See you on the other side.
None of this belongs to me, it's all S.M's.
Sound : On + Off - Maggie Rogers
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Move Together
Chapter Eleven
If we don't move together
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Tribal Council Meetings are usually closed-door affairs, attended only by the Elders of La Push and the Council's clerk. Notably, the small desk of the clerk — located to the right of the larger, round oak table we were currently sat at — was empty. Most likely because we weren't just discussing tribal affairs today. No, we weren't talking about how La Push High was in desperate need of new desks and we certainly weren't discussing the pesky pothole on one of our main streets that caused you to flail about in your car every time you drove over it. No, today, my parents were learning about tribal legends from the Elders; more specifically, they were learning that they weren't legends at all but, rather, factual accounts. Everything started out fine; truly, it did. But as soon as Imprint Bonds were brought into the equation, Dad lost it. Still was losing it, actually.
"— your monster of a son hurt my girl! And now you expect Renée and I just to — to just accept that Uley is somehow different based on some tribal legends — "
"Those stories aren't just legends, and you know it!" Billy bites out.
"You always were soft when it came to folklore, I knew it even when we were growing up —
"For goodness sake, Charlie! You can't have it both ways — "
"What's that supposed to mean?" Dad demands, cheek twitching and moustache jerking irritably.
I watch, head feeling full, thick and heavy as Billy and Dad fight. They had grown up together, separated by only a handful of years, and were thick as thieves back in their time. People still talked about their legendary pranks and distinct disregard for the law.
"It means that you can't cherry pick, friend," Billy tosses back tiredly, exhausted from their sparring. "You can't believe only parts of the legends and not the others — it is clear that we are indeed descendants of wolves, why are Imprint Bonds beyond the realm of possibility?!"
"Billy does have a point," Mom chimes in, laying a gentle hand on Dad's shoulder. I watch as she tries to comfort him, bracelets brushing against each other and chiming merrily in the tense silence of the meeting room. Dad deflates then, all the fight leaves him in one heavy sigh. Even though we found ourselves on opposite sides of the table and, coincidentally, this issue, my heart twisted in my chest. Dad had always been fiercely protective of me, as every father is. I'll never forget what a production it had taken for him to let Caleb Browne take me to a school dance in grade eight. He eventually relented, but not before throwing Quil and Jake a few dollars to make sure that Caleb didn't get any where near me at the dance. I never thought that he'd have to protect me from Jake — from his best friend's son.
"This isn't right," Dad mutters weakly, shaking his head and leaning back in his chair tiredly. Charlie Swan had never looked his age more. Defeat weighed down his brow, pulled down the corners of his mouth into a forlorn frown and the grey hairs concentrated around his temples never seemed more obvious to me.
The room is silent, no one speaks for a few beats — not Billy or any of the other Council members. Perhaps unintended, but Dad had voiced what we were all thinking, I'm sure. None of this was right. In fact, it was the farthest thing from it. It wasn't right that their children were being forced to grow up and navigate a supernatural world that they were wholly unprepared for. It wasn't right that friendships were being tested in unimaginable, totally unfair, ways. It wasn't right that Sam and I didn't get a chance to choose who to walk beside in this life.
"It's not," Old Quil grimaces. "It is…fate."
Dad scoffs derisively, tossing his head back.
"It is, Charles," Old Quil snaps, sending my father with an icy glare and resting his wiry arms on the strong oak table. "Samuel and Isabella are bound, irrevocably. He Imprinted on her. They are two halves of one whole, wether you like it or not. And he will not — can not — hurt her."
It was strange to be discussed as if I wasn't in the room. Sparing a glance at Sam out of the corner of my eye, I could not help but wonder if he felt the same. He doesn't look particularly bothered, seated comfortably his chair, ankle resting on its opposite knee. He sits beside me, but not nearly close enough. Perhaps out of a misplaced deference to my father? Or maybe it is because he wasn't my Sam in this room. Yes, that was it. In this space, amongst our Elders, he was Samuel Uley — Alpha of The Pack. Definitely not the boy who begged me to stay just a bit longer a few nights ago. And that was okay. I was beginning to accept that there was a side of him that I — and I alone — was privy to.
"We can't keep them apart, Charlie," Mom observes resignedly, face pinched.
"I know," Dad mutters tersely.
Relief sweeps through me, sweet and so very welcome like a cool breeze on a hot summer's day. A smile tugs at the corner of my lips and I force myself to bite it back and swallow it down. I don't think gloating would be the brightest idea right now.
I had never been more thankful to the Elders of my tribe. They had made my parents, my father really, listen to reason when I couldn't. The past few days had been utterly unbearable. Tense, loaded, silences had been a regular occurrence every time my father and I were in the same room at home. And we may have even yelled at each other once. Okay, fine, twice. And it didn't help matters that I hadn't been allowed to see Sam. Going stretches of time apart made me feel edgy and prickly, like when I don't smoke for weeks.
With that, the Tribal Council adjourns our meeting. Sam leans in close, "I'll catch up with you later, yeah?"
"Everything okay?"
"Gotta go over Pack stuff with the Council."
