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Crossing the Aisle
Summary: Crossing the aisle—to vote, unite, or otherwise co-operate with members of another political party in order to achieve governmental or political action. Even as the children of some of the most powerful political leaders, Sam Evans finds this a rather challenging feat. Democrat!Mercedes and Republican!Sam.
When Sam was younger, he had dreams where she used to wear nothing but leather—the shiniest he could imagine. It would almost glimmer against her form and entrap her breasts, offering them up to him as if they were the sweetest chocolate delight. It was a bit of a ridiculous fantasy; he had only been 17 when they first began and it didn't help that he'd gotten into the habit of goggling Eartha Kitt as Catwoman. In his own little world she'd wear an outfit complete with knee length boots that were always left on and a half mask that she would keep between her fingers during the foreplay. Somewhere between the shedding of his boxers and finally sheathing inside of her, the mask would fall to the floor. Her hands would claw at his back with every thrust and there was even a time when she meowed just for him. They may have borderline on ridiculous, his fantasies, but they never once closed without the same ending—an out of breath teenager and the desperate need for a new set of boxers. However back then, he could have never pushed her down on his black silk sheet and slowly caressed her thick thighs, making sure to press soft kisses from the bottom of her ankles to the underside of her knees. He could have never tied her to the bed post with her own stockings that he'd remove with his teeth, making sure to tug the offending fabric down from every direction. No, back then that fantasy of a seventeen year old boy had been simply preposterous…and no one needed to know that years later he'd been able to see that particular dream come true.
"Dear, have you seen Quinn Fabray?" his mother asked from his left side. "She's in the periwinkle blue, a lovely color on her, wouldn't you agree?"
Sam scanned the lavish ballroom before him, but made no effort to pinpoint the daughter of one of the laziest Senators that he had ever met. Not that he was at liberty to say such. As the son of one of the Republican Party's most prized Senators, and former Senate pro-tem, Sam Evans often found himself at liberty not to say much aloud. He stood at his mother, Martha's side as they entered the gala that Irish Ambassador Rory Flanagan held every other year. It was mostly a party for the right, but a few from the left were bound to arrive to shake up things. Flanagan was a man who was a bit too fond of a little bit of trouble.
"Such a shame that things didn't work out between her and that Puckerman boy," his mother continued, leading Sam or dragging to their table. She had an iron grip on his left arm that could have been conceived as painful if he weren't so accustomed to being shuffled around the same dull charity events in which no one actually gave an honest dime about. This particular evening it would be table 215, his mother's favorite number. It was already crowded by his father's younger brother Dwight, and his wife Mary. Neither greatly fancied the demure of one of the oldest country clubs in Virginia or most of its members, but both saw the importance of showing up for at least a few events each year.
"Mary, darling," Martha Evans greeted as she and Sam sat down.
Speaking with his aunt and uncle always made Sam wonder if things could have been different had he'd been their son. Maybe at 17 his leather fantasy could have become a reality. Or at least the lace one, Sam remembered as a gaggle of girls with stretched, stained faces from the best that beauty physicians could offer, and forms so slim that they could slither through any crack and crevice passed by him. Each wore the same smile: one that stretched their stiff faces, highlighting their surgery since their skin could no longer produce natural wrinkle lines and thankfully showed no teeth. Thankfully because Sam Evans enjoyed his 20/20 vision and planned on keeping it for as long as he could, which meant keeping himself at a minimal safe distance from the blinding light was often emitted from their artificial whitening, even at night.
As unnerving as the view of the Barbie look-a-likes were, Sam was pleased by the sight of lace from their dresses. It wasn't the seductive shade of black or red, nor did it enhance an aspect of their shapes—he was never going to find a waist that he could wrap one hand around appealing or have his mouth water over mosquito bite breasts that had to be constantly caged and lifted just stand out in the slightest. There is no Wonderbra in the world that could help Sugar Motta, Sam pondered lightly as he politely nodded as the girls strutted past. Perhaps she could get her father to put some of that fortune to some good honest research for her. Sam couldn't fight a small smile. At least his mother had taught him the value of keeping some things to himself.
