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You close the door behind you and immediately throw off your high heels, letting out a sigh of relief as your feet are finally freed from their prisons.
You don’t know why you even bothered with the blasted shoes. It wasn’t as if your date had even noticed. No, he had spent the entire time staring at other parts of your body. He hadn’t even been subtle about it.
You flop down in your couch and stare at the blank television screen in front of you, debating whether you should put something on.
It wasn’t as though the date was a total disaster. The guy was nice enough, had a lot of the same hobbies as you, and you had a few decent conversations, but well...
Your date wasn’t him.
You know it’s a problem that you’re still comparing potential partners to a man that has been dead for years now, but you can’t help it. Sam was so easy to love, what with his roguish grin and his goofy sense of humor and his ability to talk dirty in at least half a dozen different languages. You had fun with Sam. You loved Sam, and as much as you hate to admit it, it’s probably the reason your dates never seem all that impressive to you now.
You curl up further into the depths of the warm, plush couch and tuck your legs up beside you, before grabbing the remote and flicking half-halfheartedly through your Netflix cue.
Nothing grabs your attention, and you’re just looking at the pile of games next to the TV and contemplating whether or not you should throw on one of them when there is a knock at the door.
A quick glance at the clock reveals that it is after ten thirty; not so late for you to still be awake, but late enough that you are immediately pissed off with whoever it is that has shown up at your door unannounced.
You consider ignoring whoever it is (that will show them for showing up this late without so much as the courtesy to warn you beforehand!) but when the rapping at the door starts up again you groan and throw your hands up in the air.
“All right, all right! I’m coming,” you call out, jumping to your feet and making your way over to the door, kicking aside a stray high-heel as go. “This better be important.”
For a moment you’re a little bit worried. After all, what possible reason could someone have for calling on you this late? Unless it is an emergency, and the thought of any of your friends or family members being in enough trouble that they might show up without bothering to warn you first makes your stomach churn uncomfortably.
By the time you reach the door there are all sorts of awful scenarios whirling around in your head, but when you open it and see the man standing there all of those awful scenarios leave your mind immediately, along with anything approaching coherent thought. Nothing that you had imagined could possibly prepare you for this.
Samuel Drake, the man that you have been missing for the last however many years it has been, is standing right there in front of you, a little older and more worn than the last time you saw him, but still incredibly charming, handsome, and better than all of that, one hundred per cent alive.
“Hi,” Sam says, grinning at you and looking every bit as nervous as you suddenly feel.
“Sam?” you ask, unable to believe what is right in front of you.
You had been told that Sam had died, and every bit of evidence that you uncovered after that had told you it was true, and yet there he is, standing right at your front door. You don’t know whether to be furious at him or simply overjoyed to see him.
“Yeah,” Sam replies. “It’s me.”
Sam looks you up and down, taking in your still painstakingly styled hair and make-up, the complementary cut of your rather-more-formal-than-usual blouse, and your jeans; fitted in a way to best show off all of your curves, and freezes for a moment as well.
“Wow,” he mutters under his breath, so quietly that you suspect you weren’t supposed to actually hear it. Sam then takes a deep breath. He looks slightly panicked as he glances behind you and into the rest of the house.
“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” he asks.
You forgot for a moment that you’re still dolled up for your date, and it doesn’t take long for you to realize why Sam is worried. Any perfectly sane person would assume that you would had moved on in the years of Sam’s apparent death, but for one reason or another you had never quite been able to do that. You’re suddenly very glad that your date tonight didn’t go well enough for you to have invited the guy back to your house.
“No,” you reply. “You’re not interrupting anything, but...”
“You thought I was dead, right?”
“Yeah.”
Sam’s chuckles at that, and the sound sends a not-unpleasant shiver down your spine.
“Sorry about that,” he says, and then gives you another lopsided grin.
You want to ask him what happened, why he had been away for so long, why hadn’t he gotten word to you that he was actually okay? But it’s getting cold outside, and you have a feeling that his answers aren’t going to be simple ones, so you stand aside and gesture inside.
“Do you want to come in?” you ask him.
“Yeah,” he replies. “That would be great.”
A couple of hours later you are both sitting around the kitchen table, several cups of cocoa and a couple of dashes of liquor having been consumed between the two of you.
Sam’s story had been incredible, and somewhat tragic, and you feel so sad when you think of him being alone in prison this whole time. You’re not angry; not at all. You knew who Sam was when you got involved with him all those years ago. Right now you’re just glad that he’s alive, and that one of the first things he thought to do when he was out was to come and see you.
He lifts his shirt to show you the scars in his chest where he was shot, and you can’t help but gasp. They still look so fresh and painful.
You reach out to run a hand over them, feeling the ridges of the scars and trying not to think too hard about Sam being shot and in pain while you weren’t there to help.
Sam doesn’t flinch at your touch, but you hear his breath catch just a little. That’s not pain. That’s something else, and suddenly you feel your heart speed up at the thought of touching him more, of kissing those scars until neither of you can think of the painful memories associated with them anymore.
“So,” Sam mutters as you quickly pull your hand away, “are you seeing anyone? I mean, I’m not stupid enough to think that you’ve waited this long, especially not for a supposedly dead guy like me, but I was thinking that maybe... if you’re free, we could... er...”
Sam is completely adorable when nervous, and you can’t help but smile at him.
“I’m not seeing anyone,” you tell him.
“Oh, that’s... that’s good,” Sam says, a smile slowly growing on his face as well.
That wasn’t exactly a yes though, and the fact that Sam’s smile hasn’t grown tells you he knows that.
You get up and walk over until you’re standing right in front of his chair. He looks you up and down once more, and you can see him swallow, partially from nerves, but also, you hope, from desire.