I nod, press a quick kiss to his grizzly cheek, and follow my parents out. I don't bother to look back, not wanting to risk Sam's ire. I'm sure he was less than impressed with my little public display of affection. My parents and I walk in silence, wrapped up in our respective thoughts. In fact, we don't speak on the way home either. It isn't until we're sat next to each other on the couch, watching a rerun of Cheers, that I hear from my Dad.
"You do know how much I love you, right, Bells?" Dad asks earnestly, as if he really didn't know how I'd answer.
I snap my eyes away from the TV and focus on my Dad, caught off guard by his question.
"'Course I do," the words slip past my lips, automatic.
"Everything I am — everything that I have done, and ever will do, is for you," He asserts, voice thick with emotion. "And I just wanted to protect you…"
Surprised by his emotional display, my mouth closes and opens, opens and closes. My Dad was a stoic man; not much moved him, nor could he be moved to do much when it came to matters of the heart.
"I know," I answer, softly, grabbing his hand in mine and giving it a firm squeeze.
At the end of the day, I understood why Dad wanted to keep Sam and I separated. It had nothing to do with making me miserable and everything to do with keeping me safe. I couldn't blame him for listening to his fatherly instincts. Perhaps feel cross, but beyond reason? No, certainly not.
It didn't hurt that I had gotten my way, of course.
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The end of the week rolls around and I summon the courage to ask my parents the question that had been on the tip of my tongue ever since the Council meeting. If I had been less tolerant, I might have tried to see Sam that very day. But it had been a rather trying meeting for everyone present, especially Mom and Dad. So, in an uncharacteristic move, I decided to actually be patient for once and give them time and space to adjust to the idea of the Imprint. That said, hushed phone calls and text messages were no longer cutting it. I needed a fix, a hit, a dose of Sam immediately. I craved him like I never had before. My skin felt tight, itchy, like I was wearing a wool sweater that was two sizes too small; I felt off in every way possible. I couldn't sleep, couldn't think straight.
"Is it okay if I go to Sam's after dinner?" I ask, knee jerking up-down-up-down-up-down under the table.
Mom and Dad exchange a look, doing that thing where parents silently communicate. After meeting with the Council, I was pretty confident that they would say yes. It would be entirely cruel of them not to, as I hadn't seen Sam since I snuck out. Not that my parents knew about our late night rendez-vous. In fact, as far as they were concerned, I hadn't seen Sam at all outside of the Council meeting. And, because of that, I was banking on them taking pity. A twinge of guilt twists my gut. I shouldn't lie to them.
"I don't see why not," Mom answers, offering a small smile. "But don't be home too late."
"Sure, sure," I nod, spearing another forkful of salad.
Dinner passes without much input from me; my parents discuss their days, bills, and what to watch on TV tonight. But it was hardly my fault. White-hot, searing energy simmered and sparked beneath the surface of my skin, like bubbles in a flute of champagne, as soon as they agreed to let me see Sam. And it was more than a little bit distracting. I was practically bursting at the seams with excitement by the time I finished my last bite.
The Imprint was ridiculous. It made me feel like I wasn't in control — entirely at the mercy of my baser instincts. And sometimes that made me worry. But other times, like now, I couldn't be bothered. So I didn't chastise myself when I, quite literally, made a run for it after dinner. I didn't try to still my fingers as they tapped against the steering wheel of the car. And I most certainly didn't wipe the stupid grin off my mug when I pulled to a stop in Sam's drive.
I danced up the steps, feeling light and truly happy for the first time this week. I debated whether to knock or just walk right in for a moment, hand hovering mid air. It might be nice to surprise him. With that, I pulled open the door and stepped inside. Toeing of my shoes, I hear heated voices coming from the kitchen.
"Sam?" I call, padding my way towards the room in question.
" — you of all people know the consequences of being alone, Sam!" Jared spits angrily, slamming his fist on the island violently.
I freeze in the doorway, taking in the two hostile weres. With both hands planted on the counter before him, lips curled into an insubordinate snarl, eyes wild with rebellion, Jared looks nothing like the laid back boy I once knew him to be. Jared was lithe and compact at one point, sleek and fast. What else could be expected of the school's best track and field runner? As the shining star of La Push's high school team, Jared had a shot at higher education sans crippling student debt. He was offered scholarship to study at the University of Washington in senior year. It was the talk of the town for a long time; Jared couldn't walk down the street without someone shouting their congratulations at one point. But he never let it get to him. He was a simple guy; humble and sweet. But when he turned down the scholarship — two week's before he was set to head off for school — opting to stay in La Push and work in construction like Sam, I could hardly believe it. No one could. Of course, the tribe didn't know that Jared had no choice in the matter back then. He had to stay. And now, he was a bulky, angry werewolf who — apparently — had an anger problem and a bone to pick with his Alpha.
I am drawn back to the present when Sam abruptly — but with an unnerving amount of grace — vaults himself over the large island and lands in front of Jared with ease. Jared scrambles back, tucking his chin, as if he just remembered who exactly he was dealing with: his Alpha. Sam's large form partially obstructs my view but I don't need to see Jared to know how scared he is. Low, lupine whimpers punctuate the tense silence that has descended. Energy snaps and crackles around Sam, and any instinct I had to intervene, to help Jared, is snuffed out. Sam roughly grabs Jared by the neck, forcing him to look him in the eye.
