Chapter 5: The Mother, the Shirt, and the Hidden Lover
The first thing Zoe registered was warmth. A heavy, solid warmth pressed against her back, radiating through the thin cotton of Sam's t-shirt. The second thing was the hardness nestled against her ass, insistent and unmistakable.
She smiled into the pillow before she even opened her eyes.
Morning light filtered through the cheap blinds, painting golden stripes across the tangled sheets. Somewhere in the hallway, someone's alarm was blaring, muffled by the walls. The smell of stale coffee and Sam's deodorant mingled in the air, and Zoe breathed it in like it was the best thing she'd ever smelled.
She shifted her hips experimentally, pressing back against him.
Sam groaned—a low, sleepy sound that vibrated through his chest and straight into her spine. His arm tightened around her waist, pulling her closer, and his hips rocked forward in an unconscious, instinctive motion.
Zoe's breath caught.
She turned in his arms, slow and careful, until she was facing him. His eyes were still closed, dark lashes fanned against his cheeks, his jaw shadowed with stubble. He looked younger like this. Softer. Nothing like the confident guy who'd pinned her to the mattress last night with promises of ruining her.
Her gaze drifted down.
The sheet had slipped during the night, pooling around his hips, and his cock was standing proud and thick against his stomach. The head was flushed a deep pink, already glistening at the tip, and she felt a fresh wave of heat pulse between her legs.
She reached down and wrapped her fingers around him.
Sam's eyes flew open.
For a moment, he just stared at her—blinking, disoriented, like he wasn't sure if he was still dreaming. Then a slow, lazy grin spread across his face.
"Well, good morning to you too."
Zoe squeezed gently, and his hips jerked. "Morning."
"Where's the shy nerd I've known for years?" His voice was rough with sleep, but his eyes were dancing. "Because she definitely wouldn't be groping me before I've even had coffee."
"She's on vacation." Zoe stroked him slowly, watching his expression shift from teasing to something darker. "Indefinitely."
"Fuck." He breathed the word like a prayer.
She leaned in and kissed him.
It was meant to shut him up, but it turned into something else entirely—deep and slow and filthy, his tongue sliding against hers while her hand worked him in lazy strokes. He tasted like sleep and something underneath that was just him, and she wanted to crawl inside his mouth and never leave.
When she finally pulled back, they were both breathing hard.
"I want to try something," she said.
Sam's eyes darkened. "Anything."
She pushed the sheet back, exposing him completely, and then she was moving down his body—kissing his chest, his stomach, the sharp jut of his hip bone. He watched her with hooded eyes, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.
"Zoe—"
She took him in her mouth before he could finish.
The taste of him hit her tongue—salt and skin and something musky that made her head spin. She'd done this to him yesterday morning, but it was still enough to make her moan around hin.
His hands fisted in the sheets. "Oh, fuck."
She worked him with her hand and her mouth, finding a rhythm that made his thighs tense and his breath stutter. She wasn't skilled—she knew that—but she was enthusiastic. Hungry. She took him deeper, feeling him hit the back of her throat, and gagged slightly before pulling back.
"Easy," Sam gasped. "You don't have to—"
She did it again. Deeper this time, ignoring the reflex that made her eyes water. She wanted to be good at this. She wanted to make him feel the way he'd made her feel last night—wanted, desired, completely undone.
"Zoe." His voice cracked. "Zoe, I'm close."
She pulled back just long enough to say, "Good," and then she was on him again, her hand working the base while her mouth slid up and down his shaft.
He came with a broken groan, his hands tangling in her hair, his hips bucking off the mattress. She took as much as she could, swallowing around him, feeling him pulse against her tongue. Some of it spilled past her lips, dripping down her chin, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand.
When she finally pulled back, Sam was staring at her like she'd just hung the moon.
"Where the hell did you learn that?"
Zoe crawled up his body and kissed him, letting him taste himself on her tongue. He groaned into her mouth, his hands sliding down her back to grip her ass.
"I've had a lot of alone time," she murmured against his lips. "And a very good imagination."
"Remind me to send your imagination a thank-you card."
She laughed, and he rolled her onto her back in one smooth motion, his weight settling over her. His hand slid down her stomach, fingers dipping beneath the lace edge of her teddy.
She was already soaked. Had been since the moment she'd woken up.
"Jesus," he breathed, feeling her. "You're so fucking wet."
"Been thinking about you."
"I can tell." He circled her clit with his thumb, and her hips jerked off the mattress. "You're dripping, Zoe."
She moaned, arching into his touch. "Sam—"
"I know." He kissed her neck, her jaw, the corner of her mouth. "I know."
His fingers slid lower, teasing her entrance. One finger pushed inside, then two, curling up against that spot that made her see stars. She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders.