"Glad to see that Al has his daughter in something more appropriate this year," Martha Evans sighed once the girls were out of earshot. "Sugar is such a sweet girl but she's got so much to learn. Now Quinn I'm sure would be a lovely role model for Al's daughter and she's sure to make a great wife…"
Sam had checked out the minute his mother mentioned the blonde beauty queen again. He instead leaned back slightly to get a better view of the night's attendees, searching through the sea of countless faces for any sight of her. Apparently his behavior was just a tad out of line: Sam barely had a moment to himself before the soft buzz from his cell phone brought him quickly back into reality.
'You could at least look like you care,' the message from his aunt read. A small smile threatened to form as Sam winked at his favorite aunt.
"How are Stevie and Stacie?" Sam asked aloud interrupting his mother's discussion. Dwight Evans seemed slightly pleased by the opportunity of distraction but it was Mary who answered, "They're darling. But they won't stop asking when Cousin Sam is coming back to visit!"
"As soon as I can get some time off from the university," Sam promised.
"How is Sarah Lawrence?" Dwight asked.
"Oh it's great. I get to spend every day surrounded by such lovely lesbians," Sam teased, "usually rather angry and very much butch but still lovely girls."
"You are incorrigible, Samuel," Mary replied fighting her own smile. "And you know better than to try to talk bad about my alma mater."
"I never said I had a problem with lesbians," Sam replied winking again at his aunt.
"Perhaps you should have reconsidered the Columbia offer," his mother snipped.
"I'm not interested in living in New York mother," Sam replied failing miserably at keeping his tone in check. He had wanted to specify his reasoning behind it—New York was far too close to his parents and their never-ending stream of bullshit—but he thought it best not to offend her with such abrasive language. "I quite like Sarah Lawrence. Besides, I'd like to think that all of my friends would miss me."
"Yes, speaking of friends," his mother grumbled turning to the grand staircase that hours earlier everyone had been forced to parade down. "They're here."
Indeed Ambassador Flanagan's favorite two douses of trouble had arrived, though Sam was sure that his mother and her irrational brand of judgment had yet to take in the sight of the Jones family—no she was much more preoccupied with the Lopez's for now. Alejandro stood at the forefront, almost guarding his party of six. It was wholly unnecessary, in Sam's opinion. The room may have been filled to the brink with right wing conservatives, all who were itching to strike down the repeal of Don't Ask, Don't Tell, but no one was going to verbally slander Alejandro's daughter Santana, a law student at Columbia who'd recently been outed by the media, and her girlfriend Brittany S. Pierce—at least not in within earshot.
Santana was a beautiful girl, despite her family championing for the other side of the aisle, thicker than most of the "Sugar Mottas" that Sam had to endure at these types of events, and she was armed with a quick wit and wicked tongue. The latter he'd learned from previous personal experience, back when his only goal in life was to get the fuck off of Wisteria Lane, by any means necessary. She sent him a small brief smile and for a nanosecond, Sam could appreciate the good old days, but he was on to better things and so was she.
"Where are you going?" Martha Evans asked her watching her son rise.
"To go talk with Quinn," Sam replied simply, taking his glass with him.
The further he got from his relatives, the more the whispering increased. Years ago, Sam may have been a tad more conscious of it; he had never been a fan of being the center of attention. This naturally made him the perfect target years prior when he made the "rash" decision to abandon a job with one of the top law firms in DC and then two later refuse a teaching position on Columbia's instructor staff, all in favor for pursing his graduate degrees in Writing in peace at Sarah Lawrence. The circle of nosy politician and their children had run rampant with news for this circle for far too long. However as the only son of former Republican senate pro-tem, the trials and tribulations between Sam Evans and his parents would always be of popular discussion.