"Get out of my sight," Sam growls viciously and practically throws Jared out of his hold. "I'll deal with you later."
The chastened were stumbles back, trembling like a leaf and scuttles away. The slamming of the back door signals Jared's escape and I flinch slightly, eyes flicking over to Sam who still has his back to me.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, afraid to agitate him any further. "I didn't realize you were busy. I… I wanted to surprise you."
He turns, spinning on a bare heel, to face me. Black eyes with glowing flecks of amber chart the contours of my form, leaving hot trails in their wake. I do the same, taking in, rather belatedly, that he is shirtless. The dark, but sparse, smattering of hair on his chest gives way to a thin trail that guides my gaze downward to a pair of light wash jeans that hang deliciously low on his hips. Or perhaps not low enough. I steal a glance at the treacherous 'v' that peaks out before snapping my eyes back up to his. A single, heavy brow arches as Sam smirks smugly. Caught. Fire licks at my cheeks and I bow my head, embarrassed. Clenching my eyes shut, I try to summon the courage to look at him again but I just can't.
The ties of our bond stir in me, vibrating like a guitar string that has just been plucked, as Sam slices the distance between us in three lethal strides. Sam's movements are careless and unrestrained instead of clipped and contained like they normally are. I wonder, briefly, if the Man is fully in control. Suddenly, Sam is in my space, overcrowding me in the most delightful way possible and thoughts about control go out the window. I'm curiously aware of how much bigger he is. How much taller he is. I can practically taste him on my tongue as I draw a deep, shuddering breath in. I fight the urge to open my mouth and steal a taste for real, suddenly starving. But not for food — for Sam. A warm, calloused, hand firmly grasps my jaw, forcing me to look up.
"Don't hide from me," Sam finally speaks, voice deep and dark as he stares into my eyes.
It doesn't sound like a request. And that's because I am sure it was not intended to be one; no, it was a command. It feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room. I feel dizzy and weak, completely overwhelmed by him. It had been much too long since we had been together. Since he had touched me. Since I had felt his lips on mine. I drop my eyes from his, stealing a glance at that perfectly sculpted cupid's bow. The hand on my jaw relaxes, slipping down the column of my throat and around to cup the nape of my neck. Threading his fingers through my dark tresses, Sam tugs sharply, jerking my head back. A hiss escapes my lips as I revel in the stinging pain that, mercifully, distracts from the unbearable ache between my thighs.
"Please," I whimper, looping my arms around his torso and plastering myself against his chest.
Sam belts his other arm around my waist, drags me up his body so that my toes just brush the floor, and traces the delicate line of my jaw with feverish lips. Than, he breathes hotly over the shell of my ear, "You don't have to beg."
I twist my head, gripping his chest, and seek out his mouth. I capture his lips in a bruising kiss but I quickly lose the battle for control when he nips my lower lip. I gasp, digging my nails into his warm flesh. Sam groans, the sound so deliciously masculine that my thighs press together, and plunders my mouth with his sumptuous tongue.
"Sam," I cry, wrenching my lips from his in an effort to breathe.
The werewolf is undeterred though and plants wet, cloying kisses down the column of my neck, before returning for another taste of my lips. My head feels thick and foggy, overrun and weighed down by desire, as he kisses me again and again and again. But I can't shake this niggling feeling, a voice at the back of my head urging me to stop. To slow down. To ask Sam about why Jared was so upset. Somehow I knew it was important. That it couldn't wait. I sneak a hand between us, pressing firmly on his chest, trying to pry myself away. I succeed, much to our shared disappointment, and Sam lets my feet return to the floor.
"What did I walk into?" I wheeze, breaths choppy and uneven.
"Nothing, little one," Sam dismisses, cupping the back of my head and ducking down to return his lips to mine. And, for a moment, I allow myself to be distracted. It simply felt far too good not to. I wrap my arms around his neck, pressing myself closer. My breasts flatten against his strong, firm chest and I can't help but think that this would be so much better if I wasn't wearing a shirt. Hot hands grab at my hips and slide up, bunching the fabric of my thin t-shirt around my navel. The feeling of his hands on my bare skin sends a shiver down my spine and my nipples stiffen into hard peaks. I bet he can feel it too. Sam growls, pushing me back against the wall of the kitchen. It's his turn to press against me and I let out a low, throaty moan when I feel the stiff, bulging length of his need against my abdomen.
"No," I squirm, pushing him away again. "You can't just do that!"
"Do what?" Sam asks, eyes glinting darkly with mischief and something else entirely. Lust.
"K-kiss me," I mutter weakly, arms braced against his hot chest.
"You don't want me to kiss you, Bella?" Sam queries, bringing a hand up to cradle my jaw and trace the seam of my swollen lips with the rough pad of his thumb.
"Not to distract me," I nip his thumb, catching it between my teeth.
Sam chuckles darkly, eyes flashing amber for the briefest of moments, "I'm not trying to distract you."
"Yes. You. Are!"
He withdraws, taking his hands off of me, and steps back, "Damn it."
"What was Jared talking about?"
"Pack stuff," Sam supplies, tight-lipped as ever.