"I want to," she said. "I want to go all the way."
He pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were dark, pupil-blown, but there was something else there too—something soft and careful.
"You sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything."
He kissed her again, softer this time. "Okay."
She reached over and yanked open the drawer of her bedside table, fumbling past old receipts and a half-empty pack of gum until her fingers closed around the box. She pulled it out and tossed it onto the bed.
Sam grabbed it and ripped it open, pulling out a foil wrapper. He was about to tear it when—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
They both froze.
"Zoe? Are you in there?"
Zoe's blood turned to ice.
Her mother's voice. Here. Outside her dorm room.
"Shit," Sam whispered.
"Shit," Zoe echoed.
She scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over the tangle of sheets. The t-shirt she'd slept in—Sam's t-shirt—hung to mid-thigh, but it was thin and clingy and did absolutely nothing to hide the black lace of her teddy underneath.
"Just a second!" she called, her voice cracking.
She grabbed Sam's arm and hauled him off the bed, shoving him toward the bathroom. He went willingly, his eyes wide, still stark naked.
"Don't say anything," she hissed.
"What am I supposed to—"
She put a finger to her lips and pushed him through the door, closing it just as another knock sounded.
"Zoe, honey, I know you're in there. I can hear you moving around."
Zoe took a deep breath. Then another. She yanked the t-shirt down as far as it would go, ran her fingers through her tangled hair, and tried to look like someone who hadn't just been about to lose her virginity.
She opened the door.
Her mother stood in the hallway, holding a paper bag that smelled like pastries. She was wearing her usual weekend uniform—jeans and a faded university sweatshirt—and her graying hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looked tired. She looked concerned.
"Mom. Hi." Zoe's voice was too high. "What are you doing here?"
"I texted you last night. You didn't answer." Her mother's eyes swept over her—the rumpled t-shirt, the bare legs, the flushed cheeks. "Did I wake you?"
"No. I mean, yes. But it's fine. I was just—" Zoe stepped back, letting her mother inside. "I was sleeping in."
Her mother walked in, her gaze landing on the unmade bed, the tangled sheets, the condom box still sitting in plain sight on the nightstand.
Zoe's heart stopped.
She lunged for the box, grabbing it and shoving it into the drawer in one frantic motion. "Sorry, it's a mess. I wasn't expecting—"
"Whose shirt is that?"
Zoe looked down. The NASA logo. The faded black fabric that definitely didn't belong to her.
"It's mine."
Her mother raised an eyebrow. "Since when do you wear a men's XXL?"
"Since—" Zoe swallowed. "Since I borrowed it from a friend. It's comfortable."
"A friend."
"A study buddy."
"In your bed?"
Zoe felt her face go scarlet. "Mom—"
"I'm not stupid, Zoe." Her mother set the bag of pastries on the desk and crossed her arms. "I was young once. I know what a rumpled bed and a borrowed shirt mean."
Zoe opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"It's not—we didn't—"
"I don't need details." Her mother held up a hand. "I really, really don't need details. But I do need to know you're being safe."
"Mom!"
"I'm serious. You're an adult. You can make your own choices. But if you're going to—" She gestured vaguely at the bed. "—do whatever you're doing, I want to make sure you're protected."
Zoe wanted to die. She wanted to sink through the floor and never resurface. This was worse than Lydia walking in. This was a thousand times worse.
"We haven't—" She stopped, took a breath. "We haven't done anything. Not yet."
Her mother studied her for a long moment. Then her expression softened.
"Is it Sam?"
Zoe's head snapped up. "What?"
"Sam. Your friend from high school. The one you're always talking about." A small smile played at the corner of her mother's lips. "The one whose picture you had taped inside your locker for three years."
"I did not—"
"You absolutely did. I saw it when I helped you move in freshman year." Her mother's smile widened. "He's a good kid. I always liked him."
Zoe felt like she was going to cry. Or laugh. Or both.
"He's—" She glanced toward the bathroom door. "He's here."
"I figured." Her mother sighed. "Look, honey. I didn't come here to interrogate you. I came because you sounded stressed on the phone yesterday, and I wanted to check on you. Bring you some breakfast."
The paper bag crinkled as she pushed it across the desk.
"Croissants. From that bakery you like."
Zoe's throat tightened. "Thanks, Mom."
"I should go." Her mother squeezed her arm. "Let you get back to—" Another vague gesture. "Whatever."
"Mom."
"Yes?"
"Please don't tell Dad."
Her mother laughed—a real, warm laugh that made Zoe's chest ache. "Your father still thinks you're a virgin who goes to bed at nine. I'm not going to be the one to shatter that illusion."
She headed for the door, then paused with her hand on the knob.
