Chapter 4: The Wait and the Lingerie
The fluorescent lights of the lecture hall buzzed like a trapped insect, drilling into Zoe's skull. She'd been staring at the same paragraph of her sociology textbook for twenty minutes, the words blurring together into meaningless shapes. Professor Hardwick's voice droned on about demographic shifts in post-industrial economies, but all Zoe could hear was the echo of Sam's groan from that morning. The way his hips had bucked. The way he'd said her name like it was the only word that mattered.
Her thighs pressed together beneath the desk. Again.
She'd been doing this all day—squeezing, shifting, trying to find some relief from the relentless ache that had settled between her legs. It was ridiculous. She was a grown woman, not some horny teenager. But every time she closed her eyes, she saw him. Felt him. Tasted him.
The taste. God, the taste of him. Salt and skin and something darker underneath. She'd never thought she'd be the type to enjoy that—had always wrinkled her nose at the idea when her friends talked about it. But with Sam, it had felt like the most natural thing in the world. Like her mouth had been made for him.
She shifted in her seat, and the seam of her jeans pressed against her clit through her panties. A tiny spark of pleasure, barely enough to register. She bit her lip and forced herself to focus on the PowerPoint slide. Something about birth rates. Something about—
Her phone buzzed. She glanced down, heart hammering.
Sam: Can't stop thinking about this morning.
She sucked in a breath. Typed back with trembling fingers.
Zoe: Same. Can't focus.
Sam: Good. Suffer with me.
She smiled despite herself. Glanced up to make sure no one was watching, then typed:
Zoe: You're an asshole.
Sam: Your asshole.
Her face went scarlet. She shoved the phone into her bag and spent the rest of the lecture with her arms crossed over her chest, trying desperately not to think about what that might mean.
---
Swim practice was worse.
The water usually calmed her—the weightlessness, the rhythm of laps, the way everything else faded to a distant hum. But today, every stroke felt like a reminder. The stretch of her arms. The flex of her thighs. The way her swimsuit clung to her body like a second skin.
She pushed off the wall and dove under, letting the silence swallow her for a moment. When she surfaced, gasping, she caught a glimpse of her teammates at the far end of the pool. None of them were watching. Good.
She finished her set and hauled herself out, dripping onto the tile. Her legs felt like jelly. Her whole body was humming with a low, persistent ache that had nothing to do with exercise.
The locker room was crowded—girls chattering, hair dryers whirring, the sharp scent of chlorine and shampoo hanging heavy in the air. Zoe grabbed her towel and headed for the showers, hoping the water might rinse away some of the tension.
It didn't.
If anything, the hot spray made it worse. The steam curled around her, thick and obscuring, and she found herself leaning against the tile wall, her forehead pressed to the cool surface. Her hand drifted down her stomach before she could stop it. Fingers slipping beneath the elastic of her swimsuit.
She was already wet. Not from the shower—from that. From the relentless, gnawing hunger that had been building since she'd woken up with Sam's cock pressed against her ass.
She couldn't do this here. She couldn't.
But her fingers were already moving, circling her clit with a desperate, practiced rhythm. She bit down on her lip hard enough to taste copper, muffling the whimper that rose in her throat.
It wasn't enough. It was never enough. She needed—
She needed him.
She pictured his face. The way he'd looked at her this morning, eyes dark with want. The way his hands had felt on her hips, guiding her, steadying her. The way he'd said her name like a prayer.
Her fingers pressed harder, faster. Her hips jutted forward, grinding against her own hand. The steam was so thick she could barely breathe, and her legs were shaking, and she was so close—so fucking close—
She came with a strangled gasp, her free hand clamped over her mouth, her whole body shuddering against the tile. For a moment, everything went white. Then the shame crashed over her like a wave, cold and relentless.
She pulled her hand away and stared at it. At the slick evidence of what she'd just done. In a public shower. Where anyone could have walked in.
She was losing her mind. That was the only explanation.