"Samuel Uley!" I snap, voice so shrill that it hurts my own ears. "That is not an acceptable answer. You … you said you would be more honest with me."
"Bella, I can't share everything with you," Sam growls, striding past me and into the living room. I follow him, hot on his heels. He was so not getting away with that line again. Come to think of it, he didn't get a way with it in the first place! We still hadn't talked about our rather unpleasant phone call.
"Why not?" I demand, trailing him so close I could have been mistaken for his shadow.
"BECAUSE IT'S MY JOB TO PROTECT YOU!" Sam explodes, whirling around.
He glares down at me, daring me to disagree.
"Sam," I go to say.
"No!" He growls, slicing his hand through the air to silence me.
And it works.
"You are my…my Imprint, Bella," Sam flounders, struggling to find the right words. Dark, pained orbs bounce between mine. "And that means that it's my job to keep you safe. I have to protect you, little one. From leeches. From this life. From me. And right now, from your best friend!"
Understanding sweeps through me; it all makes sense then, like puzzle pieces snapping together. Sam must be refusing to accept Jacob into his Pack. That has to be why Jared was so upset.
"Are you refusing to accept Jake into the Pack?" I demand, hoping desperately that I am wrong. That I am just jumping to conclusions.
"Yes," Sam answers through gritted teeth, as if answering me was painful.
"Why?" I ask, appalled.
"Why?" He laughs bitterly, stepping away from me and throwing his hands up. "Are you fucking kidding me? He attacked you!"
"I am well aware, thank you!" I shout in a fit of irritation. "But there's a major difference between protecting me and punishing Jacob!"
"You don't understand," Sam volleys back. "Jake hurt you…He could have taken you."
From me.
I hear the words even though Sam doesn't say them aloud. He didn't have to. They are written all over his face — brows pinched together, eyes filled with pain and fear.
"But I'm okay," I insist, voice quiet and measured. I step forward, take his hand in mine and press it to the centre of my chest so he can feel my rapidly thrumming heart. "I'm right here, Sammy."
It felt silly, stupid even, doing it, but my impulsive move seemed to work. His hand curls around the flesh between my neck and shoulder, urging me closer. Sam dips his head down and latches onto my lips. I still for a minute, worried that he's just trying to shut me up again.
"Please," Sam whispers brokenly against my lips, pulling back just enough so I can see into his eyes which — for once — are not shuttered. There, I see it all: The abandoned boy who grew up without a father, and the man who struggled to keep his preternatural instincts in check. I had never seen him look so vulnerable and lost. "I need you."
My breath catches in my throat and tears press at the back of my eyes. The pain there, etched in his eyes and saturating his voice, is too much for me. Heart aching, bleeding for him, I arch up on to the tips of my toes and give myself over to him. Greedy, desperate arms wind tight around me, keeping me close. He clings to me like he's lost at sea and I'm his rescuer. Like I'm the last chance he's got. Oh, Spirits. But this isn't the same kind of desperation that hurried our movements and emboldened our touches in the kitchen. No, this is far less wanton. This a sweet, melancholic passion. Our movements are reverent where they were bruising, tender where they were rough.
"Mine," Sam whimpers sweetly as he drinks from my mouth, hands now cradling my face.
"Yours," I agree, holding onto his sides and trapping him against me if he should try to flee.
Sam groans, drawing my lower lip into his mouth and nipping lightly.
"Again."
For a moment I am dazed, senses overwhelmed by this sublime sorrow.
"Say it again," Sam whispers huskily, pulling away and tilting my head back so I have no choice but to look at him.
"I'm yours."
Sam dips back down, pressing kisses along my jaw, down my neck, and across my collarbone. I arch my neck to the side, giving him more room. A low, warm chuckle dances across the surface of my skin. I am half tempted to scold him for laughing at me but all thoughts of discipline slip away when he works his way up to a soft, sensitive patch of skin just behind my ear. Goosebumps break out all over and I shiver in his arms as teeth scrape across that very spot. Desire surged in my veins like liquid fire, burning me up from the inside out, and settled low, hot, and heavy in my belly. Feeling brave, I guide Sam backwards by pressing lightly on his chest. Just as intended, his knees buckle upon hitting the couch and he falls back, dragging me with him. He looks at me, eyes full of want, mouth parted, lips swollen from my kisses and it is my turn to smirk. Sam catches the curve of my mouth, darting forward and nipping playfully.
With that, the frenzied passion we acted on earlier returns and we battle for the upper hand. With every kiss, I begin to realize that Sam is winning. His touch affected me in ways that were indescribable. And it certainly didn't help that he was touching me in a way that I had only experienced a few times prior. I was used to the gentle, sweet gestures from Sam by now. Like when he would pull on my hair. Or take my hand in his only to play with my fingers. But this, this was almost too much. The way he gripped me so tightly, barely in control, and kneaded and teased my firm flesh had me squirming in his arms wantonly. A breathy moan escapes from me when Sam slides his hands from my hips around to my backside and squeezes firmly, jerking me forward. I can feel him there, between my legs, pressing against the apex of my need. We had never gone past this point before. But something told me tonight was different.