"Sam?"
The bathroom door creaked open. Sam stepped out, fully dressed now— jeans, t-shirt, hair still mussed—and looking like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.
"Mrs. Chen," he said. "Hi."
"Hello, Sam."
"I can explain—"
"I'm sure you can." Her mother smiled. "Take care of her, okay?"
"Always."
She nodded once, then slipped out the door, closing it softly behind her.
Silence.
Sam let out a breath that seemed to deflate him entirely. "That was—"
"Horrifying?"
"I was going to say 'the worst moment of my life,' but sure. Horrifying works."
Zoe sank onto the edge of the bed, her legs suddenly weak. "She knows. She knows everything."
"She doesn't know everything." Sam crossed the room and sat beside her, his shoulder brushing hers. "She knows we're—" He paused. "What are we?"
Zoe looked at him. At his rumpled hair and his kind eyes and the way he was watching her like she was the most important thing in the world.
"I don't know," she admitted. "But I want to find out."
His hand found hers, fingers lacing together.
"Me too."
The condom box was still in the drawer. The croissants were still in the bag. And somewhere in the bathroom, Sam's shirt from last night was still crumpled on the floor.
They had time.
For the first time all semester, Zoe believed it.
For the first time all semester, Zoe believed it.
Sam's thumb traced slow circles on the back of her hand. The croissants were going stale in their paper bag. Outside, someone was playing music too loud, bass thumping through the thin dorm walls like a heartbeat.
"So," Sam said. "That happened."
"That happened." Zoe laughed—a short, incredulous sound. "My mom just gave you the 'take care of her' speech. While you were hiding in my bathroom."
"I wasn't hiding. I was strategically waiting."
"You were naked, Sam."
"Strategically naked."
She shoved his shoulder, and he caught her hand, pulling her up from the bed. Before she knew what was happening, he'd dropped into her desk chair and tugged her down onto his lap. His arms circled her waist, warm and solid, and his chin came to rest on her shoulder.
"This is nice," he murmured against her hair.
"You're just saying that because you're not wearing pants."
"I'm wearing pants now. You watched me put them on." His lips brushed her ear. "Very closely, as I recall."
Zoe's face heated. She reached for the paper bag, mostly to have something to do with her hands, and pulled out a croissant. It was slightly squashed, but still smelled like butter and almonds.
"Breakfast of champions," she said, breaking off a piece and handing it to him.
Sam took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. "You know, I'm starting to think the universe has a personal vendetta against us."
"Starting to?"
"Lydia walks in. Your mom shows up. What's next—a fire drill? The RA doing room inspections?"
"Don't jinx it." Zoe bit into her own piece of croissant. "At this rate, we'll be eighty years old and still trying to find a moment alone."
"We'll be the oldest virgins in the retirement home."
She snorted, crumbs spraying across her desk. "Romantic."
"I try." Sam's hand found her thigh, palm warm through the thin cotton of the t-shirt. "We could try again, you know. Right now. Your mom's gone, my pants are technically optional—"
Zoe turned in his lap, straddling him, her knees bracketing his hips. His hands settled on her waist automatically, thumbs pressing into the soft dip above her hip bones.
"Right now?" she asked.
"Right now."
She took his hand and slid it under the hem of the t-shirt, pressing his palm flat against her stomach. His breath hitched. She guided him higher, over her ribs, until his fingers brushed the lace edge of her teddy and the soft swell of her breasts beneath.
Sam's eyes went dark.
"Zoe—"
"I want you to touch me." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "I've wanted you to touch me for years. And we keep getting interrupted, and I'm tired of waiting."
He cupped her breast, thumb dragging across her nipple through the lace. She shivered, arching into his hand.
"That's—" He swallowed hard. "That's really fucking good."
"Then keep doing it."
He did. He rolled her nipple between his fingers, and she gasped, grinding down against his thigh. The friction was sweet and sharp, and she could feel how wet she was, how ready, how badly she wanted him inside her.
"Sam." She was breathless. "Please."
He kissed her—soft, slow, like he was trying to memorize the shape of her mouth. When he pulled back, his eyes were gentle.
"Not like this."
"What?"
"Not like this." His hand slid out from under the shirt, coming up to cup her face. "You deserve better than a quick fuck on a desk chair while we're both waiting for the next interruption."
Zoe's heart pounded. "Sam—"
"I promised you a date. Remember? Last night, I said I'd take you out." His thumb stroked her cheek. "Let me keep that promise."
She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him that she didn't care about dates or romance or any of it—she just wanted him. But there was something in his expression, something earnest and determined, that made the words die in her throat.
"Okay," she whispered.
"Okay?"
"Okay." She leaned forward, pressing her forehead to his. "But you're not allowed to change your mind."
