A/N: Snow days! So wonderful for writing. Can I just say, thank you to everyone reading this story. If you're reading and you're enjoying it, please leave me a comment so I know! It honestly keeps my motivation up, and makes it so much easier for me to write. I am so thankful for every "like" and every comment.  Here's a really hefty chapter for all of you lovely people. I really really really hope you enjoy. I've spent all day working on it!! :D -Germz

Evan looks shocked at my reaction, but I'm not surprised. He never could see outside his own feelings, his own narrow world view. Evan takes a few steps toward me, and I take a step back, bumping into someone warm, solid and steady. I feel Sam's hand at my elbow, but he barely touches me. Still, it's somehow reassuring.

"I wanted to pay my respects to Jacob. I knew him too, Max." Evan says softly, his chin rising defiantly. I haven't seen Evan in nearly seven months. We spoke on the phone a few times after we broke up. They were always angry, hurt conversations. We'd never gotten to the point of forgiveness. Or at least, I never did.

"You've paid your respects, now maybe it's time to leave." Rock steps forward, speaking when I can't. Evan really knows how to drop a bomb-- wait until the worst possible moment to make a scene. Make everything about him. I feel my heart in my throat.

"I get that I'm not welcome here. But I wanted to talk to Max. Can she speak for herself?" Evan squares his shoulders in a surprisingly aggressive gesture, directed mostly at my uncle. Beside me, Sam shifts.

"Of course I can speak for myself. And I don't want to talk to you." I say quickly.

"Please? Max? Somewhere private?" Evan's features soften. I remember the boy I knew in highschool. I remember all the growing up we did together. I shake my head.

"I have family things to do. I can't right now." I swallow hard. I don't know what it is about him, that makes me feel like I'm spinning out of control. He makes me feel like a helpless, naive girl all over again.

Everyone else has started to walk away, trying their best to give us some privacy, but I know there are ears listening.

"Can we meet somewhere later? For coffee? Please." Evan asks. He's practically begging, which is surprising. He's not the sort.

I don't know why I give in. I don't know why I say yes. Perhaps it's exhaustion. Or I've just gone fuzzy in the head. Or maybe I just want to talk to Evan. If I'm being honest with myself, I'm curious as to why he's come back. Curious as to why he'd bother.

"I'll meet you at the Gaslight at 5. Nothing else is open today." I say, my voice low. Evan nods, and gives a little shrug.

"Thank you, Max."

****

The Gaslight is one of two bars in town. It's a bar that Evan and I used to frequent often together. He was always a bigger drinker than I, but we'd go after class or work, and have a few beers together. Then we'd always stumble home, tipsy and...in love? I'm not sure about that last part now.

After the funeral, a few of us stop by Gram's for lunch. Sam doesn't come, saying something about needing to check on things at the house. Libby, Rock, Henry, Josh and I all squash into a big booth at the diner, ordering big bowls of soup and sandwiches. No one speaks about Evan, but everyone is tiptoeing around me. Watching me as if they were waiting for the cracks to show. Libby doesn't even say anything, which surprises me. It means they don't think I should be meeting with him. It means they want to tell me not to go, but know I've already made up my mind.

It still hasn't rained all day, but by the time I make it to the bar, the sky is dark and the wind has picked up. There is an electricity in the air, and I know that rain will fall at any moment.

Evan is sitting in a dark booth, in the back of the bar, when I get there. I changed out of my uncomfortable funeral clothes, opting for a soft cashmere sweater and worn skinny jeans with my high school aged chuck taylors.

Evan stands as I walk up, and I feel my mouth go dry.

He's handsome. He's always been handsome. Even with his ridiculous man bun, that is still somehow appealing on him. His dark hair is just messy enough around his angular face. His eyes are mossy green, and rimmed with dark, long lashes.

"Hi. You look great." He says as I slide into the booth. We don't touch, I don't hug him. Evan sits down, looking a bit put out that I ignored his outstretched arms.

"Thanks." I say without much feeling. I notice he's ordered me a beer, and I take a long drink from it. I should have started drinking much, much earlier in the day. Evan watches me, his expression unreadable. The dim overhead light shines on his face, illuminating his features. I sit back, sliding out from the circumference of the warm yellow glow, needing the shadows.

"I'm sorry about Jacob, Max. I really am. I thought he'd outlive us all." Evan says, his voice sincere. His words echoing my thoughts.

"Thank you. So did I." I nod. I know it must affect Evan as well. He knew Jacob well, even if they weren't close. We all grew up with Jacob around. I don't care though. For once, it's not about Evan and what Evan is feeling.

I look around the nearly empty bar. "Shots. Can we get some shots?" I ask absentmindedly. Evan lets out a small, surprised laugh.

"If you'd like."

"I'd like." I nod. He raises his eyebrows, and gets up to go to the bar.

