Chapter 8: Their First Times
Sam drove with one hand on the wheel and the other tangled in hers, their fingers laced together like they'd been doing it for years instead of minutes. The city slid past the windows—streetlights and storefronts, clusters of drunk students stumbling along the sidewalks, a bus that wheezed and groaned as it pulled away from the curb.
Zoe watched it all through half-lidded eyes, her thumb tracing circles on the back of Sam's hand.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"You'll see."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
She huffed, but she didn't push. Her body was still humming from the restaurant, from the confession, from the way he'd looked at her when he said he'd been memorizing her. The wine had settled into a warm buzz behind her ribs, and everything felt soft and bright and possible.
They turned onto a street she didn't recognize. Glass towers rose on either side, their windows glittering like scattered diamonds. Sam pulled into a circular drive and stopped beneath a portico where a doorman in a navy coat stood waiting.
Zoe blinked. "Sam."
"Yeah?"
"What is this?"
He killed the engine and turned to her, his expression unreadable in the dim light. "It's a hotel."
"I can see that. Why are we at a hotel?"
Sam was quiet for a beat. Then he reached into the back seat and pulled out a small duffel bag she hadn't noticed before—black canvas, worn at the corners, the same one he'd taken to the gym a thousand times.
"I booked a room earlier today," he said. "Before I picked you up. Before I even knew if you'd say yes to dinner."
Zoe's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"You—what?"
"I've been thinking about this for weeks. Months, maybe." He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture she'd seen him do a million times, but it hit different now. "Every time we get close, something happens. Someone interrupts. You get a phone call. I get a text. We're in a dorm room with a roommate who doesn't knock. I'm tired of it, Zoe. I'm so fucking tired of almost."
Her chest ached. Not from sadness—from the sheer weight of being seen. Of being wanted enough that someone would plan ahead, would prepare, would carve out a space for them that nobody else could invade.
"You booked a hotel room," she said slowly, "just in case I said yes."
"I booked a hotel room because I was going to ask you regardless." He held her gaze. "I was going to tell you how I felt even if you shot me down. I needed you to know. And if you'd said no, I figured I'd just... stay here by myself. Order room service. Wallow."
A laugh bubbled up from her throat, wet and startled. "That's so pathetic."
"I know."
"I love it."
Sam's face softened. He leaned across the console and kissed her—soft, quick, a promise. Then he grabbed the duffel and got out of the car.
The doorman nodded at him like they were old friends. "Evening, Sir."
"Evening, Marcus."
Zoe raised an eyebrow as she climbed out of the passenger seat. "Marcus?"
Sam shrugged. "I stayed here once with my parents. He remembered me."
"That was like three years ago."
"I'm memorable."
"God, you're insufferable."
"And yet you're following me into a hotel."
She was. She absolutely was.
The lobby was all marble and soft gold light, a chandelier overhead that looked like frozen rain, couches arranged around a fireplace that actually crackled. Real wood. Real fire. The kind of place that charged more for one night than Zoe spent on groceries in a month.
Sam led her to the elevator and pressed the button for the twelfth floor.
The doors slid shut.
They were alone.
Zoe didn't think. She just moved.
Her hands fisted in the front of his shirt and she pulled him down, crushing her mouth against his. Sam made a sound—surprised, then hungry—and his hands found her waist, hauling her up against him.
The kiss was messy. Teeth and tongue and the taste of Chianti still on both their lips. Zoe's fingers worked at the buttons of his shirt, popping one free before she gave up and just shoved her hands underneath, palms flat against the warm muscle of his chest.
"You have no idea," she gasped against his mouth, "how long I've wanted to do this."
"I have some idea." His voice was rough. His hands slid down to her ass, gripping hard through the fabric of her skirt. "You're not the only one who's been paying attention."
The elevator dinged.
They stumbled apart just as the doors opened onto a quiet hallway. A couple was walking past, hand in hand, and they gave Sam and Zoe a knowing look before disappearing around the corner.
Zoe's face burned. Sam laughed, low and breathless.
"Come on," he said, grabbing her hand.
The room was at the end of the hall. Sam swiped the key card and pushed the door open, and Zoe stepped inside and promptly forgot how to breathe.
It was perfect.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the far wall, the city sprawling beyond like a circuit board come to life. Rain had started falling at some point—she hadn't noticed—and the droplets streaked down the glass, catching the neon glow of the skyscrapers outside. The bed was huge, draped in white linens, with rose petals scattered across the duvet in a way that should have been cheesy but somehow wasn't. Candles flickered on every available surface—the nightstand, the dresser, the windowsill, the edge of the soaking tub she could see through the open bathroom door.