---
By the time she got back to her dorm, she was a wreck of nerves and anticipation. Her hair was still damp, pulled up in a messy bun that was already falling apart. She'd thrown on her comfiest hoodie—the faded one with the cracked NASA logo—and a pair of old sweats, but now she stood in front of her closet, chewing on her thumbnail, wondering what the hell she was supposed to wear.
The lingerie was hidden at the bottom of her underwear drawer. She'd ordered it that morning, during a moment of reckless abandon between classes. A black lace teddy with a plunging neckline and a cut so high it barely qualified as clothing. She'd never worn anything like it. Had never even owned anything like it.
Her hands were shaking as she pulled it out.
It was softer than she'd expected. Delicate. The kind of thing that made her feel like a fraud just looking at it. She wasn't the type of girl who wore lingerie. She was the type of girl who wore sports bras and cotton underwear and clothes that didn't draw attention.
But she wanted to be that girl. For him.
She stripped off her hoodie and sweats and stood in front of the mirror, studying herself. Short. Curvy in the right places. Pale skin that flushed easily. Freckles scattered across her nose and shoulders like constellations.
She wasn't beautiful. Not in the way Lydia was—all sharp angles and dark curls and effortless confidence. But she wasn't ugly either. She was just… Zoe. And for some reason, that had always been enough for Sam.
She pulled on the teddy.
The fabric whispered against her skin like a secret. The lace straps dug into her shoulders, and the hem rode up her hips in a way that made her feel exposed. Vulnerable. She turned to the side, examining the curve of her ass, the way the black lace contrasted with her pale skin.
She looked…
Actually, she looked kind of hot. In a terrified, completely-out-of-her-depth kind of way.
She grabbed her phone and texted Sam before she could chicken out.
Zoe: Come over. Door's unlocked.
His response came almost immediately.
Sam: On my way.
She tossed the phone onto her bed and climbed onto the mattress, positioning herself on her stomach with her knees bent and her feet kicking lazily behind her. The pose felt ridiculous—like something out of a bad romance novel—but it also felt powerful. The lingerie hugged her body, and the evening light slanting through the blinds painted her skin in shades of gold and amber.
She heard his footsteps in the hall. A pause. A knock.
"It's open," she called, her voice steadier than she felt.
The door swung open.
Sam stepped inside, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, his hair still damp from the gym. He was wearing a plain black t-shirt that stretched across his chest, and his jeans hung low on his hips. He looked tired. He looked perfect.
He stopped dead.
His bag slipped from his shoulder and hit the floor with a heavy thud. He didn't seem to notice. His eyes were fixed on her—on the lace, the skin, the way she was stretched out like an offering.
"Holy shit," he breathed.
Zoe felt a surge of satisfaction. She'd done that. She'd rendered him speechless.
"Hey," she said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to breathless.
He crossed the room in three strides. His knees hit the edge of the mattress, and he loomed over her, his gaze burning into her like a physical thing. She could smell him—soap and sweat and something warm and masculine underneath.
"Are you sure about this?" His voice was rough. Serious.
She reached up and grabbed the collar of his shirt, pulling him down until their faces were inches apart. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life."
He kissed her.
It wasn't like this morning. This wasn't soft or tentative or careful. This was hungry. Desperate. His mouth claimed hers like he was starving for it, his tongue sweeping past her lips with a groan that vibrated through her entire body.
She tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled him closer. His weight settled over her, pressing her into the mattress, and she could feel every inch of him—the solid wall of his chest, the hard planes of his stomach, the unmistakable press of his cock against her thigh.
She moaned into his mouth and arched her back, grinding her hips against his leg. The lace of the teddy offered almost no barrier, and the friction sent sparks shooting up her spine.
"Fuck," he rasped against her lips. "You're going to kill me."
"Good." She nipped at his bottom lip and shoved at his shirt. "Take this off."
He sat back just long enough to yank it over his head, and then he was on her again, kissing down her neck, his teeth grazing her pulse point. She keened under him, her nails raking down his back, and he groaned like she'd just given him a gift.
She hooked her fingers into the waistband of his jeans and pushed them down. His boxers went with them. His cock sprang free, thick and hard and exactly as perfect as she remembered.
She wrapped her hand around him without hesitation.
"Zoe—" His breath hitched.
