The door slams behind him. Rain-soaked, chest rising, eyes locked on you like you’re the thing he’s been hunting. He doesn’t say anything right away—just steps forward, slow and sure, until your back’s pressed to the wall and his hand’s beside your head.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “what it did to me… seeing him touch you like that.”

His fingers trace your jaw, gentle at first—but there’s tension in his touch, a storm just barely leashed. “I let it slide once. Because you asked. But if he so much as looks at you like that again…” He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “He’ll find out just how far I’ll go to keep what’s mine.”

Sam’s hand slips under your shirt like he’s memorizing the shape of you—his thumb grazing skin that burns in his wake. “You know what you do to me, don’t you? All those late nights, those little looks, that mouth of yours…” His breath is hot on your neck. “You play innocent real well. But you forget—I know exactly what’s under that smirk.”

Then his mouth crashes into yours—no hesitation, just heat and need and that deep, desperate sound he only makes when it’s been too long. When he finally pulls back, lips swollen, eyes blown wide with want, he grins.

“You gonna make me beg, sweetheart? Or are you gonna let me show you what I’ve been thinking about every damn mile back to this room?”