I nervously fidget as I wait, tugging at my sweater, pushing back my hair, wishing I'd gotten that haircut a week ago. I finish my beer as he waits. Three big gulps and whoops! It's gone.

Evan comes back a moment later with two shots and two more beers. He eyes me up, and then hands me the drinks.

I take the shot, not waiting for him, tossing it back quickly. He purses his lips, and gives a quick shrug.

"Slainte, then." He takes his own shot. The liquor is cold, and burns with a slow warmth as I feel it move through me.

"Can we talk now?" He asks, slightly impatient. I feel a little lightheaded, and have the perfect amount of alcohol in me to make me just tipsy enough not to care so much. I push my dark hair back, off my shoulders and give him a quick smile.

"What do you want to talk about Evan? How you practically left me at the altar? How you lied for...god knows, how many months, to me? How you had an affair with my best friend? What?" It all spills out. Things I've said before, but never with this much force. This much demand.

This is the worst part. The worst part of love. Asking for answers to questions that may never be explained. Wanting something from someone else, and being denied. Being shut out. And never truly knowing why. Not being good enough.

Evan is quiet for a minute. He looks down and shakes his head, looking almost like I've slapped him.

"Okay, yes, I deserved that." He says after a moment, looking back at me. I blink.

"You deserve far worse than a few angry, but honest words." I cross my arms over my chest, annoyed. I don't know what I had expected. Perhaps an apology. Perhaps some sort of remorse. Not this.

"Tell me, did you fuck her right after you proposed to me, or did you at least wait a few days?" It could be the alcohol talking but...no...no, it's just me. Evan's nostrils flare, but he stays steady.

"It wasn't easy you know. It wasn't easy for me either." He leans forward, his voice hushed but forceful. I sit farther back, if even possible. Waiting for him to dig his hole.

"I loved you. Blindly. How much easier could it have been for you?" I wait.

"You're not easy to love, Maxine." He murmurs, shaking his head, running his hands through his hair.

I was wrong. The worst part is hearing the answers.

"You're cold. You're locked up." Evan looks at me, his eyes a brilliant serpentine green. He laughs without humor and keeps shaking his head, back and forth, back and forth. He takes a drink, and then licks his lips. I can't believe I ever wanted to kiss those lips.

"I tried hard to keep our relationship together, I did. But I wanted someone warm. Someone giving. Someone who wasn't a fucking ice queen. You're gorgeous, you know that? And you pretend you don't even know, but I know you do. You use it to get what you want, but then you keep everyone five feet away. You lure people close and then you fucking...castrate them." He's speaking, and I can't even hear his words, though I know they are sinking their claws deep, deep into my subconscious. My vision blurs.

"That's why I turned to Andrea. It wasn't just the sex. Though the sex was amazing. She was sexy and giving and...not like you. Cold. Frigid. Naive." He looks at me then, and I know. He's saying it just to twist the knife. He's saying it because he's mad I didn't want to see him, didn't want to talk to him.

"You could have just left. Broken it off when it started." I say through gritted teeth.

"You needed me." His words are like daggers. He's partially right. He was the only thing I knew.

"You're a mess without me, Max. Look at you." He squares his shoulders. It's not enough that he broke my heart. He wants it torn from my chest as well.

I get tunnel vision. Like an arrow to a target. His face ingrained in my mind. All the moments we'd had together. The good and bad, like a flash before my eyes.

I stand up, bumping against the table as I do.

"Max." Evan argues, wanting me to stay. Wanting me to fight. He gets a kick out of seeing me flounder.

I turn then, grabbing the nearly full pint glass on the table, and I quickly heave it's contents in his direction. The cold beer splashes over his face, his dumb little man bun, his perfectly tailored suit. I shake the overturned glass over his lap and then slam it down on the table.

"Fuck you, Evan." I say, spitting the words between my gritted teeth.

I turn then and nearly run from the bar, out into the downpour.

****

I don't think about what he said. I don't think about whether they were true or just the shitty words of a desperate ex. I don't feel the rain. The alcohol already in my veins helps with that. I walked to the bar, so the walk home seems somehow fit. A downpour of rain to go with the downpour of my terrible love life.

I grab a bottle of wine from the liquor store, before beginning my two mile trek. It's the classy kind-- where the top just twists off, and I take rainy swigs of it as I walk along the side of Main down to the turn off into the residential neighborhoods. I can feel the illumination of car lights as they pass me by. It's gotten completely dark out, and the rain is falling in a light, misty drizzle. A few cars pass me by, but they don't stop and I don't care.

I'll be alone forever. I'll be alone til I die, but at least I won't be with that asshole. I don't even feel that sad. A bit defeated, perhaps. But mostly, I feel angry. Angry that I let myself love him. Angry that I gave so much to him, so many years, only to have him use my weaknesses against me.