And on the nightstand, next to a bottle of lube and a box of condoms that had not been there when Sam checked in, a small card with the hotel's logo embossed in gold.
"What's that?" Zoe asked, pointing.
Sam's ears went pink. "I may have called ahead. Asked them to... set the mood."
"You asked the hotel staff to scatter rose petals for you."
"I asked them to make it nice. The petals were their idea."
Zoe laughed—really laughed, the kind that came from somewhere deep and bright—and Sam's blush deepened.
"Shut up," he muttered.
"I didn't say anything."
"You're thinking it."
"I'm thinking that you're the sweetest person I've ever met and I want to rip your clothes off."
Sam's eyes went dark. He reached past her and flicked a switch on the wall, and soft jazz filled the room, something slow and smoky with a saxophone that curled through the air like smoke.
Zoe watched him as he moved around the room, lighting the candles one by one. The match flared, his face illuminated for a moment before the flame settled into something steadier. He was so careful. So deliberate. Like he wanted everything to be perfect.
Her chest hurt with how much she loved him.
"Sam."
He turned.
"I can't wait anymore."
She didn't give him time to respond. She crossed the room in three steps and launched herself at him, arms wrapping around his neck, legs around his waist. Sam caught her easily—of course he did, with those arms, that stupid gym regimen she'd teased him about for years—and his hands found her ass, squeezing through her skirt.
"Fuck," he breathed against her mouth.
"Yeah."
He carried her to the bed and laid her down, his body covering hers, and then they were kissing again, deeper now, slower. Zoe's fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. He ground against her, the hard line of his cock pressing through his jeans, and she arched up to meet him, desperate for friction.
They stayed like that for a long time. Minutes or hours, she couldn't tell. Just mouths and hands and the slow build of heat in her belly. Sam kissed down her neck, nipped at her collarbone, sucked a mark into the sensitive skin below her ear that made her gasp.
"Off," she said, tugging at his shirt. "Take it off."
He sat up and pulled it over his head in one motion. Zoe's mouth went dry.
She'd seen him shirtless before—and kissed him while he was as well. But this was different. This was planned, all for her. The planes of his chest, the cut of his abs, the trail of dark hair disappearing into his waistband made her heart pound.
"You're so—" She couldn't finish.
"I know." He grinned, cocky and warm. "You should see your face right now."
"Shut up and kiss me."
He did.
His hands found the hem of her sweater and tugged it up. She lifted her arms and let him pull it off, leaving her in just her bra—black lace, the one she'd bought specifically for this, if she was being honest with herself—and her skirt. Sam's eyes raked over her, hungry and reverent.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"I'm short."
"You're beautiful and short."
"That's better."
He unzipped her skirt and slid it down her legs. She kicked it aside. And then she was lying there in black lace and white knee socks, her red hair spread across the pillow, and Sam looked at her like she was the only thing in the world.
"Your turn," she said, nodding at his jeans.
He shucked them off, along with his boxers, and Zoe's breath caught in her throat.
He was thick. That was the first thing she noticed. Thick and long and already hard, curving up toward his stomach. She'd felt him before, in her mouth, but seeing him like this—fully exposed, fully hard, fully hers—was something else entirely.
"Come here," she said.
Sam crawled onto the bed and she pushed him onto his back, straddling his thighs. His cock twitched against her stomach and she smiled.
"Someone's eager."
"Someone's been waiting six years."
"Fair point."
She reached behind her back and unhooked her bra. Let it fall. Sam's eyes went wide, his lips parting, and Zoe felt a surge of power at the way he looked at her—like she was a revelation, like she was something sacred.
"Fuck," he whispered.
"Eloquent."
"I'm serious. You're—" He reached up and cupped her breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples. "I don't have words."
"Then don't use them."
She slid down his body, kissing his chest, his stomach, the jut of his hip bone. Sam's breath hitched when she wrapped her hand around his cock, stroking slowly.
"Zoe—"
"Shh."
She lowered her head and took him into her mouth.
The taste of him—salt and skin and something uniquely Sam—flooded her senses. She hollowed her cheeks and sank down, taking him as deep as she could, and Sam groaned, his hips bucking up involuntarily.
"Sorry," he gasped. "Sorry, I—"
She pulled off with a wet pop and looked up at him. "Do that again."
"What?"
"Buck your hips. Fuck my mouth. Whatever you want."
Sam's eyes nearly rolled back in his head. "You're going to kill me."
"Probably."
She went back to work, slower this time, savoring the weight of him on her tongue. She licked up the underside of his shaft, swirled her tongue around the head, took him deep again and held it until her eyes watered. Sam's hands fisted in the sheets, his breathing ragged.
"Zoe, I'm—fuck, I'm close—"
She pulled off again, her lips swollen and wet. "Already?"