"Never." He kissed her nose. "There's this place off campus. Little Italian restaurant, family-owned, nobody from school ever goes there. We could go tonight."
"Tonight?"
"Too soon?"
"No." Zoe's pulse quickened. "Tonight's perfect."
Sam grinned—that crooked, boyish grin that had been wrecking her since tenth grade. "It's a date."
"It's a date," she echoed.
He helped her off his lap, and she immediately missed his warmth. He stood, stretching, and she watched the way his t-shirt rode up to expose a strip of skin above his waistband.
"You're staring," he said.
"You're worth staring at."
"Flattery will get you everywhere." He grabbed his bag from the floor, slinging it over his shoulder. "I should go. Shower, change, figure out what restaurant requires in terms of dress code."
"Jeans are fine. It's not fancy."
"Good. Because fancy is not in my wheelhouse." He paused at the door, hand on the knob. "Zoe?"
"Yeah?"
"I've been waiting for this too." His voice was quiet. "Since high school. Since the first time you corrected my physics homework and called me an idiot."
"You were an idiot."
"I was. But you were cute when you were annoyed." He opened the door. "See you tonight."
"See you tonight."
He slipped out, and the door clicked shut behind him.
Zoe stood there for a long moment, staring at the closed door like it might open again. Then she moved—fast, frantic, stripping off the t-shirt and the teddy and everything else as she crossed to her tiny bathroom.
The shower was cold for the first thirty seconds. She didn't care.
She scrubbed herself clean, washing away the sweat and the remnants of last night, but her skin still felt electric. Her mind kept replaying the way Sam's hands had felt on her breasts, the way his voice had gone rough when he said her name.
When she stepped out and dried off, she was still wet.
Not from the shower.
She stood in front of the mirror, naked, her hair dripping down her shoulders. Sam's t-shirt was hanging on the hook by the door, and she grabbed it, pressing it to her face.
It smelled like him.
She pulled it on. The fabric clung to her damp skin, and she didn't bother with underwear—just padded back into her room and sat on the edge of her bed.
Her phone was in her hand before she'd made a conscious decision.
She opened her browser, fingers moving on autopilot. Couples porn. Nothing extreme—just two people, bodies tangled, soft moans and slick sounds. She watched for a minute, two, her hand drifting between her legs.
She was so wet it was almost embarrassing.
She touched herself slowly at first, circling her clit with her fingertips, imagining it was Sam's hand. Sam's fingers. Sam's mouth. Her breath came faster, and she closed her eyes.
It wasn't enough.
She grabbed her pillow, folded it in half, and straddled it. The pressure was different—fuller, deeper—and she rocked against it, grinding down, her hands gripping the sheets.
"Sam," she whispered.
She pictured him beneath her. His hands on her hips, guiding her. His cock pushing inside her, stretching her, filling her. The way he'd look at her—like she was everything.
"Sam."
Her hips moved faster. The pillow was damp beneath her, and she didn't care. She was close—so close—the tension coiling tight in her belly, her thighs trembling.
"Sam, please—"
She came with a choked moan, burying her face in her hands, her whole body shaking. It wasn't enough. It was never enough.
But it was something.
When the aftershocks faded, she collapsed onto her side, breathing hard. The pillow was ruined. Her legs were slick. And she had a date in six hours.
She got up, changed into clean clothes—jeans, a soft sweater that brought out the red in her hair—and sat down at her desk.
The textbooks were still stacked where she'd left them before Sam had arrived last night. She opened one to a random page, staring at the words without seeing them.
Theories of cognitive development. Neurons transmitting. None of it stuck.
All she could think about was tonight.
Sam's face when he'd said, "It's a date." The way his eyes had softened when he looked at her. The promise in his voice, steady and sure.
She closed the book.
She wouldn't get any studying done today. She knew that. But she opened her laptop anyway, pulling up the restaurant's menu, reading through the options like she was preparing for an exam.
Fettuccine. Risotto. Tiramisu.
She wondered what Sam would order. Whether he'd hold her hand across the table. Whether he'd kiss her goodnight at her door like they were in some cheesy rom-com.
She hoped he would.
She hoped he'd do a lot more than that.
The afternoon stretched ahead of her, slow and syrupy, every minute feeling like an hour. She texted Sam: "What time?"
His reply came instantly: "Seven. I'll pick you up."
"Pick me up? It's a five-minute walk."
"I'm walking you to my car, and I'm driving you to the restaurant. Proper date behavior."
"You're ridiculous."
"You're worth it."
She stared at her phone, a stupid grin spreading across her face.
Six hours.
She could survive six hours.
She flipped open her textbook again, just to prove she could, and started reading about synaptic pruning. The words blurred.
Tonight.