I drink half the bottle without realizing it, or even feeling it's effects. The rain is coming down harder now, plastering my hair to my head. My sweater is clinging to me, dripping at the hem. My jeans are soaked, and getting muddy at the ankles. My chucks look about the same as always.

About half a mile from my house, a truck drives by, makes it about halfway down the road, before skidding to a stop. It's wipers are going hard, the headlights cutting through the rain. I halt to a stop, watching it. I recognize the truck. I know whose it is. My uncle is going to kill me.

I take a deep breath and begin walking forward, pushing my soaked hair from my face. I've long lost the lid to the wine bottle, so I hold it down low at my side. The truck begins to back up, slowly. Truth is, I'm beginning to get cold, and my feet are beginning to ache. The soaking wet canvas is rubbing harshly against my heel.

The truck stops, a yard away, and I see the driver's side window roll down. I sigh and walk up to it, ready to take a berating from Rock.

Only, it's not Rock. Not Rock at all.

"What the hell are you doing, woman?" Sam asks, his dark brow furrowed. He puts the truck in park. I blink at him through rainy eyelashes. I had prepared what to say to Rock, but not what to say to Sam.

"Did you steal my Uncle's truck?" I blubber. Sam makes a face, and looks at me as if I've spoken in a made up language.

"No, you idiot. Get in." He demands. I shake my head, as I feel my teeth chatter.

"No, I'll walk, thank you." I take a long, wobbly drink from my wine bottle, and I hear some choice words murmured by Sam.

"You're pissed." He mumbles angrily. I smile widely at him, and then turn to go on my way. It takes him a moment, but then he's driving next to me, keeping pace.

"Max, get in the truck." He calls. I ignore him. Maybe I am a bit drunk. The road seems to be swimming slightly in front of me.

"I'm fine. Go away, Mr. Donkey!" I yell at him over a sudden rumble of thunder. Sam is quiet, but he doesn't drive away. I must be really drunk. Up ahead, the road seems to disappear under a rushing stream. I teeter slightly.

"Mr. Donkey?" I hear him say, confused. "Bloody hell. Max. The road is flooded up ahead. Get in the truck, now." He demands. I pause, blinking. Ah, he's right. I'm not that drunk. The road really is flooded.

"Get in, or I'll come out there to get you--"

"Okay, okay." I murmur, holding my hands up. Sam grumbles, and rolls the truck window up. I make my way around the front, scowling at him as I am momentarily blinded by the headlights. A second later, I hoist myself up into the warm interior of the pick up. He has the heat blasting, and the warmth makes my cold, wet skin prickle.

"Are you alright?" He says, looking at me. He's stopped the truck, and the windows on my side fog slightly as we idle. I nod, not looking at him. I shiver, looking down at my soaked clothes.

My thin sweater clings to me, accentuating every curve. Embarrassed, I fold my arms over my chest, feeling a shiver roll through me. My jeans feel like a wet blanket, set heavily on my legs. Sam starts moving, and I glance at him, realizing he'd taking off his sweatshirt he's wearing. He yanks it up over his head, and I watch as the tshirt he's wearing underneath slides up. I get a quick eyeful of tanned, toned muscle and skin. He has some sort of tattoo on his side, near his ribs. Something different than the brilliant red poppies on his arm.

He hands me the sweater, still warm from his body. I take it without comment, and pull it on over my head. It smells like him, and I can feel the warmth immediately.

"We're almost home." He says unnecessarily, and then starts driving. The flooded road is no problem for the pick up, and we drive in silence the short distance back.

He stops the truck outside of the old house, but doesn't turn it off.

"Not a good night, eh?" He turns then, looks at me with those dark eyes. My teeth are still chattering slightly.

"No." I shake my head.

"Want to come inside? I've got Chinese food and whisky." He offers simply. I nod my head, not even thinking about it.

****

The inside of the house is somewhat unrecognizable. I haven't been inside since the day I showed Sam around. The day we met. He's already started gutting things, clearing things out. The kitchen is almost entirely gutted.

"Wow." I say softly, walking through the echoing, empty downstairs. Sam follows behind me, not speaking. I'm leaving little rain puddles wherever I go, my jeans and sweater dripping. The house itself is rather chilly, and I tremble against my wet clothes and Sam's now damp sweatshirt.

"It's a work in progress." He says. He flicks off lights, and then holds out a hand. I study it for a split second, before taking it. His hand is warm and strong, and I feel his fingers slip between my own.

"Let's go upstairs." He directs. I follow him, my thoughts hazy.

Upstairs is different. It's as I remember it from many years ago, but he's made changes. We go to the room that he's claimed as his own. The furniture that Rock bought is still there. A queen sized bed on a simple wrought iron bed frame. A chest of drawers. Sam has added an easy chair, which sits near the small television. There's a few more lamps set around than before, and in the corner on a small table is a microwave, and a hot plate. On the floor sits a mini fridge.