"It's been a long time. And you're really good at that."
"Flattery will get you everywhere."
She stroked him with her hand, twisting her wrist the way she'd read about once in a Cosmo article she'd never admit to reading. Sam's hips jerked.
"Please," he said. "Please, I want to be inside you."
"Not yet."
"Zoe—"
She took him in her mouth again, faster now, her hand working the base while her tongue focused on the sensitive spot just below the head. Sam's moans turned into something desperate, something broken, and when he came he shouted her name, his release spilling down her throat.
She swallowed every drop.
When she pulled off, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Sam was staring at her like she'd just performed a miracle.
"Where did you learn to do that?" he asked, voice hoarse.
"I've had a lot of time to think about it."
"Thinking isn't practicing."
"Who says I haven't been practicing?"
Sam growled and lunged for her, flipping her onto her back in one fluid motion. Zoe squealed, laughing, but the laugh died in her throat when his mouth found her neck, her chest, her stomach.
"Your turn," he said against her skin.
He peeled her panties down her legs—slow, teasing—and tossed them somewhere behind him. Then he spread her legs and just... looked.
"Sam."
"What?"
"Stop staring."
"I'm not staring. I'm appreciating."
"Same thing."
He lowered his head and licked a slow stripe up her center.
Zoe's back arched off the bed. "Oh, fuck—"
Sam hummed against her, the vibration making her toes curl. His tongue circled her clit, teasing, and then his thumb pressed down while two fingers slid inside her.
"God," she gasped. "God, Sam, that's—"
"You're so wet," he murmured. "Is this all for me?"
"Yes—fuck—yes, it's all for you—"
His fingers curled inside her, finding that spot that made her vision go white, and his mouth never stopped moving—licking, sucking, driving her closer and closer to the edge.
"Don't stop," she begged. "Please, don't stop—"
He didn't.
She came with a broken cry, her thighs clamping around his head, her nails raking through his hair. Sam worked her through it, gentler now, until she was twitching and oversensitive and pushing him away.
"Okay," she panted. "Okay, okay, enough."
He lifted his head, grinning, chin glistening. "Was that good?"
"You know it was good."
"I want to hear you say it."
"It was good. It was great. It was the best orgasm of my life. Now get up here and fuck me."
Sam laughed, but he did as he was told. He crawled up her body and kissed her—she could taste herself on his lips, which should have been gross but was really, really not—and then he reached over and grabbed a condom from the box.
Zoe took it from his hand. "Let me."
She rolled it onto him slowly, marveling at the feel of him in her hands, the heat and weight and thickness. Sam watched her, his jaw tight.
"You sure?" he asked.
She looked up at him. "I've never been more sure of anything."
He lined himself up and pushed in.
Zoe gasped. The stretch was more than she expected—a burn, a fullness, something that bordered on pain but tipped over into pleasure. Her nails dug into his shoulders.
"Okay?" Sam's voice was strained.
"Yeah. Just—give me a second."
He stayed still, trembling with the effort of holding back. Zoe breathed through it, forcing her body to relax, and after a moment the burn faded into something else entirely.
"Move," she said.
He did.
The first thrust was slow, deep, almost reverent. Sam pulled back and pushed in again, and Zoe felt every inch of him sliding against her walls. Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, and he groaned against her neck.
"You feel—" He couldn't finish.
"I know."
He found a rhythm, and it was good. Better than good. Every stroke hit something deep inside her, and his pelvis ground against her clit with each thrust, building the pressure again.
"Harder," she demanded.
Sam obliged.
The bed creaked. The candles flickered. And Zoe lost herself in him—his hands on her hips, his mouth on her neck, the sound of his breathing growing ragged.
"I'm gonna come," she warned with a whimper.
"Me too."
She got a hand between their bodies and rubbed her clit in tight circles, and that was it. She came with a scream muffled by his shoulder, her whole body shaking, her nails raking down his back hard enough to leave marks.
Sam followed a moment later. His hips stuttered, his rhythm breaking, and he buried himself deep and came with a guttural shout, his body collapsing onto hers.
They lay there for a long time. Sweaty and trembling and tangled together.
Then Sam lifted his head and looked at her. His eyes were soft. Tender.
"I love you," he said.
Zoe's throat closed up.
"I've always loved you," he continued. "Since tenth grade. Since that dumb Vader shirt. Since you ate pizza out of a dumpster on a dare."
"That was a low point."
"That was the moment I knew you were it for me."
She laughed, but it came out wet. There were tears on her cheeks, she realized. When had that happened?
"I love you too," she said. "I've always loved you too."
Sam kissed her. Soft and slow and full of promise.
And outside, the city glowed.