My suspicions are confirmed when hot, rough hands flit under the hem of my shirt. For a moment, I forget and allow his hands to wander. I love the way it feels. Hot hands tracking scorching trails that I half expect to mar my skin. He felt amazing. We felt amazing. But as soon as an errant digit skims over the fresh scars by my left hip, I turn to stone in his arms. I imagine the skin felt ugly, raised and bumpy. Sam, so caught up in the moment, doesn't notice for a few beats and sweeps his hands higher up my back. My hands fly away from his hair and lock his wrists in a vice grip, "Don't."
I have Sam's attention immediately. He rears back, hurt and rejection flitting across his features. My heart lurches in my chest and I loosen my grip, softly running my thumbs across tensed forearms.
"I just," I waver, stomach churning. "I just don't want you to touch them."
Sam's eyes darken, sadness settling over his features. He lets out a sigh, whispering my name. I knew, deep down, that Sam probably wouldn't be bothered by the scars on my back. He had been nothing but kind to me and so, so sweet ever since we had accepted the reality of our bond. He didn't seem like a shallow or vapid kind of guy, hung up on how women looked. But I had only recently gotten my stitches out and the scars were bad. Very bad. The scars were thick; angry, raised, and a harsh pink. The more my thoughts lingered on the topic, the uglier I felt and the insecurities began to creep in, getting louder and louder. What if I was wrong? What if Sam thought they were ugly too? That I was disgusting? Tears rise up all of a sudden, pressing against the back of eyes and a lump forms at the back of my throat. Without even thinking about it, I find myself scooting back and away from Sam, tucking my chin and letting my hair fall forward to form a defensive curtain.
Sam strengthens his hold, not letting me move off of him.
"Hey," He croons, low and soothing. "What did I say about hiding from me?"
My eyes snap to his, hearing his command, voiced just moments ago in the kitchen, echo in my mind. But it was so much easier said than done. And I found myself trembling with nerves when Sam gently runs his palms up the length of my back, bunching up the fabric of my shirt, and takes it off. He holds my gaze in an intense one of his own. But underneath that unwavering intensity is a tenderness and I know, that if I really wanted to, that I could stop him. Sam would never force me to do anything. He leans in, butting my nose with his, and belts his arms around my waist. Instinctively, my arms come up around his shoulders to return the gentle embrace. Eyes clenched shut, I try not to jerk away from his touch when Sam returns his hands to my lower back. Internally, I am screaming. This was so hard. I didn't want him to touch the scars. I just wanted to pretend like they weren't there. That Jake didn't attack me. But I knew it was foolish. Because Jake did attack me and these scars would always be with me.
"Will you turn around for me? Please?" Sam requests quietly, such sweet sorrow shining in his dark eyes. Spirits, I didn't know why he was doing this to himself. Why would he want to see the very scars that one of his own kind — a werewolf — had inflicted?
Drawing in a deep, hitching breath I nod and awkwardly twist around in his lap so that my back is bared to him. For a few, long, painful seconds he doesn't do anything. All I feel are his soft, warm breaths washing over my back. And it takes all of my self control not to grab up my shirt and put it back on. I am on the verge of caving in, doing just that, when he sweeps my hair to one side and lays a palm over my right shoulder. The marks there are the worst. It's where Jake's claws dug in, tearing up my flesh brutally. Sam leaves his hand there, just letting me feel him and get used to the idea of his touch. Then, slowly, with such tenderness that it almost breaks my heart, Sam traces the diagonal marks down to the opposite hip. My breath catches in my throat and unwanted tears slip from the corners of my eyes. His lips come next, reverently mapping the scars that distort my back. This strangely felt more intimate than what we were doing before. I felt so vulnerable, so exposed — as if he were doing something more than just kissing and touching. But it was so much more. It was worship. More tears escape and I don't have it in me to fight them off.
Sam curls around me, looping his arms around my waist and pressing his front to my back, "You're beautiful."
"You don't have to lie," I sniffle, hastily wiping away my tears.
"I'm not — "
"Please," I interrupt harshly, voice strained. "Don't lie. They…the scars aren't pretty. Let's not pretend like they are."
"They are part of you," Sam observes sagely, lips pressed against the juncture of my neck and shoulder. "And I think that you, Isabella, are gorgeous."
Shaking my head, I unwind his arms from me and fetch my shirt. I slip it back on. I just couldn't bear it any longer. Sam was too sweet. It was damn near off putting, like when you eat too much cotton candy or taffy. He couldn't be real. Irritation scuttles down my spine. I break out of his hold, stand, and go to put distance between us. Before I can do so, Sam tugs on my arm, snapping me around to face him as he congeals to his feat, not willing to let me escape.
"You think I'm lying — "
"I wouldn't go that far — "
"Because I never would — "
"I didn't say that you would — "
"No, you just implied — "
"I just can't believe it!" I shout, cutting off our back and forth. My face scrunches up as I tug my wrist out of his grip.
"That you're beautiful?" Sam scoffs.
"The scars…" I wave my hands wildly, as if that explains it all.
"I've got them to, you know," Sam pipes up, raising his brows.
"A tiny cut on your eyebrow hardly counts, Sam!" I bristle, shocked that he would compare that simple scar — which, for some reason, was unbelievably sexy to me — to the ones I now sported on my back.
