I've lost count -again.
Clenching my fist on the surface of the desk above Bag End's receipt book, I sigh in heavy frustration. Broken snatches of tuneless song continue to drift even through the solid door of the study all the way from the kitchen.
Distracting.
Ever since Bilbo finally packed up and left me some months ago, I've found myself in this position alarmingly often. Distracted by the gardener.
Sam Gamgee has taken it upon himself to be an almost constant presence in my smial, flitting about and doing chores that I quite frankly don't ever recall being part of his job description.
-Like cooking -and cleaning.
It is as if he truly believes I cannot do these things for myself; that without Bilbo I would leave the chores neglected; that I am unable to do such things.
Now, really, I'm not useless.
True, I have never had to do such things on my own, as someone has always been there to pick up after me. Bilbo used to like fussing over me, and back in Brandy Hall all I had to do was keep my own room tidy and my nose out of trouble; the servants did the rest.
Perhaps Sam thinks that all this has made me so soft I truly can't make my own tea.
It's beyond frustrating. Here I am, with all the freedom and independence I have always dreamed of having, and I realise that my elation is slowly being squished back down by my gardener's caring hands.
Sam has always been this way. Any time Bilbo left me alone in the smial when he went on some journey or other, however short; I'd have the lad all over me, clucking like a mother hen.
"He's suffocating!" I remember sighing to Bilbo once after his return from a short trip to the East Farthing, "I've never met anyone so insistently… helpful!"
Bilbo had chuckled at that and I bristled, tilting my nose in the air.
"The lad likely thinks that you're lonely here on your own," he smiled eventually, obviously enjoying my frustration.
I had to fight to keep my eyes from rolling. "Yes, but even if I were lonely, it does not mean I am incapable of looking after myself."
"I should think you would appreciate the help and company," Bilbo replied lightly.
"Oh, well… I do but… he's just a little smothering, is all. It's not as though I don't like the fellow, he's an admirable hobbit in every sense of the word, but there's just something about him I find…"
"Irritating?"
"Yes. Well, perhaps that's not quite the right word… its' just that… it's hard not to notice he's here. He's not like the servants at Brandy Hall. They slip past and go about their work silently and quickly, and most times you don't even realise they are about. But Sam… he's always singing or talking to himself, he'll ask my opinion on things all the time and I have no idea what would look good in the garden. Sometimes he'll even ask me to tell him a story, Bilbo."
By now my cousin was shaking with silent mirth and I glared at him as he wiped his eyes. "Well, I do tend to encourage the lad on the tales," he chuckled.
"Yes, and I'm very proud that you've taken it upon yourself to teach him his letters, but honestly, I'm not a story teller. Every time he asks, I end up just reading him something from one of your elvish translations. And he loves it."
"Of course he does. The lad looks up to you, Frodo, and just does his best to care for you in the best way he knows how. Don't fret, he's just a little too enthusiastic as yet because he's so young. He'll grow up and grow out of it."
But he didn't. In fact, if Sam Gamgee wasn't now the image of a full-grown tweenage hobbit -his once chubby limbs replaced by the strong, sinewy bulk of a hard worker, I would believe that he was still the same lad who used to clamber onto my lap and beg for a story, no matter how busy I was.
Still as over enthusiastic, still so eager to please, Sam often has me wondering what it is that makes him love his job so much -what makes him want to tend to me in such unnecessary excess.
The singing drifting through the door is growing louder now, so I push back from my desk and wait for the usual rap informing me of Sam's arrival, as if I couldn't hear his approach. It comes, just the same as always with a cheerful "Mr. Frodo?"
I straighten my waistcoat and breeches hastily and reply "yes Sam."
The door opens, and the lad peers inside, smiling indulgently as he catches my eye. "More tea sir?"
"No thank you, Sam," I reply automatically, then suddenly realise I would indeed appreciate more tea and cast my eyes ruefully over the empty cup.
"I will have Elevenses ready for whenever you would like to take it, sir," he goes on cheerfully, "I've got a bit to be doing in the kitchen, so I'll be there when you're ready to come out."
