But then Sam began to stroke her clitoris in time with his body’s slide in and out of her, and she could feel a monstrous release swirling around in her, gaining momentum, pulling her closer and closer to the edge of the cliff. She could feel that she was pulling the same sort of release from him, and when she couldn’t take it another moment, when she went tumbling off that edge, and her body convulsed around his flesh, Sam came with her, falling just as hard, shuddering forcefully to his end.
They were both panting; Sam slipped his arm around her waist and maneuvered them onto their sides. She felt a strong connection to him, and she wondered if it was real, or if it was the afterglow of lovemaking that made her feel so entwined with him. But she was quite sure she’d never felt such an explosion of joy and tenderness all at once.
When his body slipped from hers, she rolled onto her back, her eyes closed, remembering every moment of it.
“You’re smiling,” he said, and she felt him trace a line from her chest to her pubic bone.
“I am,” she said dreamily. “I’m smiling like I haven’t smiled in a very long time. Are you smiling?”
“Like a damn clown,” he said, and Libby giggled with delight.
TWENTY
They ended up in Sam’s bed at some point—he couldn’t really recall exactly how it had happened, only that her hands had been on him again, her lips driving him crazy, and he was fairly certain he’d carried her. Other than that, he had no memory of anything except what they had done in his bed, and the way she had taken him into her mouth, her lips and tongue swirling around the tip until he couldn’t stand it another moment and had dragged her on top of him to ride.
He remembered the way her long curly hair fell around her shoulders, teasing her nipples. He remembered how she had tossed her head back the moment she came, and how he’d had to hold her hips to keep her from falling off when she did.
He remembered what it felt like to be inside of her, and how he’d been surprised by just how much he had missed the feel of a woman. She was like faerie dust, turning him upside down and shaking out all sorts of rusty, dented feelings that were now busily buffing their way clean and new.
Morning light crept into his bedroom and Sam winced as he glanced around. It looked like a caveman lived here, someone with no one in his life to make him care. Clothes were scattered about, his shoes landmines on the floor in the dark. There was a layer of dust on the bureau—what he could see of it, anyway. Most of the surface was covered by magazines and papers.
Libby was on her stomach, her hair covering her face, her back trim and smooth, her hips heart-shaped.
He had imagined being with her, of course he had. He was a guy—it came with the territory. He’d imagined it a lot, actually, but it had been more of a longing instead of testosterone-fueled lust. He leaned down, kissed her back, and smiled when she groaned. He could feel his body waking to the woman in his bed, and he was sliding down the sheets, his hand on her hip, when his phone rang.
Damn it. With a sigh, he rolled over, picked it up off the nightstand. “Winters,” he answered, and pushed his fingers through his hair.
“Sam . . . I’m . . . it’s bad.”
It was Tony, and Sam sat up. “What’s up, buddy?”
“I don’t know,” Tony said tearfully. “I was watching it snow last night, and Ernest, he was having a beer, taking some time off, and I wanted one bad, man, so bad, and I started thinking, I didn’t have this drinking problem before Afghanistan, this wasn’t me, and now I’m a basket case. I get all nervous about shit that don’t even matter, and what, I’m supposed to spend the next forty years without a beer? I don’t care anymore, Sam. I don’t care—”
“Hey,” Sam said, and swung his legs off the bed. “First of all, you’re down because of the weather. You know that, right?” He had no idea if that was true—he was grasping. He stood up, moved the curtains at the window aside to look out. There were several inches of heavy snow on the ground. But it was sunny, which meant the melt would be quick. Sam figured he could have his road cleared by midmorning.
“They’ve done all kinds of studies about it,” he said into the phone. “First cold snap, dark skies, big snow—people feel hopeless.”
“I haven’t heard that,” Tony said skeptically.
Sam turned around, searching for something to put on. Libby was sitting up, the sheet barely covering her. She blinked sleepily at him, using one arm to sweep back curls.
“No, no, it’s definitely true,” he said. “Have you slept?”
“Nah, man. I can’t sleep when I’m like this.”
“Yeah, well you need to get some sleep. The snow is going to melt, dude. We’ll get the roads cleared and then you and I can talk.”
Libby picked up a sweater and held it out to him. Sam grabbed it.
“There’s nothing to talk about. It’s useless. I’m not a man anymore, I’m a thing. I can’t support myself, I am missing half my body, and I can’t have a goddamn beer—”
“Tony, you’re a man,” Sam said sternly as he hopped on one leg to pull on a pair of jeans. “Look at what you’ve done in the last week. You fixed Libby’s car, you fixed that old Buick. Do you know how many people could do that?”