"Look at me, Isabella," Sam insists cuttingly, voice clipped and bordering on angry. He throws his arms out. "I've got more than one."
Huffing, I relent, and turn my scrutinizing gaze on him in earnest. It takes me a few moments because, for a while, all I see is beautiful, tan skin; creamy and smooth, like a well made cup of coffee. I gasp audibly when I see four faint, pale lines that run the length of his rib cage on his left side. I step forward, gently run my fingers over them and scowl up at him, eyes full of questions.
"From the first time when I fought a leech," Sam winces.
I lay my palm flat against the old, long healed wound, and brush my thumb softly over the skin as I let my eyes wander yet again. I lift up on to the tip of my toes and trace the nearly invisible bite marks that punctuate his collar bone like stars in a constellation. There is more than one. As if his assailant had latched on one too many times. Without hesitation, not thinking it through, I press my lips there. Pressed this close to him, I had never been more aware of just how much I affected him. I could feel the strong, rather faced paced, thrum of his pure heart and was able to catalogue the uneven, choppy breaths with ease. Save for the moments where he lost…control, Sam was hard for me to read. I never quite knew what he was thinking. It was refreshing to learn some of his tells. Next, I see a prominent scar that cuts across his shoulder and disappears onto the other side. I trace it lightly with the pad of my fingertips and wonder how far it extends onto his back. Is it from a bloodsucker too? Or did it come from roughhousing with his Pack? I suppose, at the end of the day, it didn't make a difference really. Because we matched — both of us were damaged, scarred, in some way or another. But he was still breathtakingly handsome to me. They didn't change how I felt at all.
"Do you understand now?" Sam queries quietly, voice nothing but a whisper.
I glance up then, staring into those beautiful, glittering onyx gems. Samuel Uley, the Alpha of our tribe's Pack, was quiet, stoic, unreadable. But I was certain of one thing, now, more than ever: His heart was strong, pure, and he was the sweetest boy I had ever known. He might not wear it on his sleeve, but his heart was beautiful. Slowly, deliberately, I press a kiss just over his heart and hope that he understands that I do. I understand.
Sam curls his arm around my shoulders, trapping me against him and brings his hand up to cradle my jaw delicately. He smoothes the hair away from my face, just looking. I close my eyes, revelling in his tender ministrations. Sam holds me like I am the most precious thing to him. Warm, pillowy soft lips land on my forehead and linger momentarily before moving onto my each of my cheeks. Finally, Sam presses a sweet, chaste kiss to my mouth. I am half tempted to follow, to chase his sweetness, but I refrain. Instead, I pillow my cheek against his warm, broad chest and listen to what has quickly become my favourite sound: His heart.
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"First concert?"
"N-Sync," I mumble from behind my hands, peering between my digits.
"Really?" Sam laughs lightly, lips curling into a sunny smile.
"I was a kid, okay?" I push against his side, leaning away. Sam doesn't let me get far though, the arm that was braced on the back of the couch falls to my shoulders. "And Justin Timberlake was real cute!"
"Fan of the frosted tips, were you?" Sam teases, waggling his eyebrows meaningfully.
"Yeah," I shrug. "Again, I was a kid. I didn't know how awful they actually were."
"The band or the highlights?"
I hit Sam's chest playfully, "The highlights."
He catches my hand and interlaces our fingers together and rests them on his lap, making my heart flutter.
"What about you? Hmm?"
Sam and I had been trading 'firsts' for a while now. I don't know how we started this little game, but I was enjoying it immensely.
"Can't remember. Probably some angsty, metal band."
I try to picture a younger Sam rocking out to screeching guitars and wailing vocals. Did he have longer hair? Was there lots of plaid involved? Ripped jeans?
"First kiss?"
"Hmmm," Sam rumbles, deliberately transfiguring his features into a pensive mask. Truly making a show of mulling over my question.
"That many old flames, huh?" I drawl, arching a single brow.
"I was quite the catch," He boasts. "Still am."
"Does it hurt?"
"What?"
"Lugging around an ego that big?"
Sam lets out a bark of laughter, pulls me closer to him so that I am properly nestled into his side.
"Shelby Parker," He answers, voice still tinged with mirth. "I was ten. She was eleven."
"A May to December romance then?"
I couldn't help it. I just loved to tease him.
"Hardly," Sam shakes his head at me. "I didn't even want her to kiss me. I think I even cried."
"What?"
"Yeah," the were smiles, eyes glazed with nostalgia. He plays with the ends of my hair, curling my brown tresses around his fingers. A shiver works its way down my spine. "I was just too irresistible, I suppose. Parker cornered me in the playground and asked if I liked her. I said no and she told me that she liked me anyways. Then she laid a slobbery one on me."
"That doesn't count! I'm talking about your first, proper kiss."
"Proper kiss?"
I nod.
"Leah Clearwater," Sam answers, eyes open and honest.
Immediately, an image of the girl in question appears in my mind: Long, flowing, straight black hair and jade eyes that saw right through you. There was an edge to Leah's beauty. Something told me she was the kind of girl that you loved anyways, even when you knew that she'd leave you in her dust. Strangely, a jolt of jealously spears my heart. It was irrational and stupid. But I felt it all the same. Why did I care? So what? It was hardly reasonable — insane, actually — to be upset that there was someone in his life before me. I wonder how many of his 'firsts' she accounts for, I thought, letting my mind wander dangerously.