As Sam moved among the sea of familiar faces, he smiled politely and nodded when due—such gestures were typically reserved for the cops, children of politicians, like Wesley and David. Both men were the sons of members from the House of Representatives, of whom Sam had gone to an all-boys pre-school with. There was also Tina Cohen-Chang, whose father had just crossed the aisle again, this timeto formally join the independent side. Nonetheless Sam still regarded her as the honest to God nicest woman he had ever encountered. Sebastian Smythe was also among the crowd—that sexually ambiguous asshole who had made every moment of their time together in school a damn competition, though Sam did his best to be polite. He now had Sam's sloppy seconds as the rising attorney at Schuester and Sons in DC. Sam could frankly care less. Will Schuester was an ass anyway.
As Sam passed by another small group of former classmates, he was reminded of one of the good things about high school. In fact, she had been the best thing about William McKinley Preparatory. His growing smile was egged on by the fact that Missy Gunderson, a stay at home mother with a nasally voice, passed by him, her silk dress dancing lightly against his skin. Silk, just like those damn sheets at his mother had insisted on purchasing. 100% Brazilian, dear. Everything is in the detail Samuel, she had told him when they first purchased them. And besides, you should never seek anything but the best. Those precious sheets had later been ruined by drops of blood during their first time together, but Sam hadn't cared. He never cared with her. All he had wanted was her.
Quinn Fabray was now directly in view, crowded by her thin mother Judy, who even under heavy layers of makeup, looked as if she'd seen better days. Her father Russell wore a leering smile that grew exponentially at the sight of Sam and her sister Frannie sat at the table, bored to tears as her husband—second, or third Sam wasn't quite sure—tried to entertain her.
"Samuel it's so good to see you," Judy Fabray greeted putting on her best smile. "Isn't it, Quinnie? Doesn't Samuel look handsome tonight dear?"
Quinn gave Sam a bright smile. "It seems Sarah Lawrence is agreeing with you."
"I'd like to think so," Sam replied setting down his glass and offering his right hand to her. "Shall we?"
Sam led Quinn towards the middle of the ballroom where several of the hungry politicians were gathered dancing with their wives, girlfriends and of course the mistresses. It was the perfect view for both of their parents. This particular part of the show after all was for them.
"I must say, you're getting much better at this," Quinn complimented as Sam spun her around. "Did you finally buckle down and take a class?"
"More like private lessons," Sam said smiling softly as he thought back to fonder memories.
"Slick Sam," Quinn chuckled. "But you might want to keep yourself in check before you show off something that you can't hide."
"Interested in switching sides now, are we?" Sam replied cheekily.
"Never!" Quinn laughed.
"Did you hear about Puck?" Sam asked.
"Yes, I was sad that I couldn't make the ceremony. I'm sure Lauren made a lovely bride," Quinn answered.
"Really, not upset that you lost your best man?"
"Watch it Evans," Quinn frowned. "I've got plenty of dirt on you too, remember? And with Puck sailing off into the sunset that just means that you and I will be spending much more time together. Just like the old days."
"Not exactly," Sam sighed. "We broke it off. She broke it off."
"I'm sorry," Quinn replied. "I know what it's like to want something you can't have."
As Sam twirled her around for good measure, Quinn's words led his eyesight past the grand staircase to a cluster of tables where a group of Showmance Republicans—she had once referred to them as Divas, insisting that both sides had them, which Sam supposed was true—sat drinking merrily. Among them was Finn Hudson, the poster boy for the upcoming generation of the Grand Old Party. Finn had always been the star, quarterback of the football team in high school, point guard in college and he was the son of well-regarded Tea Party congresswoman, Carole Hudson. However, Finn was as dumb as rocks. Sam even as he struggled with dyslexia, had been forced to tutor Hudson for a time in high school. Somehow Finn managed to trick his way into snagging a High School diploma and a Bachelor's Degree. Apparently Tina Cohen-Chang's good friend Michael was to be given much credit for the latter achievement; now Finn worked as an intern for some poor Senator. On the arm of Finn Hudson was Rachel Berry, the daughter of two highly influential Log Cabin Republicans. She was best known for her voice, even Sam could admit that it was quite nice—but he'd heard better.
