I'm Not Sam Read Free

twenty-eight, everything tight, the bones delicate. We’ve both felt sad from time to time that she’s infertile, that we won’t be having any children. Me a bit more than her I think -- I’ve got a brother for what he’s worth and a father and mother while she’s an only and both her parents are dead. So maybe I’m more used to family. But I shudder to think how far south her body might have gone were that not the case. It’s shallow of me I guess but as she is right now, she’s a joy to behold. 
    She throws the curtain and steps into the tub into the spray of water and I’m right behind her, watching her nipples pucker, watching her glisten. She turns toward me and shuts her eyes. Her long hair’s plastered to her head. I reach for the Aussie Mega and lather her up. 
    She smiles and makes these little mmmmm sounds as my fingers dig in for a good, firm, gentle massage. Little lava-eddies of shampoo roll over her collarbone, over her breasts and down to her navel.  
    “I think I could go to sleep like this,” she says. 
    “Standing up?” 
    “Cows do it.” 
    “You are no cow.” 
    She smiles and tilts her head back to rinse, straightens up and wipes the water from her eyes. Then looks down at me. 
    “Oh,” she says. “Oh, really? Already?” 
    “I guess so. Turn around, I’ll do your back.” 
    She does. I wash her back, her ass, her breasts, her stomach. She raises her arms and I wash her armpits, her arms, then her back and ass again, into the crack of her ass, into her cunt. She soaps her own hand and reaches down to me. 
    She’s got my cock in her hand stroking the shaft and rolling around the glans and my fingers are moving inside her, my other hand clutching her breast and we’re both of us making sounds now. She’s gone baritone. 
    I know exactly how to touch her. I know exactly what she likes. 
    And god knows she knows me. What she doesn’t know is that my legs are giving out and I’m coming all over her ass. 
    “Okay, enough!” I tell her. She gives me this look over her shoulder. “For me I mean.” 
    “Thank god ,” she says. And she comes too, for the first time that night. 
     
    The second time she comes we’ve already closed my own deal and I’ve got three fingers inside her. There’s debate about whether the g-spot really exists but she’s living proof there’s something there. She likes this hard, not smooth and easy like in the shower so that’s what I’m giving her. She’s starting to buck and groan and I’m grinning down at her like I’m listening to my favorite rock ‘n roll song of all time. 
    Then she says those magic words. 
    I’mmmm commming! 
    I could cry or laugh out loud, this is such fun. I stay with her, ratcheting up the pace, the pad of my thumb buffing her clit, fingers pressing hard, sliding along the warm wet wall of her insides.  
    Oh! she says and ohhhh! and holds the moment suspended inside her so I hold too while she trembles all around me and then lets go. I work her a little more, smooth and gentle now and she jerks and spasms. Internal electricity. I know the feeling. 
    She laughs. The bawdy laugh. The one reserved just for me. 
    “Bastard!” 
    “You love it. You know you do.” 
    “I know I do.” 
    She kisses me the way you kiss your lover when he’s made your day. I kiss her back. She’s made mine. 
     
    While I’m heating up the bourguignon, preheating the broiler for the garlic bread and boiling water for the noodles I ask her to go into the study and have a look at Samantha, see if I’ve got the spatter right. She comes back in a little while. 
    “You’ve been doing your homework,” she says. “Studying the photos. Good.” 
    We’ve got morgue photos and crime-scene photos pretty much all over the place. In my study, in the bedroom, on the bookshelf in the living room. We have to hide them from the guests. 
    I’d made the mistake a few years back before her mother died of leaving a series of