It hits me that Sam spends the majority of his time in this small room. He's fixed it up so it's neat, clean and surprisingly tidy, but still sparse. I look around, taking in everything. Clothes in a basket that I recognize. A few odds and ends on the chest of drawers.

I realize that he's carrying a bag of take out, and he sets it down on the small table. I turn to him, shivering and shaking. The cold has set in, eliminating any warming effects.

"Go take a shower." He says, and then turns and starts pulling out drawers. I watch him, for some reason finding it hard to form words.

The events of the last few days are settling hard on my shoulders.

"Max. Go get warm." He holds out some clean clothes to me, and I take them with shaky hands. I blink quickly and nod, and then turn to leave.

I feel like a robot, moving without thinking. I know where the bathroom is, as I've been there thousands of times. Once inside the small room, I shed my wet clothes, peeling them carefully from my cold, clammy body. I start the shower, blasting the hot water, waiting for the room to fill with steam.

I hear Evan's voice in my head. Andrea is sexy and giving. I'm cold. Naive. Frigid. I stare at my reflection in the big, plain mirror over the sink. The light is dim and harsh, making my skin appear greenish blue. Or maybe I really am that cold.

I take in the sight of my reflection. My hair is a mess, clumpy and matted against my head. I have goosebumps all over, my arms, my breasts, my stomach. My eyes look sad, empty, hazy. I know I should go home. Go to my empty little apartment and go to sleep, but I just don't want to be alone. Alone with my thoughts and with Evan's words.

I get in the shower, the hot water almost scalding my numb hands and toes. I feel the warmth slowly start to defrost me, warming me to the core. Sam doesn't have a lot of bath products-- just shampoo and a bar of soap. I use both, washing my hair and then soaping up. Letting my hands wander over my arms, and neck. Down over my chest, and the small swell of my breasts. Over my stomach with the little round pudge that I've never quite been able to work off. I desperately want Evan to be wrong. I'm not frigid. I'm not cold. I'm not undesirable.

My shower ends when the water goes tepid. I towel off and run Sam's comb through my short hair. I dress in the shirt he gave me, and the sweatpants, all of which is far too big on me. I roll the waistband down until the pants don't fall off my hips. I'm far too aware that I'm not wearing anything underneath his clothes-- my underwear still wet with rain. The cotton rubs against my sensitive skin, against the clothes that smell of him.

I make my way back to Sam's room, a room which used to be my mother's, and I hesitate at the door.

Sam's bent over the small table, opening up Chinese take out containers. He hears me arrive, and turns his head. His eyes travel from the top of my head, down to the tips of my toes. A slow, even perusal before he gives me the smallest smile.

"Warm?" He asks. He finishes opening a lid, and then licks something off the pad of his thumb. I feel a pull deep in my stomach, and in the tips of my breasts, which are brushing against the soft cotton of his tshirt.

"Yes, much better. Thanks." I walk into the room, padding softly in bare feet. He's still just in a tshirt and jeans, his work boots taken off and put in the corner. Sam gestures toward the bed, and for a minute I'm stunned that he's being so forthright.

"Have a seat?" He says quietly as if reading my mind and putting me in my place. I blink and nod, and sit down as directed. A second later, a paper plate full of Chinese food is handed to me. Ah, yes. Food. My stomach grumbles in anticipation, and I realize it's been quite awhile since I've eaten.

"Thank you. I'm starving." I say.

We eat in comfortable companionship. Sam talks a bit, about nothing in particular. As if he's trying to distract me, to take my mind off things. He talks more than he normally does. He talks about the house, and about my uncle. About the town and the Fall Festival. I try to chat, but mostly I just listen and nod and eat. My mind is on overdrive, and I am still trying to process.

As we finish up, Sam takes my plate and tucks away the leftovers. I scoot to the edge of the bed, my legs dangling over the side. As he passes by, I grab his hand, his fingers curling instinctively around mine.

He looks at me, surprised but not unhappy.

"Sam?" I ask, his name feels different on my tongue.

"Yes?"

"Will you sleep with me?" I say steadily, my eyes on his. He doesn't react. If I've shocked him, he doesn't show it. I'm not sure if I should be worried or...what.

"Max..." He turns to face me, hovering slightly over me. I tilt my chin up. I want him to know I'm serious. I want him to know I'm not joking. The thought had been slowly forming in my mind, and now, I can't think of anything but it.

"Just sex, don't worry. I just..." I lick my lips, thinking. "It's just sex, I promise. Just this one time." I say again, not sure who I'm trying to convince. Sam is watching me, his dark eyes intense. His brow furrowed just slightly. He reaches up, running a hand through his short hair.