"Don't tell me that you're still seeing her," Sam whispered, damn well knowing the answer.
"Well I do have the best tongue on this side of the Hudson," Quinn replied.
Sam's shoulders shook in laughter. "Well they tell me that I have the best lips on this side of the Hudson. Perhaps we should tango."
"Oh I'd love to Sam," Quinn beamed, "but you'd have to get a little reconstructive surgery down there."
Sam chuckled as he brought Quinn further into his embrace. He could see his mother practically wetting herself in the soft paradise pink two-piece Chanel suit that she'd dragged him with her to purchase earlier that day. Sam fought the urge to roll his eyes.
"We all of have our secrets," he mumbled softly.
"I believe I told you that the time I caught you and Santana freshman year in high school."
Sam nodded. "Did you two ever…?"
"No," Quinn said. "We hated each other. Sworn enemies."
"I thought the term back then was freniemes?"
Quinn giggled against Sam's chest and when the song came to an end, he pressed a light kiss to her cheek and whispered, "Think this'll be enough to satisfy your parents?"
"For the meantime," Quinn replied as he straightened up. "You know your mother is going to suggest that you and I have dinner soon. Do what you must to get back on her good side so that we can make it a double date."
They parted ways before the quintet could strike up another tune, Quinn back to her family and Sam deeper into the crowd. His goal was to bug Blaine Anderson, son of Levi and Astoria Anderson and heir to an international, multi-billion dollar company. Though his family was not formally immersed in politics, anyone who hoped to get the nomination for the Republican ticket was currently playing nice with the Anderson family—including Sam's father Richard. Blaine, who stood at his parents side as they entertained a pair of younger members from the House, was a decent guy by Sam's standards—intelligent, loyal, had a good sense of humor and played fair but he was ridiculously protective and stubborn, a fact Sam remembered as he watched his old friend retrieve his cell phone and fight a smile at the message he read.
Changing his course of direction, Sam headed straight for the open bar. A tall, thin man stood towards the end of the bar, his back to everyone and Sam waited until he crept up right behind him before whispering, "You look quite ravishing in that blazer tonight."
Kurt Hummel leaned forward, to catch himself in his laughter before turning around to roll his eyes at Sam.
"As much as I desperately want to say horrible things about you Evans, I must admit you do clean up quite nicely."
"Why thank you Kurtsie, you know that I aim to please," Sam continued making sure to invade Kurt's personal space.
The always impeccably dressed and son of former Ohio Congressman, Burt Hummel, shook his head as he pulled out his phone. "Blaine says 'fuck off, Evans' and that you should 'suck someone else's dick, preferably your own."
"But Kurtsie, doesn't Blainey-boy know that's no fun," Sam teased as Kurt laughed again.
"And don't you know that hitting on gay man after you've done a few rounds with Quinn Fabray doesn't exactly help her MO."
"But you're just too irresistible Kurt," Sam shrugged. "Besides, I'd hardly call that dance 'doing a few rounds'. I don't know about you, but my rounds are done between the sheets, preferably with legs in the air…"
"You are too much!"
"Well, I'm an Evans man through and through."
"Is that what they call it, now? Well, it's no wonder that she decided to en—"
Kurt broke off as he saw the tension strike in Sam's face.
"I'm so sorry," he recoiled. "I was under the impression—she told me that the split was mutual."
Sam rolled his eyes and shifted his gaze to other things, like the flowing ember chiffon dress that one of the other cops—Maggie, he thought her name was—wore.
"Really, Sam?" Kurt frowned.
"See Maggie in the chiffon dress over there?" Sam asked returning to his drink. "She wore a dress just like it for me once. It was shorter and had no back, but the same color, with a pair of black peep-toe shoes. We had been in Chicago for my birthday. It had been cold as hell that night but she insisted on taking me dancing to this Spanish club she had heard about."
"She told me that you two danced the night away that night," Kurt said after a moment. "I didn't realize that you remembered all of that."
