“I did write you a letter,” he said. Another rumble of thunder. “The night that you left Quantico, I got drunk on contraband whiskey and wrote you a love letter.”
Those words stopped me cold. “A love letter?”
“I didn’t know that’s what it was at the time,” Sam said. “It had been years since I’d been allowed to fully feel my emotions. Which is why it was always easier to fight with you. Less complicated than kissing you. Less complicated than fucking you.”
Both of us were staring, panting heavily. The rain fell in a sheet behind him, drenching the pavement.
“And much less complicated than falling in love with you.”
“Sam,” I said, voice wavering.
“In the letter I begged you to stay. Not because of your career. Not because of the FBI. I asked you to stay because the thought of not seeing you every day broke my fucking heart. And I was brokenhearted until the day I graduated. After that, I worked hard to forget that feeling. Too complicated, too messy. But the moment you walked into Abe’s office and I saw you again…” He stopped, voice raw. “I’ve lived the last seven years in darkness. You turned on every light in my life. You are the light, Freya.”
Tears spilled over, rolling down my cheeks. It was too much, this dismantling of the walls we’d built to protect us from our love.
Sam’s fingers gripped my cheeks, brushing away the tears.
“I’d never known true fear until I thought Ward was going to shoot you,” I whispered. “But until that point, I wasn’t scared. Even with a knife to my neck. You’re the person I trust the most in this world to save my life.” I pressed a kiss to his palm. “Because I’m in love with you.”
Then I grabbed his soaking wet shirt and yanked him into my house.
43
Freya
Sam kicked the door closed and lifted me. My blanket fell to the floor, and my arms wrapped around his neck.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, studying the bandage.
“No,” I said. “Not in the least. Nor am I fragile.”
His muscles shook—and I knew it wasn’t from effort. Sam Byrne could hold me over his head and run the bleachers of a stadium without breaking a sweat. He was restraining himself. And I didn’t want restraint.
“What do you want?” he whispered.
In response, I tore off my glasses and crashed our lips together. Yanked on his hair and devoured his mouth with every ounce of my fear and trust and protection and gratitude that he was alive. And safe.
And mine—at least for the night. He responded just the way I wanted. Turning and slamming me against the nearest wall, shaking the bookshelves and various paperbacks. Another clap of thunder rolled past, muffling my cries as his hot mouth roamed my throat, cautious of the bandage. In a second, I was wet from the rainwater on his skin. Shivering at the onslaught of violent sensation. I needed to be naked and I needed Sam naked. As usual, my partner read my mind, sliding my body to the ground and raising my sweater over my head. He hissed as he took in my bare breasts, rubbing a hand across his mouth.
“Take off your fucking pants, Evandale,” he rasped.
I did as I was told. I was completely bare, my hair down and loose around my shoulders.
The expression on his face was undeniable—it was love and hunger twisted so beautifully I could have cried. Sam—still clothed, still wet—dropped to his knees in front of me and pressed his face to my stomach, breathing in.
“If anything had happened to you,” he murmured, “I don’t know what I would have done. Freya. Freya, I don’t—”
“Shh,” I said, stroking his hair. “I’m here. And yours.”
His mouth descended to my stomach with hungry, open kisses as his palms smoothed across my aching nipples. His mouth joined his fingers, and I held his head in place, body arching off the wall. It was a worship I’d never known—this wild, wanton devouring. He was noisy, groaning, whispering against my skin, lapping at my nipples with such skill my head spun with the pleasure of it. We were still in my fucking foyer, and I was already boneless and ready to be taken. With a growl of appreciation, he scooped me up and walked us into my living room. Laid me down easily on the soft rug, then stood over my body.
“Spread your legs,” he ordered, loosening his tie. I did, marveling at the way his wet shirt