"Who was yours?"
I return my attention to Sam, banishing all thoughts of Leah Clearwater.
"Quil," I admit freely, laughing at the look of disgust on Sam's face.
"You first proper kiss was with Quil?"
"God, no!" I guffaw. "He was my…" I struggle to find the words. "My Shelby Parker. We were ten. We got bored and decided to just…kiss each other, I guess."
All at once, in a loud whoosh, Sam's breath leaves his body, "Good."
"Don't like the idea of Quil being my first toe-curling, knee-buckling kiss, huh?" I query needlessly, giving his hand a playful squeeze.
"Nope," Sam confirms. "Who was it then?"
"Who was what?"
"Your first toe-curling, knee-buckling kiss?" He questions, voice rough but darkly sweet like salted caramel and dark chocolate.
"This guy," I begin, purposefully vague.
"No name?"
"With dark — no, black, hair," I continue, undeterred, voice light and airy like I am reimagining it. "And the softest lips."
A low, warning sound bubbles up from deep within Sam's chest. Guess I'm not the only one with jealousy issues. Little did he know, though — he had no reason to be jealous. Because it was him. Sam was the only boy who had managed to make me tingle all over and forget about the rest of the world with one brush of his lips. Would he still have that affect if it weren't for the Imprint? Or, in another life — one without werewolves and leeches and scars and soul bonds — would Sam find our way to each other? Would he still make me forget myself? Make the whole world fade away? I couldn't be sure. But the thoughts are useless, impractical, and, most of all, dangerous. There is no point in entertaining the 'what ifs'. Because it didn't matter. We were in this life. The one with werewolves and leeches and scars and soul bonds. Shaking my head, shooing away my silly thoughts, I focus on the present, on Sam. I am half tempted to let him brood for a bit longer, but when I see the beginnings of an irritated snarl marring the line of his lips I think better of it.
"It was you, silly."
The snarl melts into a smug smirk in the blink of an eye, and Sam looks rather pleased with himself. Like a cat who got the canary, or, rather, the Wolf who got Little Red. Either way, he is the perfect picture of self-satisfied. I roll my eyes at him, "I wouldn't have told if you if I'd known you'd become this taken with yourself."
Sam tightens the hold he has on my shoulders, urging me gently to press closer still and I oblige. Then he cups my jaw with his other hand, long fingers weaving into my tresses and thumb brushing softly over the corner of my jaw, and murmurs quietly, in that obsidian bass he has perfected, "Don't be that way."
His voice is at once boyish and jaded, and I am reminded that he has to cherish these silly little moments; these childish victories. Sam had seen to much darkness for someone so young. And so, obliging him once again, I let my irritation melt away and close the distance between us and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. I pull back, lingering for just a moment. Sam presses his mouth against mine, latching our lips together. A dulcet sigh escapes my lips as I bring a hand up to rest against his chest. Fused together, our lips move perfectly in tandem as if we had been kissing for years. And not for just a couple of months. Everything felt so comfortable, so right with Sam — like I was meant to be his and he was meant to be mine. I wonder, errantly, if we belonged to each other in past lives.
The thought is emboldening. So, brazenly, I climb into his lap and straddle him. I bring my hands up to cradle his face. Stubble rasps against the soft pads of my thumbs as I trace little arcs over his cheeks with my thumbs and I wonder if it would feel just as tantalizing against the soft, plush skin of my inner thighs. Sam groans, yielding to my desires as I tilt his head back so I can drink from his mouth properly and deepen our kiss. I trace the seam of his lips with my tongue, begging for entrance and Sam does not disappoint. I deftly slide my tongue between his lips, coaxing his into a sensuous dance. Wantonly, driven entirely by my lust for him, I roll my hips over his. And I feel him there. Pressed against the apex of my need yet again. Sweet relief sweeps through me, quelling the aching, pulsating, need that has surfaced between my thighs. So, I do it again. And again. Dark, edgy vibrations make my lips tingle as Sam growls, gripping my waist firmly. For a moment I fear that he wants me to stop, that those hands are a warning. But they aren't. Instead they slide upwards, pausing just shy of where I want to feel them.
"Touch me," I whimper.
Sam swallows the sound before dragging his lips away from mine. "Where?" He asks, voice dark and sinful, against the shell of my ear. Butterflies battle in my stomach, charged with nervous excitement. Sam knows what I want, surely. Embarrassment licks at my cheeks, turning them pink. Must I actually say it? Out loud? Heat flashes through me when his thumbs trace the curve of each breast with a feather light touch. I am not brazen enough to speak so, instead, I arch into him and let my body speak for me. Lips curl against the sensitive skin just behind my ear and Sam slowly draws his hands downwards. Spirits, no! Why does he have to be such a tease?