"I remember everything," Sam replied softly.
"And I think that's your problem," Kurt said. "She doesn't know that you remember everything. I think beyond the fact that William Jones will forgo all his reservations about gun control just to shoot you if he ever finds out, she ended things because she still thinks that all you really remembered was—"
"The sex?" Sam guessed not needing Kurt's confirmation. For a while he had thought that too. It had just been sex between them he would remind himself constantly, just really great sex that he should be able to find anywhere else. Yet there was really nowhere else. Where Sam found good sex, he also found dull personalities, women with little drive, and girls who were too judgmental and too dependent on their families' money. None of them were her.
"You should talk to her," Kurt suggested.
"I've tried," Sam said, "but it's hard to talk when she won't listen. Or show up at events that she knows I'll be at."
"She's coming," Kurt said. "She just had a dress malfunc…"
Kurt didn't bother finishing that sentence as Sam's attention was far from him, far from reality or perhaps too closely focused on it. None of that mattered though, because she had arrived. She was dressed in a deep lavender gown, strapless with a sweetheart neckline and a cinched waist to show off her curves. As she glided down the steps of the grand staircase, Sam was hit with all the things that had attracted him in the first place: she wasn't afraid to show off that she was different, that she enjoyed eating a full meal and didn't bother with permanently altering with what given naturally to her. Sure, it set her apart from the crowd and earned her the nickname of "burnt out diva" but none of that mattered to him. Mercedes Amber Jones had arrived. And she was the most beautiful thing that Sam Evans had ever seen.
Sam hadn't been aware of his physical reaction to Mercedes' arrival until Quinn suddenly reappeared, swooping him into the waltz that was playing while glaring at him.
"Have you lost your fucking mind?" she hissed. "My parents and half the people near me thought you were going off the deep end just now starring at Mercedes Jones as if she were your last meal!"
Sam nodded stiffly—his silent thanks to Quinn, just a few steps further and he could have stepped into the perfect view for Martha Evans—and fell in line with the dance, all the while trying to keep his eyes off of Mercedes.
"Quit starring," Quinn snapped. Sam complied—partially. He managed to train his focus on the portrait of George Washington that stood directly in front of him on the west wall and brought Quinn closer in his arms, but he could still see her out of the corner of his eyes as she stood with her back to him, chatting lightly with Brittany and Santana.
Brittany, who was gaining a reputation among the other cops that Sam had grown up with as a bit of an Elle Woods, was the first to catch Sam's wandering eye. She poked Santana on her side and the two of them locked eyes for a brief moment before she went back to her conservation with Mercedes. They were talking about him now, he was quite sure, especially since Mercedes' right hand had landed on her hip—her classic diva stance—as she shook her head no. Brittany shrugged at him apologetically but Sam continued to glare at Santana, completely abandoning the premise of the portrait. Santana shifted uncomfortably under Sam's gaze, still chatting with Mercedes until the dark skinned beauty dropped her right arm dramatically. Their conversation ended quickly thereafter and before Santana turned to speak with her father, she distinctively jerked her head to the left—toward a set of doors. The cell phone in Sam's coat pocket buzzed quickly after. It was from Kurt.
'She wants you to meet her in 20 minutes on the lower balcony that oversees the rose garden, the message read. You're only getting 5 minutes of her time so make it count!'
When he reached the balcony that stood over the club's prized bed of roses, she was waiting for him. Mercedes Jones hated waiting for people, a fact that Sam learned early on in his senior year of high school. However, for him she had a habit of making an exception. She'd waited for him to come to her, love her, be loved by her. Her back was turned to him, as she over looked the garden and fountains below. Sam placed a soft kiss on her exposed shoulder, but she quickly whipped around and out of his reach.
"What the hell Sam," she snapped.
"Well hello there, it's good to see you too!"
"No Sam! We agreed. We're not doing this anymore."
