Page 39 of Surviving You, Scotch and Sammy 1

“I probably love you too.”

His brows lift in expectation.

“I do love you too, and it’s probably not teenage hormones.”

He leans in closer, and his hands rub up and down along my ribs. “How do you know you love me, Sammy?”

“Because…” I take a deep breath. “Because I know what I know, and I know I love you.”

Smirking arrogantly, he leans forward and drops a long juicy kiss on my lips. “We know what we know. Don’t let anyone tell us any different.”

“Okay.”

He kisses me again, proudly, as though he just won an amazing prize. “Promise me.”

“I promise to not let anyone tell me any different.”

His hand snakes around my back, under my backpack and onto my ass. He squeezes it in a way we’d both get detention if a teacher saw. “Atta girl. I love you, Ricci. Forever and ever.”

Stupid hormonal teenage pounding heart. “Forever and ever.”

He leans forward, dropping kisses on the corners of my lips. “So, now that we have that sorted, you got a date for prom?”

“Actually, I was thinking of asking Luc.”

Luc hoots out a laugh, proving that his nosy ass was listening to everything we said, but Sam’s eyes flash and he leans down and bites my lip. “Forever and ever. Luc can find his own girl.”

***

Almost an entire month after that Monday at school, not only was Sam now known by almost everyone in the world as Scotch – although I continued to call him Sam – but he’d turned eighteen and he still hadn’t even brought up the topic of our relationship becoming more physical. We make out a lot, my morning swims are almost non-existent now, but we use the time in the dark to be together. He kisses me the way a man kisses a woman, and his hands roam in ways I know a man touches a woman, and though we separate each morning with him sporting what is surely a painful bulge in his shorts, he never once mentions it. He’s too much the gentleman.

Surprisingly, despite the fact my parents are jerks, they still agreed to my attending prom, on the condition that I’m staying with Meg for the night, or she was staying at my house with me. I don’t know what kind of magical voodoo she holds over these otherwise strict and intelligent adults, but anything she wants, she gets. Naturally, we’d made plans to sleep at her house prom night, when in reality, she had no clue where she’d end the night.

Virgins or not, we were both healthy seventeen-year olds, and we both had boyfriends. We had curiosities, needs… cravings. Chocolate cake or not, Meg has continued to see that guy she met at The Shed, and even though I think he’s a meathead of the worst variety, she says he’s charming, and smart, and has a nice smile. I can’t even blame her; I love Sam’s smile too.

“So, you’re telling me he hasn’t even asked for it?” Meg walks out of her walk-in closet with a beautiful gown in her arms. She lays it down on the bed and strips her sweat pants off without hesitation. In nothing more than a tiny thong and lacy bra, she struts around her room, collecting sexy shoes and her clutch, and I continue to curl my hair in the mirror.

“Nope. He hasn’t asked.”

“Girl, you need to just lie on the bed with your legs open. He won’t be able to help himself. Like a bull to a red flag…”

I snicker as I watch her shimmy into her dress in the mirror. “While I don’t think I’ll do it that way, I do think I’ll have to take things into my own hands.”

“Yeah. His dick. Your hands.”

I purse my lips as she snickers. “He asked me out every Friday for three years, Meg. Sam Turner has the willpower and patience of a saint.”

“You think he’s being a gentleman? Or maybe his ding-dong doesn’t work?”

I laugh, grab the hairbrush from beside my elbow, and toss it at her. “I’m pretty sure it works just fine. I think he’s scared of offending me.”

Meg rolls her eyes. “Sam Turner is fine as hell. And he’s such a sweetheart. And his singing.” She rolls her eyes back in mock ecstasy. “He’s offending me by not whipping it out for you.”

“Jesus.” I roll my eyes. She’s still a virgin and hardly has the right to talk, yet she sounds like a sexually frustrated thirty-year-old. I turn around to face her and change the subject. “Did Marc tell you why he calls you Poot yet? It’s such a strange thing to call someone.”

Meg’s eyes flash, but she turns away quickly and starts fussing with her shoes. “Nope. He’s just a strange guy, but I wish he’d stop. It sounds weird, and him having a special name for me sounds like we’re friends.”

“You are friends.”

---