Sight:
Why was he so goddamn perfect?
His strong arms (when did those happen?) that held her so tightly, comforting her.
Those (rock hard) abs that he recently decided to start showing off, taking his shirt off at ridiculous times – the middle of rehearsal – to get her going (it was working).
And most frustratingly, those stupid brown eyes that looked at her so dearly, so carefully. He stared at her with so much… love. She didn't want to believe it, but there it was. The only possible explanation.
She didn't want to admit to herself just how good the realization felt.
Smell:
This tshirt.
This lousy, worn blue tshirt is all she has left of Freddie.
It was mutual.
Sam crawled into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. Ever since their breakup she lies in her bed all day, clad in her boyshorts and the stupid tshirt.
It still smells like him.
That intoxicating scent with citrus – it smells like home. More than her real home, that's for sure.
She knew it was cheesy, cliché, and had she been in the right mindset she would gag– but she had never felt more at home than she did in his arms.
Sound:
"Hola, chicas."
Oh God.
"Ready to start iCarly ensayo?"
"Will you just speak English?" Sam nearly shouted, shooting him a glare.
He paused, "¿Mandé?"
There it is again. The stupidly fucking sexy Spanish accent that drives her crazy with lust. He doesn't even realize that he could literally make her do anything as long as he said it in his melodious accent.
"You did it again! Just quit it. You're not impressing anyone."
"Not trying to impress. Just a habit. Didn't realize it bugged you, lo siento."
She shivered unintentionally, her eyes glazed over.
"What was that?"
"Shut it, Benson."
Touch:
"Babe, you're in for a rough night." Sam teased, her teeth biting gently on his lip.
She raked her nails down his back – not hard enough to hurt, but enough to set him over the edge. He shuddered, grabbing the back of her head hastily and crushing his mouth to hers.
"God, Puckett." He groaned, his breathing ragged.
She knew the effect she had on him. She knew that all she had to do was a simple grazing of her teeth on his earlobe, or trailing her tongue down his neck and he was completely gone.
Get a grip, Benson.
Taste:
They were simply experimenting, Sam explained as she crawled over to him, equipped with a box of strawberries (the only time he can get her to eat fruit).
She straddled him, taking out one strawberry and putting it halfway in her mouth, the other half dangling out for him to bite. (Which he did, rather reluctantly.) They kissed, and he could taste the juice remnants.
He just didn't get why they needed anything unusual to mess with their sex life. He thought they were getting along just fine-
Is that whipped cream?
Okay, he could definitely go for this.
Kinky.