"So now you can't say hello?" Sam pushed glaring at her until she faced him head on. He'd almost forgotten how beautiful her face was. His memories did her little justice and those eyes— large brown doe eyes that had constantly filtered through his bullshit and opened him up something better, to be someone better.
"Don't you dare, Mercy me Samuel Dwight Evans! I said no. It was just sex—"
"Oh cut the bullshit Mercedes," Sam snapped. "You and I both know that it was more than that."
"Maybe when we were seniors in high school," she replied, "but this is the real world Sam and we can't. I thought you understood that!"
"Screw the rest of them!"
"Screw the rest of them? You mean your parents? My parents? Yes Sam, let's just run away together and completely forget about the rivalry that's been raging between our families for years. Never mind the fact that your father's camp tried to accuse my mother of being a cheating whore on the last campaign trail or that my father used your struggle with dyslexia as a grand metaphor for your father's failures in Congress. Have you forgotten how he harped on the fact that I had to tutor you throughout junior year, implying that the leadership from the liberal left is vital to the success of democracy in this nation, especially if it's currently being run into the ground by the Republican Party? And don't even get me started with our extended families' other fun times that run all the way back to the Civil Rights Era! Sam, they would kill us. Is that what you want?"
"I just want you," he said falling captive to her fiery gaze. "Mercy, I need you."
Mercedes let out a soft sigh as her face contracted in slight pain.
"No you don't Sam," She said taking a few steps toward him. "What we had was beautiful, but we were kids when we started this and we let ourselves chase this into a wild fantasy. Do you remember the end? The flying to this city and that? Lying to our families constantly so we could spend all that money? And even then I barely saw you Sam. We barely skyped and when we were together we were wrapped in bed sheets or pressed against closet doors trying to feel something. We're…we're grown now Sam, we have to leave this behind us. We have to let go."
Sam stood there silently, letting her words wash over him and Mercedes took that moment as the perfect chance to head back.
"Is that all you remember?" he finally asked her. "I remember the smiles, the way your face would light up when I did something to make you giggle. I remember thinking that I'd never laughed so much until I met you. I remember the movie marathons, the fact that you cry relentlessly every time Dobby dies in the last Harry Potter film. In fact you can't even read the seventh book because by the time that damn owl dies you've practically flooded the room with tears. I remember the travelling and the void left by the distance. The kinky emails we would send each other to get by, along with the happy ones, the angry ones and the emails we sent when we were simply bored to tears. But I have to tell you Mercy, I'll always remember the somber ones because that's when you opened your soul to me. That's when I could see more than just Mercedes, the daughter of one of the most powerful Democrat Senators but Mercy, a passionate, beautiful woman who has such a big heart. I remember the fact that despite popular belief your favorite color isn't purple, it's green. You wrestle with your fingers when you're about to sing or when you're nervous, like now and every time you come your toes curl—but they also curl when you're really fucking happy. Yes, Mercy we had a lot of sex, a lot of great sex, but I'll always remember the feeling of holding you in my arms after we were both spent. I'll always remember the dreams that I'd spin, trying to think of a better solution for this, for us, a better way to give you all of the love that you deserved."
He paused letting his words sink in for her. She was on the verge of crying. He could see the tears building up in her eyes. But as much as he hated to watch her cry, he needed her to understand. She had to see.
"Do you remember Philadelphia?" Sam asked softly. "It was Memorial Day weekend, the last one we spent together. We went to that old club and you mesmerized everyone with your rendition of Fleetwood Mac's Songbird."
She nodded slowly, drifting closer towards him as she sang, "And I love you, I love you, I love you, like never before."
"Mercy, I know we weren't perfect, but…" He was so close, in just a few more steps and she would be back in his arms and he in hers. Her eyes had dropped from his gaze, so Sam lifted her chin up and wrapped his left arm around the dip of her waist.
"Sammy," she begged. It came out as a desperate whisper, a soft plea that pulled at his heart strings and drugged him further into her embrace. He wouldn't be letting go this time.
