keeping you exactly where she wants you.

But you keep pushing, not willing to give her the lead just yet. When her lips part a certain way, you take the chance to catch her bottom lip between your teeth and bite down softly. She moans — maybe because of that, or because your hands have wandered under her shirt — and falters, taking a small step back. You push her again, until her back meets the record player, still faithfully spinning its hiss and pop. With that, her empty glass tips to the floor.

Both of you stare down at it, panting, and you're already scrambling for something to say.

"I— I'm sorry, I—" you try, but nothing more comes out. You can't think straight. Every thought circles back to Sam's wine-dark lips and how badly you want to feel her body pressed against yours again.

Still, you manage to take a step back and crouch down to retrieve the glass.

When you look up, though… Here you are, on your knees, in front of this spectacle of a woman. Sam isn't even looking down at you. She's looking to the side, breathing hard, eyes shut and lips pressed together, trying to contain whatever is burning inside her.

But you want to feel that fire.

Instead of getting up, you shift on your knees until you're facing her waist directly. Just then, she looks down, understanding flashing in her eyes.

She doesn't move to stop you. You run your hands up from her thighs to the waistband, fingers finding the belt first. You pull it loose, slow, letting the leather slip free. Her stomach goes perfectly still, breath held for what she knows is coming.

You smile. Her trousers fall to her feet.

Looking up at her, you let your hands run over her thighs and down to her calves, easing her out of the trousers still pooled at her feet. Your hands are shaking on the way back up, all the way to the hem of her boxers. When you touch them, you look up for her eyes, only to find them already on you.

You smile again. Because really, what else can you do when you're gifted with a sight like this. Sam's chest is heaving, her chestnut curls falling across her face.

You inch closer, still studying her, and press a kiss to her lower stomach. Her breath hitches so you do it again, lower this time. Then lower, then lower still, until the only thing keeping your mouth from her pussy is the thin fabric of her boxers. You press light kisses through it, relishing the warmth of her skin, while your hands travel up her legs and come to rest on her hips.

When you look up again, you have to hold back a laugh. If you didn't know any better — given how tight her lips are pressed together, and how hard she's curling her fists — you'd think she was about to smack you.

You'd think that, if not for the pure want you find in her eyes. For all her tough act, she's relishing having you exactly where you are.

She wants you there. And you want so much more.

As if reading your thoughts, she uncurls one fist with a slow, heavy breath. That hand goes straight to the nape of your neck. She tugs your hair and pushes you forward.

And that is all the confirmation you need.

In one swift move, you pull her boxers down to her knees, and gravity does the rest. There's nothing between you and her now, and neither of you wants to waste time. You slip her leg over your shoulder for better access, just as her hand pushes you forward again, until your lips meet her pussy. The moment that happens, she tugs your hair hard, muttering something under her breath that sounds like 'fucking hell', her tough-girl act already starting to crack.

Your hands hold her by the thighs — steadying yourself while letting her feel on her skin what she's making you feel — and you run your tongue through her outer lips. Sweat and sweetness mix in a way that makes her taste uniquely like herself. She lets out something like a choked, reluctant moan, her reactions making you feel almost too good at this.

You do that again and again, teasing her before you move to her clit. She's wet — and truly might be the best anyone has ever tasted — but her clit is still hiding under its hood. So you take a different approach. Gently, you bring one hand up to pull it back, exposing her fully. Instead of just gliding your tongue over it, you close your mouth around it, sucking slowly while the tip of your tongue works her clit's tip.

"Oh, you—" she blurts out, stopping abruptly to swallow hard. "You fucking bastard."

You want to laugh, but you have a very serious task at hand: make her come. You try a few different things with your tongue, gauging her reaction. Sucking makes her chest heave, but she's still holding herself back. Gliding back and forth makes her cuss again. She's liking it, just not as much as you want her to.

It's when you're considering adding a finger that you try something new, you kiss her pussy the way you'd kiss her mouth, letting your tongue run the full length of her clit. When you hit a specific spot, she moans. It's a breathy, desperate sound.

And fuck, it's beautiful.

You know how to keep going, and that's exactly what you do. Adding a little more pressure, your tongue dances up and down, hitting that spot she liked so much. She moans, she gasps, she rides against your tongue. She keeps getting warmer and wetter, until even your chin is slick with her.

You make the mistake of looking up, only to find her gaze already locked on you. Her hips rock toward your mouth, the sight of it almost too much to take. But you can't look away from her eyes, from the hunger and the pride behind those cloudless skies.

Breathless, she chuckles. "You look so cute on your knees like that."