You know that you look good tonight, and to be honest this late night visit from Sam Drake is the best date you’ve had in years. You want to tell him that there’s no reason for him to be nervous. You’ve missed him so much, and you can’t wait to feel his talented hands roaming all over your body again, or hear him whisper sweet nothings into your ear.
You wrap your arms around Sam’s shoulders and neck, and lean in close. His hands reach up, slowly, hesitantly to grasp at either side of your hips and guide you down until you are sitting in his lap.
He runs a hand gently through your hair and leans in close so that he can whisper in your ear.
“I missed you so much,” he tells you. “When things were at their absolute worst I would picture your face and I’d think about seeing you again when I got out. It helped. It really did.”
And the thought that you were able to help him, even if in just that one small way, brings a grin to your face.
“I missed you too,” you tell him, wrapping your arms more tightly around him. “I’m so glad you’re all right.”
You mean it. It’s so good to have him back in your arms once more. Somehow you had forgotten just how well the two of you fit together.
You pull back from one another then, just far enough to get a good look at each other’s faces, and he looks at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.
His hand is still resting on the side of your face, and his thumb runs gently over your cheek. You lean in to his touch, smiling as you do, and turn your face just enough to place a delicate kiss on the tip of his thumb.
He grins widely at that, and then the two of you are leaning in for a passionate kiss. He tastes like cigarettes, and the hot chocolate you drank earlier, and that other sweet, special something that is uniquely Sam Drake.
One of his hands is still on your hip, and it slowly moves back until it has a firm grip on your behind. He squeezes gently, and you moan into the kiss, shuffling forward so that you can press against him as much as possible.
You can already feel a certain hardness in his jeans, and you rub yourself down teasingly against it. It’s enough to make Sam gasp and pull back from the kiss. At this rate you probably won’t even make it to the bedroom, but you don’t really care. You can’t bring yourself to pull away from Sam even for the few seconds it would take to move from the chair to somewhere more comfortable.
You start kissing again, and as you do one of Sam’s hands sneak up beneath your blouse, running up and over your stomach, slowly reaching up to cup one of your breasts.
It’s your turn to moan into the kiss as his other hand snakes up your back and tries to unhook the back of your bra.
He fumbles a couple of times and he pulls back from the kiss barely more than an inch, just enough for him to be able to chuckle.
“I guess I’m outta practice,” he says, close enough to you that his lips brush your own as he talks.
You giggle in response to that, and as much as it pains you to leave his arms you lean back and start to unbutton your blouse. Part of you wants to put on a show for Sam and make it as sexy as you possibly can, but he’s looking at your lips rather than your hands or chest, and you have the feeling he’s feeling the same pull towards you as you are to him, regardless of what your hands are doing.
You lean back in and start kissing him again, and it’s so hard to concentrate on undressing when you feel like you’re melting where his lips are pressing against yours, and there’s barely any room between the two of you in which your hands can work, but somehow you slowly undo one button and then the next.
You pull back from one another just long enough for you to remove your blouse and bra. Sam uses the few moments you’re apart to take off his own shirt, and then you’re pressing against one another, bare skin against bare skin.
Your hands run over his chest, and Sam, lost in the moment, seems to forget what he had been up to prior to your shedding of clothing. Instead both of his hands now slip into the back of your jeans and beneath your underwear, gripping your ass and pulling you close so that your clothed groins are pressed as hard together as they could possibly be.
His hands feel so good, and you both moan into the kiss.
Oh yeah, there is no way that you’re going to be able to make it to the bedroom. You hope that the kitchen chair is sturdy enough to withstand a vigorous workout, because the last thing you want is for this to end with the two of you sprawled on the kitchen floor in a pile of broken wood.
Sam doesn’t give you much of a chance to linger on that though as his hands dip lower and continue to squeeze, while his lips do this absolutely amazing thing that you missed so much. If you weren’t ready for him before then you definitely are now, and you squirm on his lap, wanting the rest of the clothing that is separating the two of you to disappear.
With a lot of fumbling the two of you manage to get both pairs of jeans off, if not all the way, then far enough down to do what you’ve both been desperately wanting to do since you kissed earlier.
Sam guides you, his fingers gently digging into your sides, so that for a moment you hover above him, and then he’s pulling you down, and you’re seating yourself on top of him, his length sliding inside you, stretching you perfectly.
He lets out a groan that is almost a scream, sounds as though that one movement is almost enough to tear him apart, and you’re not much better. He feels so good; he’s always felt so good, and the simple knowledge that this is Sam, that somehow, against all odds you have him back in your arms once more.
He is the first to move, surging up beneath and inside of you, and you let out a cry, breath already coming far too short and hands shaking where they grip at Sam’s back. It’s so good, it feels so perfect, and soon you are pressing your lips against Sam’s once more, if only to smother the cries that would surely emerge from your mouth otherwise.
You both move slowly. Neither of you is going to last otherwise.
He is gentle. So gentle and yet so passionate, touching you in all the right places, and it amazes you that he still remembers where each and every one of those places are.
Before long he is clutching at you, holding you as close as he possibly can and whispering promises and words of love along with what is little more than bliss-fueled gibberish.
“I love you,” he moans against the skin of your shoulder. “Oh god. I love you so much.”
And that’s the last thing either of you says before you cry out as your body is wracked with overwhelming pleasure. He’s not far behind him, and you collapse against him with a whimper as he surges up one last time, screaming as he does.
Eventually the two of you will stand up and move to the bedroom. Once there you will wrap yourself tightly around one another and kiss each other gently until you fall asleep in each other’s arms.
But for now you just sit there in his lap until the both of you manage to get your heartbeats and breathing back to a more normal pace. Sam strokes your hair and kisses your forehead, and repeats those words one last time for good measure.
“I love you,” he says.
“I love you too,” you tell him.