Given his size, Sam should take up more space than most people. But he keeps his limbs tucked neatly against his sides, hardly ever sprawling, even on their own couch. It was only if she wanted to sit on his lap or between his legs that he'd move to accommodate her and unfold, opening himself up for her. It makes her wonder sometimes if it's just that he's uncomfortable with his body, but she dismisses the notion as idiotic, because really, the boy is beautiful.
She looks at him sleeping next to her, his mouth hanging slightly open, pink tongue protruding a little like it's searching for air. He frowns a little and swallows, and she strokes his hair comfortingly. It's soft and baby-fine, the long strands of it tickling her wrist, and she finally leaves off and pulls the comforter back up over his chest.
She wakes up to find that he's kicked off the blankets and decided to use her for warmth instead. She's sprawled across him, can feel the solid muscle of him biting into her body. Her breasts are especially tender since she's just finished her period, and they are crushed mercilessly against his broad chest. She smiles down at him, still sleeping soundly, and presses herself against him, falling asleep once more.
When she wakes up for real it's from the smell of the hot chocolate he's placed next to the alarm clock. She sits up, pulling at the fabric of her tank top to keep it from scraping against her nipples, and looks for him. He's over by the dresser, pulling out his clothes for the day, and he shuts the drawer with exaggerated care, letting her know he thinks she's still sleeping. She likes watching him like this, when he has no idea she's looking, and she lets her gaze linger on the triangle of his back, the way his big shoulders taper down to that narrow waist and slim hips. He's got virtually no ass at all, just a flat little shape inside his pajama bottoms. She reaches out for the mug and takes a sip. Oh, he made it the right way, her Saturday treat, melted down real chocolate and added milk, just the way she likes it, and it's her second greedy slurp that makes enough noise to get him to turn around. His eyes meet hers over the rim of the mug and then he smiles his early-morning smile, slow and dazzling, and strips for her, dropping his sleep pants and his silk boxers in a pile on the floor and heading for the shower.
She knows an invitation when she sees it but she lets herself savor the rest of the hot chocolate before she rids herself of clothes and twists her hair into a bun and gets into the shower behind him. He turns and grins at her again and draws one long finger down the center of her chest, right between her sensitive breasts, and rubs his knuckle against their undersides. The stimulation is almost too much, and all it takes is a flick of that finger against her opening for her to be gasping and shaking and holding herself up with a fierce grip on his arms.
Her hand slips into his as they walk down the street and his fingers curl around hers like she's tiny and fragile. They walk by a barber shop and Sam pauses there, looking at his reflection in the plate glass, and brings their joined hands up to his head, smoothing down his hair. They're almost at the diner - she can see the line from here - when her eye is caught by something hanging in the travel agency office. It's a picture of a boat, nothing spectacular; the composition is facile, and it's so obviously idealized that she winces a little. She wants to turn away from this cheesy promotional poster, with its garish colors and overly sentimental message, but she finds she can't stop looking at it. It's obviously an effective marketing tool.
Sam stays quiet next to her, letting her take her time, and looks curiously around the office, at all the exotic images displayed on the paneled wood walls. Her eyes trace the poster over and over, and she flushes at the feel of Sam's warm hand in hers when she realizes that the rounded sides of the boat mimic the swell and flare of a woman's hips, and she starts to imagine Sam's big hands tracing that polished wood the way he caresses her hips as he softly kisses the skin above his fingertips. His fingers would find every dip and knot in the wood, would hesitate and then skim over each groove, and he would go slowly, take his time. He'd shift to get closer, bring his face near so that he could see and feel simultaneously, and the warm water would lick at his bare feet as his toes dug into the fine beige sand. He wouldn't have to look at the horizon to keep from getting dizzy as the waves lapped at him and the hot sun beat down. The edges of his hair would be lifted by the humid breeze, and he'd give the boat a final stroke and then press his palm against the wood, just resting. His pretty eyes would watch the ends of the magenta scarf, his talisman, flutter in the breeze and the warmth and weight of the world would rock him to sleep as he leaned against the boat.
She leaves that peaceful, dreamy Sam asleep on the sunlit beach and tugs on the hand of the one with her. They turn away from the brightly colored advertisements and get into line at the diner. His arm drapes firmly around her waist and she tucks her head against his shoulder. The line moves steadily, the conversations around them not changing, and they inch forward with tiny steps until the smiling hostess leads them to their table.