You blink a few times, and you even lose your rhythm for a second. Something about the way she says it — low, taunting — makes your stomach flip.

"You like this, don't you?" she goes on, smiling through gasps. "A little too much. Fucking little slut."

You moan against her, eyes shutting tight. Every part of you burns, and all she's doing is talking.

Just then, she tugs softly at your hair roots and whispers, "Make me come."

You don't know how you don't come right there yourself, but her wish is your command. Your hands hug her thighs close, and you give her your all, fast and strong, until your jaw starts to hurt.

You know she's coming when her other hand grips your shoulder, hard enough that you know you'll remember it for a long time. Then she lets out a ragged, desperate moan. You keep working until her hand leaves your shoulder, telling you it's over.

When you look up, she's still looking up herself, chest heaving, throat working with deep swallows. Then her gaze drops, and her eyes search yours.

Here you are, kneeling between her legs, still tasting her on your lips. And yet the most intimate thing you've done so far is this, staring into each other's eyes, sharing some kind of feeling you definitely shouldn't be.

Her hand leaves your neck, travelling to your chin. She lets her thumb graze your mouth, much like you'd done to her at the bar. You let your eyes fall shut — and that's when she moves, fast enough that it takes you a second to catch up. When you open your eyes again, she's kneeling in front of you, your arms raised above your head, shirt bunched halfway up your torso.

It doesn't take much more for her to pull it off completely.

She throws it to the side. "You won't be needing that."

"Wow," you breathe. "You're fast."

She raises her eyebrows, giving you a pouty smile. She's good at it, and she knows it.

You sit back on your heels to rest your knees, letting Sam tower over you. She moves closer, until her knees are on either side of yours. She brings her hands to your bare torso, running her fingers slowly until they reach your bra.

Unceremoniously, she removes it, letting it fall to the side where your shirt landed.

You think you should feel nervous now, with her eyes fixed on your boobs, leaving a trace of fire where they land on your skin. You're not nervous, though. You just want to be taken, to let her do whatever she wants with you.

She leans in to trail kisses down your neck, her hands running up your torso until they find your nipples. She squeezes them softly, then grazes them with her nails.

You take in a deep, shaky breath. This is too much and not enough, the warmth of her hands and mouth leaving you disoriented. Her kisses trail upward now, to your jaw, until her mouth finds yours again. She kisses you, hungry, her fingers drawing patterns on your skin.

Suddenly she moves again, this time bringing you with her, until your back hits the floor. She sits up, giving you a smug little smile, before her hands move quickly to unbutton your trousers and slide them off. Out of desperation, you take off your own underwear, tossing it onto the pile with the rest of your clothes.

Sam laughs. "Fuck, you're so fucking needy."

Instead of trying to prove her wrong, you open your legs wide and wrap them around her waist.

"Okay," she says, amused. "Show me what you've got. If I like it, you get a surprise." She ends it with her characteristic raised eyebrow, relishing every second of teasing you.

She begins to take her tank top off, and that's when your brain finally catches up to what she's asking. She wants to watch you, to see the effect she has on you undoing you with your own hands.

Your eyes roam shamelessly over her body as you bring your hand down and start rubbing your clit. You're wet, swollen, and sensitive — it doesn't take much to get you worked up. By the time she's finished undressing, you're already moaning her name.

Sam is beautiful. Your gaze doesn't know where to stop, where to look, when everything about her is just perfect. But especially — and she didn't have to be naked for you to notice this — her arms. Something about the way she moved them to undress, and how she's now raising them to fix her hair, is enough to undo you. You can see the muscles shifting beneath her skin, and suddenly everything is too much.

All the while, she's been watching you, and she hasn't been shy about it either. Whenever you catch her eyes, they've moved somewhere new on your body, a smile playing on her face, clearly enjoying the little show you're giving her.

When you're nearly there, she moves again, lowering herself until your faces are inches apart. Then she kisses you, and this time it feels like a reward. You stop touching yourself the moment her mouth meets yours. Her tongue traces from your chin to your bottom lip before finding yours. She captures your lips between hers until all you can feel is her.

Your hand moves to her back instead, fingers still wet. You drag them slowly over her skin — her back, her arm — wanting to leave your scent on her too.

She stops kissing you. Still inches away, she stays close, eyes on yours. There's a gleam in her gaze, a question mark that feels directed more at herself than at you.

Then she chuckles.

"Okay, you win," she says. "As promised—"

She gets up from the floor and heads to one of the rooms, throwing you a playful smile on her way out that still manages to melt your insides.

You sit up, dying to follow her, to know what it is you've won.

Then Sam comes back.

With a strap.