She flew out of Sam's arms as if he were some biblical leper. Though, in the eyes of Devon Jones, her older brother, Sam supposed that was pretty damn accurate. Even with the space between them, there was no way that Devon hadn't seen them or at least inferred.
"Has Daddy started his speech yet?" Mercedes asked softly, her voice slightly shaken.
No, but he's about to," Devon replied glaring at Sam. "C'mon Mercedes we need to go."
Once both were out of sight Sam groaned loudly and swore. Not only had he missed the opportunity to kiss her, but they had been caught by Devon, William Jones' golden boy. Sam needed a new plan, he needed to re-group. Kurt was clearly on his side; surely he would be of some help. As would Blaine, and Sam had enough dirt on Quinn Fabray to know that she would be at his side even if she wasn't desperate to get some alone time with her favorite brunette.
By the time Sam made it back to his seat, dinner had been served at his table and William Jones III had risen to the podium to give his speech.
"I hope that leave of absence was spent with Quinn Fabray," his mother said as she picked at her food, half listening to the family rival's words. "I saw that she stepped out shortly after you did."
"Yes," Sam replied. "We're planning on having dinner later next week."
"Oh good," Martha Evans smiled.
"Mercedes Jones looks quite stunning in that dress," Mary Evans said, seemingly to no one in particular.
"Oh Mary, please, you're too kind," Martha scoffed. Sam frowned deeply, toying with the idea of giving his mother a piece of his mind, but a soft cool hand from under the table made him pause.
"I should go," she said her voice still airy as Sam lightly kissed the top of her right breast. His left hand was preoccupied with massaging her other breast, and he grinned as he elicited soft sighs from her.
"Stay," he mumbled against her rich skin, which was still damp from their earlier activities.
"Sammy, I can't. You know I—" her words dropped off into a low groan as Sam sunk back into her tender flesh.
"What was that Mercy?" Sam grunted as he fell into a steady rhythm. Her head was soon thrown back, leaving her neck exposed for his kisses. He leaned forward and nipped lightly at her exposed flesh, his hips starting to push into a faster tempo. Sam's right hand dropped to Mercedes' waist and the left latched onto the pillow under her raven curls as he focused on picking up the pace, trying desperately to ignore how tight the fit was and how good it felt to be surrounded by her. Her breathless groans didn't help.
"Please Sammy," Mercedes gasped as her body rocked with his. "More. More."
More was what she wanted and more was what she got as Sam used the headboard for leverage to aim deeper and Mercedes wrapped her legs around his waist. More was what she got until she could moan it no longer and the only word on her lips was his name.
"Sam. Sam. Sam!"
He laughed softly into her skin once she'd come back down from her high. It didn't matter that he hadn't come with her that time or that she really should be going. What mattered was the now. The fact that she was there, that they were together.
But a soft knock interrupted their bliss. They scrambled to throw their clothes on, both at a loss of what to do or say to whoever was behind Sam's accursed bedroom door. He'd just pulled up his jeans when the face of his Aunt Mary peeked in.
"Your mother and father are going to be home in twenty minutes," she said as if there wasn't a half-naked girl in her nephew's bed—let alone this particular girl. "And I need you downstairs before she arrives so you can set the table for dinner. I believe your father is bringing the Andersons with him."
Sam blushed and nodded. His aunt went to close to door, but an outburst from Mercedes stopped her.
"Please don't tell—"
"Oh darling, all you have to do is keep that smile on his face," Mary assured the young girl. "Don't worry about the rest."
Sam squeezed his aunt's hand in return and tried to put his focus back on Senator Jones, but a few minutes in, his phone buzzed again. Ignoring the harsh glare from his mother—as if she actually gives a shit—Sam read the message from a number that wasn't in his contacts.
'And I wish you all the love in the world,' the text message said, 'but most of all I wish it for myself. Meet me at our spot. Midnight.'
Like it, love it, want more? Press that blue button below and let me know! As always thank you for reading! And a special shout out to my favorite Klainer Jamie & Jill for beta reading.
Song Credits: Songbird by Fleetwood Mac