"Ah, I need a drink, yeah? Let's have a drink." He turns then, and moves toward a bottle of whisky over by the mini fridge. I sigh, sitting back on the bed, leaning against the wall.

It's not a 'yes', but it's not a 'no', either.

****

An hour later, the subject of sex has not been mentioned again. Sam is sitting back, sprawled comfortably in the easy chair. I had been lying on the bed, but now I'm walking the room. Pacing in circles, looking like a mad woman in Sam's clothes.

Sam smiles, a lopsided grin as he takes a drink from his glass. Golden liquid, clinking in a highball glass with slowly melting ice. He watches me pace, eyes steady, taking in my every word.

I move about, my mug of whisky swirling dangerously in my hand.

"I shouldn't have met up with him. I don't know what I expected. An apology? Evan hasn't apologized to anyone in his entire life." I run a hand through my hair which has air dried into a wavy mess. Sam puffs up his cheeks and slowly blows air, shaking his head.

"What?" I scowl at him. "Is there more whisky?" I hold out my mug. He nods and grabs the bottle sitting on the nightstand, then beckons me forward, holding it out. I take a few wobbly steps, holding out my glass.

"You ought to watch it, Max." He pours me a just a sip.

"Don't tell me what to do." I shoot back. The floor is swaying just slightly, and I stumble a bit as I try to move away, which breaks me into a fit of giggles.

"I wouldn't dream it." Sam mumbles, finishing his glass as well. He pours himself another whisky and then sits down on the edge of the easy chair. I don't know how much he's had, but I am most definitely a bit tipsy. The mood is lighter, and I feel surprisingly good. Oh, alcohol! You wonderful invention!

"That's why I don't get love. I don't understand love. The part I hate about it is...the denial. The questions that he refuses to answer. The getting shut out and pushed aside like...like...like you mean nothing." I huff, my hands at my hips. Sam frowns.

"That's not love, Max." He says simply. I gawk at him for a minute and then clear my throat, his reply rolling around in my speeding mind.

"Do you know what he said to me?" I stand up and poke Sam in the chest, though I'm not sure why. Sam catches my hand in his and squeezes gently before letting me go.

"Does it matter what he said?" He says, his voice low. I frown at him.

"It does. Because he's the only man I've...ever loved. And ever even had sex with. Can you believe that? I'm such a..." I want to say 'loser', but I'm not even drunk enough to do that. Because it hurts to admit it all out loud. It's embarrassing to know that he's moved on. Moved on quite awhile ago, and I haven't had the chance or even tried. Sam waits patiently, letting me ramble. Letting me stew in my thoughts.

"He said I'm too cold. Too frigid. He wanted a woman who could...who could..." I feel tears burn at my eyes, my throat tightens.

"Max." Sam says softly, and he reaches for me.

"What do you think, Sam? You hardly know me. Am I cold? Frigid?" I look at him, feeling desperate. Desperate to get Evan's voice out of my head. Desperate to forget the sadness of the day. I want to feel anything but this loneliness deep in my chest. The feeling you only get from too many quiet nights alone.

"What do you see when you...look at me?" I ask, my voice going soft as I step closer to him. I look down at him, mustering all my courage. I'm not this kind of girl. I don't really know what kind of girl I am. All I know is that Sam is here. And he's so good looking. And I haven't really stopped thinking about him since he showed up a few weeks ago. He's not mine to have, and I know he's a bad idea... but I still want him.

"You really want to know?" Sam asks. He's sitting on the edge of the chair, coming to about chest height on me. I know if he stands up, he'll dwarf me, remind me why I was so intimidated when we first met. I swallow.

"Yes." I manage. Sam widens his legs, and then reaches for me, his big hands coming to my waist. He grabs my hips, and then pulls me between his legs.

I gasp softly as I step into the cocoon of him. My hands come to his shoulders, and I feel his thighs against mine, strong and warm.

"You're gorgeous, Max. You're beautiful. You're a tough one to crack but...you're anything but frigid. Don't let that wanker get in your head." He leans toward me as if he wants to press his face into my stomach, but he pauses and tilts his face up toward me. He's so handsome, I can barely breathe. I still have my mug in one hand, and it's balanced precariously on his shoulder.

"You're just saying that to get in my pants." I tease breathlessly.

"No." He says simply. "Besides, you've already said I can." He jokes. I laugh and push at his shoulders, trying to move away, but he tightens his grip on my waist and doesn't let me budge.

"You're drunk. We shouldn't, Max. You've had a bad day. I don't want to..." He trails off, and I wait with baited breath for him to finish his sentence.

"I don't want to take advantage." He finishes. I swallow hard, suddenly feeling my skin come alive. I can feel his fingers on my hips, the heat of his body so near to mine. My fingers itch to run through his hair, to touch him, everywhere. Anywhere.