"Yes, thank you Sam," I reply patiently, "this receipt book really needs seeing to, so I may be a while,"
"Whenever you're ready," he smiles, waiting for my nod of dismissal before ducking out of the room.
As soon as the door catches behind him, I pass a hand over my knotted brow, and try to return to what I was doing. But it's no use. He is not singing now -if fact, I cannot hear him at all, but still Sam Gamgee is distracting me.
My thoughts, instead of churning over figures, are meandering down the path of wondering how Sam could possibly be keeping up with his gardening work and still find time to tend my every need indoors. Which then leads my brain to conjuring a rather alarming (and indeed highly distracting) vision of Sam in the garden, sweat slowly trickling down his bare, muscular back; the waistband of his breeches damp and clinging…
I blink a few times at the blank page before my face, surprised at myself. I must need elevenses after all.
Sam is still bustling about the kitchen when I enter, rubbing absently at a pain that has developed behind my eyes.
"Headache, sir?" the lad asks me quietly as I take my seat at the table.
"Yes," I mumble, surprised and pleased at how quickly a steaming cup of tea is suddenly pushed under my nose.
"Would you be wanting anything for it, Mr. Frodo?"
"No Sam, I'll see how it is after I have eaten."
The gardener hums sympathetically, and lays a warm hand on my shoulder, which he gently rubs at before withdrawing. However brief the touch, Sam's soothing hand relaxes the muscles about my collarbone, strangely tensing others. A tingle of… something races up and down my spine.
For all his irritating qualities, Sam Gamgee does have his tender moments. He places a wedge of cheese and a good loaf before me, scanning my face as if he can sense my thoughts. I give him a smile, which he returns shyly before turning to the counter, where a tub of steaming, frothy water sits, clinking with the sound of submerged crockery as he plunges his hands into it to begin his washing up.
I pause; cheese suspended somewhere between my plate and mouth as I look over at Sam. He is standing so I can see him in profile, and the knot of concentration on his brow brings me a small smile.
My eyes wander down to his soapy hands and thick wrists. One is holding a large crock-pot steady whilst the other moves in gentle circles with the steaming dishcloth, wiping and rinsing it clean.
The motion has me transfixed. I really must ask Sam to give me one of his wonderful shoulder rubs. That will relieve the tension that suddenly has me strung like a bow. And if I were to arch into his touch over the back of my chair, allowing his hands to slip down my chest, then I surely could not be blamed for wanting them to continue in those graceful arcs down, down…
Wet, soapy, lathered… There you go Sam -distracting me again!
I duck my head and hasten to finish eating. I must really be in need of sustenance -I have never wished to be a crock-pot before. The sooner I am finished and can retreat to my study, the better.
When I'm done, I slowly rise and carry my plate over to where Sam is washing up. There is a dull 'clink' as the white porcelain slides into the water and bumps gently against something else.
I rest my hip against the counter, gazing blankly into the foam for a moment, my heart pounding in my ears. A soft grunt from Sam close beside me causes me to look up. I immediately see his problem: a curl of hair has fallen into his eyes, and he can't raise his hands to brush it away without getting suds and water all over.
I give a small smile as I reach out and tuck the errant curl behind his ear. Sam goes completely still. He is sweating, I notice, as my fingertips slide softly down the side of his face. It must be the hot water.
His eyes lift to mine and I hear him suck in a breath as my fingers are distracted at his collar, fumbling with it briefly. My gaze wanders down until it reaches his forearms, half-submerged in the soapy water. He has rolled up his sleeves to prevent them from getting wet, but clearly not tight enough, as they are beginning to slide down, and are showing hints of dampness.
That won't do at all, so I bring my hands to Sam's cuff and begin rolling it up for him once more. He remains perfectly still as I do so, watching me, wide-eyed. His other sleeve is the same, so I step behind him and reach for it. The low, breathy sound that escapes his lips has distracted me from letting go of the first cuff, so now I am standing pressed behind him, one hand on each of his sleeves and my face full of that delicious scent coming from his curls, his skin… Mercy.
My cheek brushes against his nape, and I have to fight hard to resist an alarming urge to taste his neck.