"I want to touch you." She stroked him slowly, relishing the way his eyes fluttered shut, the way his hips twitched into her grip. "I've been thinking about this all day."
"Yeah?" He was panting now, his forehead pressed to hers. "And what did you think about?"
"This." She squeezed tighter, and he cursed. "And this morning. And what I want you to do to me."
"Tell me." His voice was desperate. "Tell me what you want."
She pulled her hand away and shimmied out of the teddy, letting it pool on the sheets beside her. She was completely naked now, her skin flushed and her chest heaving.
"I want you to fuck me, Sam."
He stared at her for a long beat. Then he let out a ragged breath and reached for his bag.
He dug through it, cursing under his breath, and produced a small foil wrapper. "Thought ahead this time," he said, holding it up like a trophy.
Zoe laughed—a breathless, giddy sound—and pulled him back down for another kiss. "You're such a nerd."
"Says the girl with a Darth Vader pillow."
"That's beside the point."
He rolled the condom on with trembling hands, and then he was positioned between her legs, the head of his cock pressing against her entrance.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Stop asking me that and just—"
The door flew open.
"—and that's why I told her she was being absolutely ridic—"
Lydia froze in the doorway. Her eyes went wide. Her mouth dropped open. The bag of takeout in her hand swung limply by her side.
Zoe scrambled for covers that weren't there. She grabbed the nearest piece of fabric—Sam's t-shirt, discarded on the floor—and clutched it to her chest like a shield. Her face was on fire. Her whole body was on fire.
"Oh my god," Lydia said.
"Lydia—"
"Oh my god."
"Lydia, it's not—"
"It's not what it looks like?" Lydia's shock was fading, replaced by a grin so wide it threatened to split her face. "Because it looks like you're about to get absolutely railed, and honestly? It's about damn time."
"Get out!"
"I'm going, I'm going." Lydia backed out of the room, still grinning. "But you owe me details. And maybe dinner, since I'm clearly not eating this Chinese food alone. You two have fun. Use protection. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
The door clicked shut.
Silence.
Zoe buried her face in Sam's shirt and wanted to die.
"That was…" Sam started.
"Don't."
"…horrifying."
"I said don't."
He laughed. She wanted to smack him, but she was laughing too, the sound muffled by the fabric. She could feel his chest shaking against her, and despite everything—despite the embarrassment, the frustration, the cold air on her bare skin—she couldn't help but laugh with him.
He pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her, and she let the shirt drop. They lay there, tangled together, the condom still unopened beside them on the bed.
"We don't have to rush," he murmured against her hair.
Zoe let out a shaky breath. "I know."
"I mean it. We've got time." He tilted her chin up, meeting her eyes. "I've waited this long for you. A little longer won't kill me."
She swallowed hard. The words were lodged in her throat—the truth she'd been carrying for years, heavy and secret and terrifying.
"Sam?"
"Yeah?"
"I've wanted you since tenth grade."
He went very still.
The silence stretched, thick and fragile, and she held her breath, waiting for him to laugh, to pull away, to say something that would turn this into a joke.
Instead, he pressed a kiss to her forehead. Soft. Reverent.
"Good thing we're both idiots," he said.
She laughed despite herself—a wet, broken sound—and curled into his side. His heart was beating fast beneath her ear, a rapid thrum that matched her own.
"I'm serious," she whispered.
"I know." His arms tightened around her. "Me too."
They lay there in the fading light, the chaos of the day melting away, and for the first time all day, Zoe felt something other than desperate, gnawing want.
She felt safe.
She felt loved.
The cold coffee on her desk and the stack of textbooks could wait. The noise from the hallway and the flickering bulb overhead could wait. Everything could wait.
Because right now, she was right where she wanted to be.
Sam pressed another kiss to her hair. "Tomorrow," he murmured. "Tomorrow, I'm taking you on a real date."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. Dinner. Movie. The whole thing." He pulled back just enough to look at her. "And then I'm bringing you back here and I'm going to fuck you so hard you forget your own name."
Heat flooded through her. "Promises, promises."
He grinned. "I always keep my promises."
She believed him.