"You're not taking advantage. And I'm not drunk, really." I laugh. "I know what I want." I say softly. Maybe I am a little tipsy, but my head is clear. My mind was made up long ago. Sam groans softly, and I can see the struggle in his dark eyes. He bites his lower lip, and I fight the urge to kiss him. To finally know what he feels like.

"Do you think I'm cold?" I whisper.

"I don't know. I haven't been close enough." He murmurs.

"Come closer then." I manage.

A second later, Sam surges forward, standing up. He pushes me back as he does, in order to make room for his body. I gasp softly as he wraps his arms around me, and gathers me hard against him.

Sam lowers his forehead against mine. I don't know if it's the whisky, or the closeness of him, but I feel lightheaded. Things crawl to snail speed, everything moving slowly as Sam tilts my head back. His lips brush against mine, and then he kisses me. His kiss is warm, slow and thorough. His mouth is soft, giving and when his tongue touches mine, I melt against him. I vaguely feel him take the mug from me, groping around until he places it safely on the nightstand. Sam gathers me in his arms then, and kisses me deeper, his hands messing up my hair. I moan softly, clutching the front of his shirt, wanting more, before he abruptly pulls aways.

"Mmm, no. You're warm. Very warm." He murmurs in my ear, and then takes my earlobe in his mouth. He sucks gently and then trails a line of kisses down my neck. I grasp at his shoulders, trying to pull him closer.

"Are you sure..." Sam stops abruptly, and pulls away from me. I look at him, slightly stunned.

"Yes." I say, without hesitance.

"Max, I'm not the kind of guy that--"

"I don't care. Really. Please, I don't." I shake my head. I don't want to hear his warnings. I don't want to hear that he's not the kind of guy I should be looking for. That he's not the sort to stick around. I don't care. I just need to know, need to feel, something different. I need to know that I'm not some cold, frigid girl that no one wants.

"Sam, please." I press my hands to his mouth, to those full lips of his. His cheeks are flushed, from alcohol or kissing, I'm not sure. Now I know what those lips feel like, and I want more. I need more.

"Just tell me, one thing, okay?" I ask, holding his face in my hands. He has his hands on my hips, under my shirt. He tastes like whisky, but sweeter.

"Okay."

"Do you want me?" I breathe, and lean forward, kissing him again. I press myself against the wall of him, my chest against his. Sam groans and wraps his arms fiercely around me.

"Yes. Fuck, yes." He groans against my mouth, and then, in one quick movement, he stands and picks me up as he does.

We move quickly. Sam tosses me on the bed, and I land with a bounce, laughing as I do. He stands at the end of the bed, then, looking tall and broad and menacing in the best meaning of the word. He's Sam. I don't know him that well, but I do know I can trust him. And I know that he wants me. And that is all I need to know.

Sam pulls his shirt off, revealing that chest that I've unabashedly stared at on many occasions. Then, he's on the bed, crawling toward me. I lean back on my arms, watching him. When he reaches me, he hovers over me on all fours for a moment before kissing me and then skimming a hand down my body.

He pushes my shirt up, leaning down to kiss my stomach as he does. His hands wander, sliding up my sides and then over my breasts. I gasp, lying back, wrapping my hands around his wrists as he touches me. His big hands fully cover me, cupping me gently as he slides up my body. I shed my shirt, and then pull him down against me, wanting to feel his skin against mine.

Sam kisses like I'd hoped. Like I'd so desperately wanted. He moves deliberately, taking his time. Kisses so thorough that I can barely catch my breath. His tongue wet and hot against my own, an aching perusal of my mouth, mimicking something I don't know that I've ever quite experienced. But I want to, dear god, I want to.

His hands slide down my stomach, gripping my hips, They dip lower than the waistband of his borrowed sweatpants, and I arch against him. I let him take them off, sliding them down over my hips. His hands follow the material, over my thighs and knees, and then back behind to the sensitive skin there. He kisses his way back up my body, as his eyes devour the sight of me.

Sam is on me in an instant. His hands are everywhere. His mouth follows his hands. It's is a fast, passionate, physical rush of pleasure that goes straight to my head and between my thighs and down my spine. I shiver as he cups my breasts, pushing them together, his mouth kissing and sucking and licking. Sam's teeth scrape my nipples and I gasp with the pleasure and slight pain of it. It's a good pain. A naughty pain. I know he's holding back. I've seen how strong he is. There's something extremely sexy knowing how delicate he's being, despite his strength. He hesitates then, his dark eyes nearly burning through me.

"Did I hurt you? Tell me what you like." His voice is gruff. Low, intoxicating. Another kind of pleasure, making my whole body hum. He leans down and playfully nips at the soft skin on the inside of my knee. I gasp softly and grin.

"No, you just surprised me." I reach down, pulling at him to come up to me. My hands are on his sides, his skin surprisingly soft and hot. I want to touch him. All of him.

