Re: Near the Entrance
If he were anyone else, she would have invited him back to her place just then, just there; she would have taken his hand, and gotten out of there - and probably wouldn't even have made it to one of their cars, let alone one of their apartments, before finding some dark corner and ravaging each other past the point of standing. But it wasn't anyone else - it was Samuel Wolfe: arrogant, domineering, brash, tactless, forceful, and appallingly magnetic, and she couldn't - could not - let him get his way. The dream made it harder. It had been his face, hadn't it? More golden, like heaven, or hell, and their bodies - sweet Jesus.
They fit like that again, and it was impossible, but she rolled with it. When he whispered in her ear, she laughed, pushing a little more distance between them as she whispered, "I like Sam," to him, her fingers curling at his nape, though their bodies were farther apart. "You'll never win this one." Then, with a laugh, she kissed his cheek, then moved further away, still occupying the same space as he was, but with that taunting and sanity preserving distance.