They still haven’t talked about it, though Carly keeps trying to trick them into opening up about their feelings like that’s something they’d ever do, and maybe that’s why this is happening, maybe it’s Sam’s passive aggressive way of telling Carly to butt out of her business, though Freddie really hopes she never actually finds out.
“Sam,” he says, pulling away, his head sinking back into a pillow that smells of shampoo and girl, which is disconcerting considering Sam doesn’t really smell of either of those things. “Carly and Spencer could get back any minute.”
Sam huffs in annoyance and grazes her teeth over the spot beneath his ear that has him seeing stars, and he’d tell her to stop distracting him except it’s really, really working. He’s not sure how long they’ve been here, Sam’s weight pressing down against his chest and her knees straddling his thighs, but part of him is still with it enough to realize that it’s been at least half an hour and if anyone walks in now there’s no way they’ll be able to straighten up, not with their hair in disarray, their lips bruised, and the line of deep red marks Freddie knows Sam’s having way too much fun biting down his neck.
Carly’s room is big and bright, and Freddie can see the shadows Sam’s eyelashes cast across her cheeks, the smudge of ink in the shape of his own thumb along her jaw, and he can’t stop the moan that fights its way from his lips. Sam smirks and leans back, her pupils blown wide, and for a moment he thinks she’s going to say something, anything, but she hasn’t spoken since she pulled him out of his own front door and into the Shay’s apartment, leading him up the stairs and pushing him down on the bed -- Carly’s bed -- with something determined and playful and so hot dancing behind her eyes that Freddie couldn’t have protested even if he’d wanted to.
He’s pretty sure this is just another game with a set of rules he doesn’t know, but that’s always been the basis of their relationship, even before it turned into this, so he lets her take control with nothing more than a raised eyebrow he knows drives her crazy in every sense of the word because, hey, underneath it all he’s a teenage boy and if she wants to spend the afternoon making out then that’s totally fine with him.
Even if, you know, it might be nice to talk about what the hell this is.
…Okay, so maybe he’s kind of an atypical teenage boy.
“What are we doing?” he says, voice rough and low and unfamiliar to his own ears, and he can hear her sarcastic answer before the words are even out of his mouth -- “I thought that’d be obvious even to a momma’s boy like you, Fredork” -- but it doesn’t come.
A quiet Sam is unheard of and the part of his brain that’s not busy screaming hot blonde, lips, tongue, hands, oh God is a little freaked out. He’s about to say something, to ask if she’s okay, if this is actually about them at all or if something else is going on, when he catches her eye and stops. She looks happy, content in a way he’s only ever seen her be over food and the post-adrenaline high of a really great iCarly episode, and something jolts low in his chest because beneath that she also looks really, really turned on and holy chiz.
Freddie runs his hands over her hips and kisses her again, pulling her closer and sucking gently on her tongue until she moans into his mouth, and it’s not words but Freddie can hear exactly what she’s saying now he knows what to listen for. Her skin is burning hot where his fingers have slipped under the hem of her shirt, and her thigh is dangerously close to areas of his body he’s trying really hard not to think about whilst she’s pressed down against him (and, yeah, that’s not working).
It’s all moving quickly into unfamiliar territory and he knows this is the part where one of both of them should freak out, but Sam’s fingers are brushing lightly against the buckle of his belt like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it, and he can’t bring himself to stop touching her, doesn’t want to, and maybe that’s scary in itself but it’s hardly shocking either. They’ve spent so long being the push to each other’s pull; it’s not a surprise that this follows the same blurred path.
“We’re in love,” she says dismissively, shrugging.
“But we’re not together anymore,” he says, and it’s a statement rather than a question.
“So?” she says. “Who says we have to be conventional?”
And, yeah, okay. That sort of makes perfect sense. They’ve never gone about things the standard way, and maybe this is him being a little more abnormal, or her being a little more normal, or some handwavy area in between, but whatever it is Freddie’s not going to be the one to say they should stop, not when he has Sam on top of him, lips still bruised and skin flushed, bringing up the three little words they’ve not talked about since the break-up.
He leans up, pressing them closer, just as the door slams downstairs, Carly and Spencer’s raised voices echoed but jarring.
He’s always known Sam’s unreasonably fast when she wants to be, but she’s up and fixing her clothes before he even has time to blink. Freddie tugs at his own shirt, flustered, and then turns his attention to the bedding, pulling uselessly at the sheets until Carly’s bed looks at least a little less like her two best friends have just got hot and heavy on it.
He can’t believe hot and heavy is even a phrase in his vocabulary.
Sam sprawls across the couch, grabbing Carly’s Pear Pad, and when she looks up at him her eyes are dancing with mischief.
“To be continued,” she says, smirking, and Freddie feels the promise in bruised lips and shaking hands.