"I... I don't really know what I like. It's been awhile. I'm a little rusty." I swallow down sudden nerves that the alcohol had been numbing up until then. Sam leans down and kisses between my breasts. He skims his hands over my stomach and then slides them over my thighs.

"Why don't I... try a little bit of everything. And you just tell me if you don't like it." He looks up at me, a naughty grin on his face as he slides down between my legs. I shift, a mixture of nervousness and anticipation humming through me.

"How will you know... if I like it? Should I say something?" I ask breathlessly.

"If you like it... I'm hoping you won't be able to say much." Sam murmurs, and then lowers his head. I gasp, feeling his hands at my hips, and his mouth against me.

The next few moments are a blur.

Sam knows what he's doing, and it makes up for the fact that I don't. All I know is that the pleasure is intense as I push my hands through his thick, sandy hair. And he grabs my hips and practically feeds on me, his tongue making round perfect circles around my clit. I feel the aching, the hard rush of pleasure that begs to be released. Begs to be recognized, and reveled in.

Sam groans against me as my hips squirm. He has one arm wrapped around my thigh, the other is touching me, sliding against me.

Nothing has ever felt so good. No one has ever touched me like he is. And within a few heated, gasping moments, I'm undone. My hips rise against him, as I shake, his name on my lips. I can't think, can't see, can't feel anything but the earth shaking touch of his mouth and hands.

Even in the aftershocks, the tremors that won't stop vibrating through me, I want more. More of him, more Sam.

I pull at him, grabbing at his head and shoulders, yanking him up. His mouth crashes against mine, and I wrap my legs around his hips as he settles on top of me. The weight of him is perfection, and I push up against him, rolling my hips to meet his.

"You are so sweet." He murmurs into my ear, the words rolling over me in waves. Sam still has his jeans on, and my hands go to them, fumbling at the fly. I can feel him through the material, hard and straining. I push against his torso, and Sam rolls to his back, letting me take over.

His jeans come off quickly, followed by his boxer briefs. I can't help but take a moment, staring at him. He's male perfection. Hard, work earned muscles. Broad shouldered, narrow hipped. He leans up on his elbows, his dark eyes following mine. I'm kneeling beside him, my hands on his thighs. I run them up over his stomach, watching his skin react to my touch. Feeling the coarse dark hair on his chest and the smooth, hard muscle underneath. Sam grabs my hand, pulls it to his mouth, kissing my palm and then my wrist, and then down my arm.

He yanks me to him, moving me with ease, as if I weigh nothing. I settle down on top of him, feeling his body against mine, skin against skin. It is a delicious, heady feeling.

"I thought you didn't like me." He says, a twinkle in his eye. I blink, watching the small smile lingering at the corner of his mouth. I lean forward and kiss him, feeling his hands move down my back, then over my butt. He grabs me and holds me against him, against his erection that is pressing hot against my lower belly and between my thighs.

"I don't." I say with a laugh. Sam growls and flips me, and I'm suddenly underneath him. I gasp softly as I feel him between my thighs. I reach between us, taking him in my hands, stroking him, wanting to feel him, wanting to please him. Sam buries his face against my neck, nipping and kissing, licking and sucking as he moves across my throat and down to my breasts. I keep my grip on him, sliding my hands up and down, feeling the hard, heavy length of him, his weight in my hands. I shiver with anticipation, with a need that I don't totally understand.

Sam presses kisses across my chest, over my nipples and between my breasts before reaching down and grabbing my hands. He is looking at me with his serious chocolate brown eyes. Our faces so close together, I can see his scar on his eyebrow. The slight stubble on his jaw. I reach up and brush my fingers over his eyebrows, down across his cheekbones and then to his lips. He studies me, if just for a moment, before nipping at my fingertips.

A moment later, and we're kissing again. His arms sliding under me, gathering me against him. His hips lined perfectly with mine and then...he's there. Pushing into me, so slow at first. I gasp against his mouth, breaking the kiss to press my forehead against his. He's big, and more than I had expected, and though I'm more than ready for him, the sensation is overwhelming.

Sam murmurs something against my neck, something I don't quite catch, and I push my fingers through his messy hair and down his neck. His hips move in a controlled way, and I can tell he's holding back. I wiggle under him, aching for him. Wanting all of him. He lowers his head, pressing it against my cheek, and I wrap my arms around his neck and shoulders, holding on for the ride.

My mind goes blank, my body given over to him. Sam drives against me, and we move as one. Our breaths mingle, our hearts beating hard against our ribs. My fingers wrapped around his, my legs clasped around his hips. I can't hold back my cries, the pleasure pulsing through me uncontrollably. It feels so good, and I want it to never end. I turn my head to the side, find his bicep, and press my lips against him, first in a kiss and then biting gently. He groans and drives into me harder. I feel my whole world explode, and I cry out, bucking underneath him.

