Page 100 of The Love You Fight For
She does, and some of my cum leaks from her pussy. I groan. It’s the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Sam, wearing blackplatform heels with her white lace thong at her knees, and her pussy so full of my cum that it’s dripping from her.
I drop my head to her pelvis, drag my fingers through her, then shove them into her once more, putting my cum back where it belongs. I pull her thong back up her thighs until her pussy is covered, and then I pick her up and throw her over my shoulder.
She yelps and laughs, and I slap her ass cheek, making her laugh more.
“Where’s your bedroom, baby? We’ve got twenty minutes and then we can go again.”
As much asI want to stay with Sam for the rest of the week, I have work, and she has campaign bullshit to deal with.
I don’t ask her what she’s doing. Don’t ask what her plan is. I want to trust her, and I resolve to be whatever she tells me she needs.
Our kiss goodbye turns into a heated make-out session in her foyer when she ends up dry fucking my thigh, and I almost come in my pants. She laughs when I tell her that, and then she tells me to think of her on her knees for me when I fuck my hand in the shower later.
My smile lasts half the drive back to Franklin before my mood inevitably backslides. I’m so in love with Sam that it’s terrifying, and even though I try like hell to ignore it, I can’t avoid the reality.
She’s unpredictable, and my loving her doesn’t mean she’ll love me back. It doesn’t mean any sort of relationship with her would be possible, either. We’re opposites in almost every way. I value peace, and she’s the embodiment of chaos. I wear my heart on my sleeve, I always have, but she keeps hers locked up tight, and that is what scares me the most.
What if she never lets me in?
What if I bare myself to her, only to get denied time and time again?
Am I fucking delusional in thinking there is something real between us? Am I fighting a one-sided battle? She said she’d let me in, but do I believe her?ShouldI believe her?
Sam’s past behavior suggests I should be prepared for her to disappear on me again. This has become a pattern. She comes around, lets me in just long enough to sleep with me, and then she leaves again. Just when I think I’ve gained ground, she throws her walls back up, and I’m left standing alone with my heart in my fucking hands.
She puts off this illusion of perfection, but I’ve seen enough to know it’s all a lie, and I’m addicted to it. I’m addicted to her truth, to her messy, complicated interior, and it’s got the potential to ruin me.
I know I love hard. I know I deserve someone who loves me back in the same way. I want a resilient, fearless, timeless kind of love. The kind people write books about. The kind people fight battles over. The kind of love that guides and grows and never wavers.
I want atrue northkind of love.
Am I a fucking idiot for thinking I can have that with Sam? Forwantingit with her?
I’ve all but told her that I’m in love with her. Anyone who knows me can probably tell. I don’t try to hide it. I don’t know if I could, even if I wanted to. I might even be toeing the line between love and infatuation at this point because Sam consumes my thoughts. I’m aware of how dangerous this could be for me.
If I’m wrong about her...
I grip my steering wheel until my fingers turn white. I think of how she is with Lennon. How she was with Macon before everything between them went to shit. Sam loves hard, just like me, but she doesn’t love freely.
The desire to be someone who is lucky enough to be loved by Sam Harper is overwhelming. The fantasy of it is damn near intoxicating.
When I run back through all my memories with her—everycaress and whisper and intimate moment—something in my gut tells me I’mnotwrong. I just have to be strong enough for her.
The love I could have with Sam is the kind you fight for.
It’s the kind you don’t give up on.
I know it.
I just need her to realize it, too.
It’s aroundfive p.m. when I pull my truck into Tiffany’s driveway.
Over the privacy fence, I can see water shooting high into the air, so I know the twins are probably running through the sprinkler in the backyard. I climb out of my truck, make my way up the front porch, and let myself into the house.
The television is on, but no one is in the living room to watch it, and when I walk into the kitchen, it’s empty too. I grab a soda from the fridge and head out back.
I was right. The twins are running through the sprinkler. I don’t see Cheyenne, but my dad is already here and chatting with Michael. My sister is sitting in a lounge chair and looking extremely uncomfortable.