She's still adjusting the harness when she comes back in. The black straps hug her hips, holding a purple dildo in place. She grabs it in a frankly obscene way, making sure it's fixed.

When she looks at you, she laughs. "Wow. You should see your face right now."

She's right — you're gawking. A shiver runs down your spine as several thoughts cross your mind, all the ways she could use that on you.

"That's why you brought me all the way up here," you manage, laughing out of sheer surprise mixed with excitement. "'I need space to fuck', that was a load of bullshit!"

"It got me here, didn't it?" she replies, amused, throwing your own words back at you.

Then she tilts her head toward the room she'd just come out of. "Come on."

You laugh in barely contained excitement, getting up from the floor to follow her into the bedroom.

You don't pay much attention to her room, to be honest. The sheets are white — which could be a problem — the walls are yellow like the living room, and the windows are covered by white curtains. That's all you have time to register before Sam's hands are on your waist, pulling you closer.

Her hands are warm and her eyes are hungry. She pulls you in until you're inches apart. You can feel the strap pressed between your legs, close enough to make your breath hitch. Gripping you by the hips, she guides you back and forth against it, all the while kissing and nibbling at your neck. Your own hands travel over her skin, her arms, her back, her ass.

You make the mistake of tugging at the harness. Her mouth is on yours before you can process it — hard, insistent, nothing like the careful tenderness from before. This is hunger, pure and simple. She grips your hips tight, pulling you against her, and you gasp against her lips. She swallows the sound and deepens the kiss. Your hands tangle in her hair, but she's already moving you backward, step by step, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed. She pulls back, lips hovering a breath away, and gives you a wicked smile. Then she pushes, just one hand on your chest, and you're sitting on her bed.

You don't even have time to catch your breath. She grabs the strap with one hand and your neck with the other, her index finger and thumb tilting your chin slightly up.

Then she rubs the tip of the strap against your lips.

She wants you to suck it.

Your eyes widen and your heart pounds. With your head held in place, all you can do is look at her.

And she's so beautiful.

Her eyes are completely dark now, and most of her curls have come loose. There's a playfulness about her, the certainty of someone who relishes being in control and knows she's found her match.

The strap presses against your lips again, pulling you out of your reverie.

"Open wide," she says, with a smile in her voice.

Your heart is beating everywhere at once.

You do as you're told, and she slides in.

Your lips stretch around the toy. She eases it halfway into your mouth, then pulls back, then pushes deeper, until you're taking all of it. The hand at your neck moves to the back of your head, fingers tugging your hair. She rocks your head back, then forward, back and forth, until you find the rhythm.

You're drooling, moaning, and all she does is speed up. Her hips move fast as she fucks your mouth, her eyes never leaving yours.

One thrust goes too deep and you gag. She pulls out immediately. You take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself, when her hands come to cup your face.

"Good girl," she all but whispers, wiping your chin with her thumbs. "You took me so well."

This time, you whine. Your clit is burning, your whole body tingling and warm. You need her to take you, and you need it now.

Wanting to show her that, you fall back onto the bed, the cold sheets meeting your skin. Shamelessly, you open your legs.

Sam, who's been watching you closely, laughs.

"You're so fucking easy," she says, genuinely amused.

You laugh too, despite yourself, feeling light and free. No thoughts in your head, other than her.

Your laughter stops the moment she climbs onto the bed. She kneels on the mattress, the strap brushing against your pussy. The sight of her, combined with the sensation, sends a jolt of adrenaline through your body, and you take another deep breath, trying to steady yourself.

"Are you ready for me?" she asks and, before you can reply, her hand is on your pussy.

You gasp, waiting for a breath of fresh air that won't come, not when her fingers move inside you, drawing circles around your clit. She rubs slowly at first, then picks up the pace, until you're moaning her name.

Then she stops.

You open your eyes, and she makes a small circle with her finger. "Turn around for me."

"What?" you ask, still gasping for air.

"You heard me," she says. "On your stomach."

This is officially the day you die.

Hands shaking, you turn over as told, face down on the sheets, ass up toward her. It's disorienting in the most delicious way, not being able to prepare for what's coming next.

Your arms, which you'd been using for balance, are pulled behind your back, one of her hands holding your wrists in place. Her other hand runs along the back of your thigh, close to where you need her but still so far away.

Suddenly her hand is gone, and she doesn't move for a few seconds. You feel her shifting on the mattress and try to peek, twisting your neck — then stop completely, stunned by what you feel. Something big, slowly stretching you around it.

She's going in.

You make a noise that's a moan mixed with a gasp. She continues to push in further, taking her sweet time, until you can feel her thighs against your skin. You feel transcendent with her inside you, like this is what you were made for, like you're full for the first time in your life.