Sam thrusts into me a few more times before groaning, his body stiffening as he gathers me up, holding me so tightly I can barely breath. I tremble all over, a reaction I can't control, tensing and clenching, holding him closer as I feel him come. I push my hips against him, as he rocks slowly into me.

I don't know how it's possible to want more. To want more of him. I don't know where he ends and I start, but I still somehow want more.

****

It's the middle of the night as we lie next to each other. Sam's on his side facing me, and I'm on my back. His fingers are intertwined around mine. His body touching mine. His eyes are closed as he dozes, and I watch him.

His sandy brown hair messy, sticking on end. The dark smudge of his eyelashes. We have the blankets pulled up high around us in a warm cocoon. The rain outside patters against the windows, like a constant drumming soundtrack. I know he's still partially awake because he has one big hand on my breast, and his thumb is moving in slow, leisurely circles over the swell. It's not even quite sexual, though the pleasure is there. It's almost comforting, and I wrap my hand around his forearm, running my fingers up and down, feeling the muscles there.

"Why did you call me Mr. Donkey?" Sam asks, out of nowhere, his eyes still closed. I'm taken by surprise, and I can't help but laugh. A giggle that starts in my chest and bubbles out. Sam opens his eyes, a smile sliding over his lips.

"Why?" He grins. The first time I've ever seen him really, truly smile. Big and unfettered. I laugh, shaking my head. I'd forgotten I'd called him that.

"I'm sorry. I just..." I tilt my head and purse my lips. "When we first met, I thought you were such an ass so..." I shrug. He chuckles, a low, rumbling noises that makes my knees a bit weak, and then he rubs a hand over his jaw.

"Ah, I guess I deserve that." He reaches over and grabs me, right at my waist, making me laugh as his touch tickles.

"I'm sorry."

"Sure. Sure." He nods. I catch his hand in mind, keeping him from tickling me again. My hand slides up his arm, tracing lines over his flower tattoos.

"Tell me about your tattoos." I say softly. Sam stills, just for a second, and opens his eyes. They seem lighter in the dim lamp light, almost brown sugar and honey colored. He licks his lips, and looks down at his torso.

"This on my side is for my grandfather." He moves slightly so I can see numbers on his side. My heart races. I don't know why, but I didn't expect him to answer. And so easily. He doesn't explain the numbers and I don't ask. Above the numbers is a black and white union jack, which he prods gently.

"That's because well...obviously." He smiles at me. I smile back and run my hand up his arm, over the poppy flowers there. He glances at his arm, but doesn't immediately start talking. I let my hand linger, before pulling away, and turning on my side to face him.

Sam moves his shoulder, glancing at the flowers. He looks at me then, and reaches for me, brushing a hand over my cheek and jaw, and then down my neck. I lean forward and kiss him, and he pulls me close, against his chest.

"Don't change the subject." I say with a laugh between kisses. Sam sighs softly, and relaxes against me.

"They're poppy flowers." He murmurs, his voice low. I nod. Our foreheads touch and then he pulls away, gently.

"My kid sister was called Poppy. They're for her." I watch the muscles in his jaw move, and I feel a pit in my stomach. I lift my head, my brow furrowed as I try to read his face. He's looking at me, but he's not really seeing me.

"Was?" I ask, the question I already know the answer to. Sam nods and then his eyes clear and he focuses back on me.

"Cancer. 3 years ago...almost 4. She was 22." He swallows, and I watch something flicker through his eyes.

My heart breaks, cracks right down the middle. I'm the most ignorant ass in the world. My stomach hits the floor and I feel tears push to the corners of my eyes.

"I'm sorry. I'm a complete jerk." I shake my head. Sam looks at me then, surprise registering across his face.

"What I said the other day, when we were fighting. About never having lost someone..." I trail off, feeling a tear slip down my cheek. He'd never even brought it back up. Never felt the need to shove it in my face that I was so completely insensitive and rude and heartless. He'd just let it go, let me think what I wanted.

Sam pushes up to his elbows then, and reaches for me. He brushes the tear away, and cups my face in his hands.

"You didn't know. It's alright, Max. It was just words." He says, kindness in his eyes and voice. I take a trembling sigh, and shake my head, brushing the back of my hand across my eyes. I don't deserve his kindness.

"I'm sorry. Truly." I whisper. Sam stares at me for a second, his face open and generous. I suddenly wish I hadn't said it was just sex. I suddenly wish I hadn't sworn it would be just the one time.

"Give us a kiss, and all is forgiven." He says with a smile, a lingering smile that actually makes me laugh. I do give him a kiss. Many kisses, in fact. And I hope that I can one day make up for the fact that it's true. I really am a cold, incurably heartless person. Maybe not even mind blowing, earth shaking, soul rattling sex can cure that.