As soon as I feel him curl his fingers under the hem of my shirt a relieved sigh escapes without permission. Sam slips the offending garment over my head and tosses it away. I don't have time to worry about where my shirt ends up because his hands are already fiddling with the clasp of my bra. He struggles for longer than acceptable and he groans again, the sound deep and ragged; Sam abandons his efforts altogether, opting to roughly tug one cup of my bra downward. The the tender flesh it once contained spills out. Gooseflesh breaks out all over and my nipples stiffen into hardened peaks. Then, unexpectedly but not unwelcome, Sam brushes his thumb along my exposed breast, circling the stiff tip. Zinging, thrilling jolts of pleasure race down from my chest and settle between my legs. I had never been touched this way by someone else. And I was equal parts excited and terrified.
A little moan slips past my lips when he repeats the motion. I let my head fall back and my eyes close briefly. Then, I feel his mouth trailing soft kisses down my neck, along my collar one, across the top my chest; my eyes flash open when his lips brush over the pert, straining nipple. The sight of him, there, and the little shallow breathy sounds he makes has me feeling so-so-so wet and achy and needy. I think, briefly, that I should be scared of how much — how desperately — I want him. But I'll save that for later. Now, I'll push closer and tangle my fingers in his hair. Sam rolls his hips up and against mine and I sink my teeth into my lower lip, trying to keep quiet. Much to my chagrin, a low, pathetic mewl can be heard with the next flex of his hips and the dip of hot lips to my other breast. I am so overwhelmed by the molten, burning want roiling inside of me that I don't immediately notice his other hand sliding down-down-down my abdomen.
"What are you … what are you …" I breathe, head feeling thick and stuffed with cotton. I can't focus, can't think.
"Do you want me to touch you here?" Sam asks, voice low and husky, fingers skirting over the button of my jeans.
Fear and excitement dance down my spine and I shudder in his arms. I want to say yes badly. In fact, the word is pressed tightly against the back of my teeth — fighting to get out. I worry that if I open my mouth it will escape, unbidden and without permission. But I pause, hesitant. I had never been touched there before by anyone other than myself. Sam nips at the spot behind my ear, teeth roughly scraping across the sensitive skin and drags a knuckle firmly over the seam of my jeans just happens to run the length of my aching slit. The simple touch, dulled significantly by the thick denim encasing my sodden mound, sets fire to the ardour coursing through my veins. All of a sudden, I am hit with all the the tension — all the want, all the need — that has been building between us this evening. And I have no choice but to cry out, "Yes!"
Thankfully, Sam doesn't make me wait and pops the button open on my jeans. Oh fuck, I curse internally. He tugs the zipper down slowly, oh so fucking slowly. I can barely hear the rasp of its teeth being pulled apart over my own heavy breathing. I feel like I might combust. Sam runs two fingers underneath the band of my underwear, just brushing the top of my cunt; teasing the coarse, trimmed hairs there. I buck my hips, urging him to go just a bit lower.
"Easy," Sam breathes, planting an open mouthed kiss on my neck.
"Please," I keen, digging my fingers into his broad shoulders.
Just as the word escapes my lips, Sam slips his hand into my black cotton panties and cups me there, between my legs. I knew I was wet before. But now I can really tell. And Sam can too. The hot, taut, spring in my belly coils further just at the thought.
"Fuck, your so wet," Sam rasps, voice deep and gritty, and traces the seam of my aching sex with a single digit.
"Mm-hm," I hum breathlessly, hiding my face in the crook of his neck.
"And soft," Sam drags two digits down to my entrance, circling, before bringing them back up to my clit. His fingers glide across my swollen, sodden flesh and I wonder — briefly — if I should be embarrassed for being this turned on. But all rational thought is obliterated when he finds my clit, circling the nub before passing directly over it in a gentle swipe.
My thighs itch to close, as if to trap his hand there, but the movement is impossible. I'm splayed open, vulnerable and defenceless against his ministrations, straddling his lap this way — legs on either side of his. Sam gives my hip a tender squeeze before deftly sliding his thick digits down again. He teases my entrance with gentle circular motions, tracing the opening languidly. Then, without much warning, he sinks a single finger inside and guides his thumb over my swollen bundle of nerves.
"Oh, fuck," I writhe against him, clenching my eyes shut against the delicious burn between my thighs. Sam responds by pumping his finger in-out, out-in, over and over, again and again. I don't think the decision is conscious, but as soon as a second finger joins the first I begin to bob my hips up and down. Painful, needy pressure builds and builds between my thighs as I struggle to find my release. I need something, anything. More.
"I need," I whine into the alcove of his neck and shoulder, hugging myself closer and pushing down against his hand. "I need…"
My whines give way to a long, drawn out breathy moan when Sam curls his fingers inside of me and harshly thumbs my clit. My whole body tenses, shudders, and shakes as wave after wave of pleasure washes over me. Soft swirls of colour shift and dance behind my eye lids as I cling to Sam, coming down from my high.
I'm drawn back into the present by calloused finger tips running through the ends of my hair and down my back in long, lazy strokes. I don't shy away from Sam's touch like I did before. Instead I press a kiss to the side of his neck and rest against him, utterly spent — mentally, emotionally, physically. And I knew, in this moment, that I could trust Sam.
With my mind.
With my body.
But, most of all, with my heart.
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I hope you all enjoyed the latest chapter. I opted to devote a chapter to just some Sam/Bella time since last chapter was a bit of a bust. Please take the time to review and share your thoughts - they help to keep a writer motivated!
Until next time,
beavoicenotanecho