Letting Go

...Zack finished setting up the small pyramid of logs on the grate. Sam watched his hands as he crumpled newspaper. When he reached to tuck it under the logs, the play of muscles in his back, clearly defined under the hugging material of his long-sleeved Henley, caught her attention. The shirt pulled up above his waistband when he stretched, without standing, to reach the fireplace matches on the mantle. His skin was smooth, the dip of his spine above his butt just the right curvature. He had long, long legs that folded up under him, one knee bent up against his chest. He laid match to paper, and the fire flared. He tended it quietly for a few minutes. Then he closed the doors most of the way, turned to rise, and caught her staring.

He didn’t tease her, only smiled. She smiled back. The voice that had niggled at her all the night before had fallen silent. Maybe all she’d needed to stop resisting was her mother’s blessing.

God forbid.

“You’re not reading,” Zack observed. His voice was lower, husky, and Sam let her gaze drop to his crotch. Just to check. Sure enough, his button fly strained just a bit more than it should have. He’d felt her watching him that whole time.

Awareness blazed to a new level, and attraction made an abrupt left turn into desire. Samantha’s body flushed from toe to scalp and went moist in places that hadn’t been moist in a very long time.

She forced her mind back to what he’d said. “I, uh, forgot to grab my book.”

“I’ll get it.” He stood and pivoted toward the bookshelf, his right hand making an obvious adjustment between his legs. “Which one?”

Samantha bit back a grin. She hadn’t anticipated this feeling of power that came with knowing she turned a guy on. “The Misty Simon.”

His long forefinger traced down the spines of the stacked books, stopping at a white one with Stranger in black script. “This one’s good. You should read that.”

She raised her eyebrows. “How do you know it’s good?”

“I read it. Last week, after a poli/sci exam. Took me all night and part of the next day. Almost missed a computer class.”

“No way!”

He shrugged. “One of my foster fathers is in publishing. He’s always got stuff lying around the house, advance reader copies. I had dinner over there last month, liked the cover, and grabbed it.”

“So you read it for the sex.”

He shook his head and plucked the Simon out of the pile to toss to her. “She’s always got a dense plot. This one addresses grief and fear, but it’s lighter than her earlier stuff, believe it or not.”

“I’ll read that next. But I’m more in the mood for snort-inducing laughter.” She picked up the book that had landed in her lap and opened it, but paused. Zack was still examining her to-be-read pile.

“You read these authors before? Victoria Smith? Burkholder?”

“Yeah. Smith does intense paranormal thrillers. Burkholder is more adventurous fantasy. Opposite ends of the spectrum.”

He looked back at her, his eyes slightly glazed, like he was only half here. “Mind if I read the Smith? I promise I’ll be done before I leave.”

“Help yourself.”

He did and settled on the sofa across from her love seat, not glancing up as he rested his head on the arm rest and propped his feet on the opposite end. He filled the whole damned couch.

After a minute she tore her gaze from his flat stomach and the rise of his chest and forced herself to concentrate on the book. It was surprisingly easy to do, given how tasty he looked stretched out so close, but before she knew it the clock over the fireplace was chiming one in the afternoon, and she was halfway through the book.

Zack yawned and stretched. His shirt rode up to expose his entire abdomen, with that thin line of hair men had down the center, and evidence that he did more than study and read at school. She imagined him doing crunches, bare-torsoed, and flushed again.

He turned his head and blinked sleepily, and it was all she could do not to go over and lie down next to him. Or on top of him...