Sam pulls out, and you whimper at the absence. Then she's back in again, faster this time. She does this a couple more times, until you feel something sharp and tingling on your ass.

She's just slapped you.

She's fucking you and slapping you, and all you want is more. You tilt your hips a different way, giving her even more access to your hole. That earns you another slap and a stronger pound, one that makes your hips nearly falter.

"Puta," she whispers with a smile, and your Spanish is good enough that you moan in agreement. Yes, you are a slut for her, and you're not ashamed of it.

Holding your hips in place with her free hand, she thrusts harder, pounding against your g-spot. You moan loudly, every push sending a wave of pleasure through your lower stomach. The strap drags against your walls, and your eyes roll back.

After some time of relentlessly pounding into you, she stops and lets go of your hands. You draw a shaky breath, absolutely spent, thinking she's done, only for her hand to find your clit, rubbing in tandem with a new wave of thrusts.

It feels like paradise, like time has stopped and there's only you, Sam, and her fingers all over you.

And then you have the biggest orgasm of your life.

You know it's coming when you feel the heat pool in your lower stomach and stay there. She's pushing in and out of you. In and out. In and out. On your clit, she's rubbing so fast you can't catch your breath. You feel the walls of your pussy tightening around the strap for a second too long, and you nearly scream.

"Sam!" you cry. "I'm gonna—"

You don't even get to finish your sentence. Your walls loosen, then tighten again, this time without stopping. A flash of heat washes over your entire body, and you're moaning so loud you're grateful her house is the only one around.

She only stops when you do, simply because you don't have the strength to do anything but breathe.

Slowly, she pulls out of you. Your legs ache and you're still panting as you collapse onto the bed, too spent to turn over. Moments later, her hands find your shoulders, massaging the tension from them.

"You were so good," Sam says. "You did so well."

Praise must be your new weak spot, because why does that make you immediately turn around, searching for her face?

She's panting too when you find her, the night proving to be a lot more than either of you planned for.

She smiles — a sweet, shy little thing — and you smile back, tired, achy, and so, so fulfilled.

Now what? you ask yourself. You know you should get up and leave, but that might not be an easy option right now.

"I'll be up in a moment," you tell her, closing your eyes. "I just need five."

Before you can hear her answer, you've already fallen asleep, her smile the last thing on your mind before you do.

You wake up to the gentle clucking of chickens nearby. Sunlight spills into the room, warming you as you slowly open your eyes.

You look to the side, expecting to find your nightstand, only to realise you don't actually have chickens.

You sit up with a jolt as the memories from last night flood back. You've slept for a lot more than five minutes. The wine must be to blame.

After the initial shock, you start noticing little details that make your chest tighten.

You're covered by Sam's sheets, which means at some point during the night she must've helped move you toward the pillows. To your right, neatly folded in a pile, are your clothes. On top of them, a toothbrush.

Your heart aches. You can still remember the feeling of her hands on you, how soft they felt against your skin, and now this? And you're supposed to just get up and leave, never to see her again?

How are you going to manage that?

Just as you're moving to get up — slowly, because your legs are still a little sore — the door opens.

It's Sam, with a plate of eggs and a fork.

When she spots you, she smiles. "Hi. Sleep well?"

She looks so beautiful you nearly forget to reply. She's wearing a white tank top and denim shorts. Her hair is back in place, with those same curls you loved untangling the night before.

Finally, you smile back, then chuckle bashfully. "Yeah, I did— Sam, I'm sorry. I know I said I'd be up, but—"

"It's fine," she cuts in, nodding. Then she shakes the plate gently and walks over to hand it to you. "You should eat something."

You take it, feeling more disconcerted by the minute. You're still naked, still in her bed, and now she's taking care of you.

Her words from the night before echo in your head. One night only. You shouldn't get your hopes up.

But she's not making it easy for you.

There's still so much about her you want to know. So many questions left unanswered. You want to unravel the mystery of her, to understand what makes someone like her live alone in a house up in the hills, away from everything and everyone, yet still show up in a bar so far from home, like she needed to feel something different just as much as you did.

You slept with her. Now you want to know her.

Much to your surprise, she sits on the bed, right next to your clothes. She glances at you a few times while you eat, but mostly her eyes roam around her own bedroom. It looks like she's wrestling with something, some of the clouds back in her gaze.

After a few minutes of silence, broken only by the clink of your fork against the plate, Sam lets out a heavy sigh.

You look at her.

She looks at you.

She raises her shoulders, throwing her arms out to the sides. Then she asks the question.

"Now what?"