Fiona rolls her eyes. “I never said I hadn’t read it,” she says, crossing the room and taking it out of his hand before tossing it onto the bed. “I’ve read a lot of things.”
“I know you have,” Sam says quietly. He turns back to the bookcase and runs his finger along the spines until he gets to Weetzie Bat, pulling it off the shelf and holding it up. “Can I borrow this?” he asks.
Fiona’s eyes narrow. “Why?”
“Why do you think?” He shrugs. “You’ve read mine. I want to read yours.”
Fiona looks at him for a long moment like she’s waiting for the gotcha. “Fine,” she says, when she’s satisfied there isn’t one coming. “If you promise to bring it back.”
That makes him smile. “Do you want to write your name in it first?”
“Maybe,” she says, but before Sam can reply she’s already kissing him, hooking her fingers in his belt loops and yanking him close. Sam groans quietly against her mouth—dropping the book and curling his hands around her waist, running his thumbs along the soft skin just above the waistband of her jeans. He tries to remember the last time he wanted someone like this, and he can’t. He wants to hand her a Sharpie and hold his arm out, to look down and see Property of Fiona St. James scrawled in her handwriting across his skin.
He starts to walk her backward toward the bed, his hands creeping higher, but Fiona stops him when the backs of her legs bump against the mattress. “Not here,” she mumbles.
Sam groans low and quiet, presses his hips against hers. “Why not?”
Fiona arches, then pushes him gently away. “Because my entire family is watching The Bachelor in the next room, perv.”
“Oh.” Sam swallows. “Right.” He stands there for a moment completely unable to problem solve, dizzy with desire. Finally Fiona laughs, reaching down and lacing her fingers through his.
“You want to get out of here?” she murmurs.
Sam does.
They don’t talk as he winds down Laurel Canyon toward his apartment, the windows down and the warm night air blowing Fiona’s hair around her face. There’s a part of Sam that wants to speed east until they get to Palm Desert, to lay her out on a blanket and gaze up at the massive bowl of stars; there’s a part of him that wants to drive north to see the redwoods, to walk across the Golden Gate Bridge. Sam’s lived in California for fifteen years and he’s never done any of those things, but with Fiona in the passenger seat beside him he thinks maybe he’d like to.
Then she slides her hand up his thigh and squeezes his cock through his jeans, so casual, and Sam completely forgets about doing anything but getting her naked in his bed.
It takes him forever to find a parking spot. They drive around for what seems like hours, Sam feeling increasingly desperate as he circles the block again and again. “I can’t believe you park your fucking Tesla on the street,” Fiona says finally, sounding agitated. “Like, in all seriousness, how has nobody slashed your tires?”
“I got so excited about the apartment that I forgot to ask if there was parking,” he says, gritting his teeth. “And then it was too late.”
“So you didn’t think to, like, rent a spot somewhere, or—”
“There’s usually plenty of parking in this neighborhood!”
Finally he finds a spot that’s really too small, jerking the wheel back and forth as he tries to wriggle in. “Do you want me to do it?” Fiona asks, her voice a full click higher than normal.
Sam makes a face. “What are you, some kind of parallel parking expert?”
“Yes, actually,” she says. “My dad grew up in Queens, it’s a point of pride for him.” She glances out the window. “You’re definitely not going to make it.”
“I’m going to make it!” Sam insists. He does, too, though not before gently kissing the car behind them with the bumper of the Tesla. “It’s fine,” he decides, glancing perfunctorily at the damage before grabbing Fiona’s hand and yanking her toward his apartment, both of them nearly tripping as they race up the stairs to his place. The door has barely shut when they’re on each other, Sam grabbing her ass and boosting her up, her back thumping against the wall as she wraps her legs around his waist.
The bedroom is too far away so he sets her down on the couch and drops down on top of her, rucking up her T-shirt and yanking down the cups of her bra instead of bothering with the clasp. Fiona gasps. It feels like her hands are on him everywhere: her fingers raking over his chest and back and stomach, reaching down to work the button on his jeans.
As soon as they’re both finally naked Sam pushes himself as deep as he can and then just stays there—bracing his elbows on either side of her shoulders, brushing the hair off her forehead. They stare at each other for a moment, both of them silent. Sam bites his tongue before he says something he can’t take back.
“Sam,” she whispers finally, her eyes dark with pleasure; she’s rocking underneath him now, restless, hands clutching at his biceps and hair. “Sam.”
Sam blinks at her dazedly. “Hm?”
Fiona grins. “Nobody’s ever keyed your car out there before?” she asks, lifting one hand and miming a little scraping motion. “Really? Not even a little bit?”
Sam growls and flips her onto her stomach, wrapping an arm around her waist and finding her clit with two fingers; she’s still laughing right up until the moment she finally comes apart against his hand.
They do it again in the shower a while later, then one more time in his bed, her wet hair soaking into the pillow and their skin warm and damp from the spray. “You ever been to Palm Springs?” he asks when they’re finished, propping himself up on one elbow.
“No, actually.” Fiona raises her eyebrows. “Isn’t it all influencers and, like, the occasional cactus?”
“Maybe,” Sam says with a shrug. “You wanna find out?”
He’s expecting her to say no like a reflex but instead she thinks about it for a moment before nodding, her eyes like a cat’s in the dark. “Sure,” she says. “Let’s go.”
“Okay,” he says, and lets himself believe that she means it. “Let’s.”
He falls into a sweaty, sated sleep almost as soon as his eyes close, only to jerk awake in the dark what feels like a few seconds later, disoriented. Sam blinks for a moment, then looks over at Fiona, who’s tossing violently in bed beside him, muttering something he doesn’t understand. The clock on the nightstand says it’s just after two.
Sam sits up. “Fiona,” he says quietly, not sure what to do. His instinct is to touch her, but for some reason he doesn’t think it’s a good idea. “Fiona.”
“Wha—？” She startles awake all at once then, dazed, shaking her head and looking around like she doesn’t know where she is. Her eyes narrow, like she’s never seen him before. “What the fuck?” she demands, drawing sharply back.
“It’s me,” he says, holding his hands up. Then, just in case: “It’s Sam. I think you were having a nightmare.”