Releasing his now fixed sleeves, I step back and rub a hand across my brow again. Now, what was I doing before I-? Oh, yes… My study… receipt book…
Collecting up my tea as I pass, I quickly breeze back down the hall, closing the study door behind me. Here there will be no more distractions. No more. No.
I am sitting at the desk with my head in my hands, mind spinning and not at all concentrating on my work when there is a tentative knock at the door.
"Yes, Sam?"
He seems a little awkward as he peers around the edge of the door, nibbling at his lip. "Did you want something for your headache, sir?"
I raise a hand absently to touch my brow. It is still hurting…
"What would you suggest, Sam?"
I lift my eyes to him just as he smiles and enters the room. He gestures for me to turn around, so I shuffle my chair about until I have my back to the desk. His fingers are cool and soothing on my temples as he reaches out to touch them and I sigh.
Sam's hands are wonderful. He massages my temples and brow with the gentlest of fingertips -as soothing and tender as Sam is himself. Which leads me to thinking -what exactly was it about him that I found so frustrating in the first place? What was so bad about having someone care for you after all? What was wrong with unconditional devotion?
Was it truly his enthusiastic attitude to life and tendency to always carry a smile that had me so frustrated? Or was it that whenever he is around, I can't help but look his way? That I strain my ears, listening for his presence… that I cannot live a moment longer without having him?
Watching his face carefully, I slowly wind my calves around the back of his legs, drawing him in. My heart skips a beat as he steps closer so that he is standing between my thighs. Now his fingers are winding back into my hair, pulling it gently off of my face. His thumbs rest cool pressure on my temples as he breathes, "Headache better, sir?"
"Much," I manage to choke, observing that somehow, my hands have come to rest on his hips. I move them to his arms instead, fingers sliding up, feeling his biceps beneath the rough cotton of his shirt. When I reach his shoulders, I wind my hands over tightly and use them to pull myself up from the chair.
Sam shivers as my body curves towards him. I am barely upright, pressed against his front before my mouth is on his. The kiss is frantic and hard; his lips open to my tongue pushing insistently into him, his own responding eagerly. Firm hands sliding down my back press me close as my fingers wind into his hair.
There is a clatter as I kick the chair behind me out of the way and he gasps, pulling back to search for the source of the commotion. I grunt disapproval and crush his mouth to mine once more. He falls into the kiss willingly and suddenly, my backside has met the edge of the desk. He is pressing me hard against it, hips pushing into mine, tongue deep in my mouth.
I can feel his arousal, hot against my own, urging, unrelenting, just like his tongue. My trousers are becoming steadily more uncomfortable, but Sam quickly distracts me from that thought as his mouth leaves mine, spreading kisses and nips all over my jaw and throat. His breath is coming in short, sharp grunts and I realise that my hands have somehow removed themselves from his hair and are on his hips, driving him in a rhythm; one that I match, jerking into him desperately.
"Sam! Saaam!"
His fingers are on my chest, fumbling buttons and peeling fabric back. His mouth follows, kissing, sucking, biting down from my neck. I throw my head back, arching over the desk with a moan. I have to hang onto him tightly to keep from falling. His mouth fastens on a nipple and I cry out as my whole body spasms. His chuckle breathes soft and hot over my skin as he skates over and sucks the second one into his mouth, drawing the same reaction from me.
Then he unfastens the last of my shirt buttons and tugs the fabric from the waistband of my breeches as his mouth continues down until I feel his tongue on my navel.
Suddenly, he moves to his knees, still lightly nipping at the curve of my lower belly.
Now Sam, what are you doing down th- oh. Ooh!
His face is pressed into my groin, and I can feel his breath on my arousal even through my breeches. Only his hands on my hips keep me from thrusting forward.
Broken sounds that might have been words escape my lips, and Sam moves his face back to look up at me as his fingers creep towards my trouser buttons. His expression is appealing; asking.
"Yes. Yes, Sam."
I arch back with a gasp as he deftly flicks the buttons undone and his fingers reach my skin. Fabric falls away, then hot and moist… his mouth; kissing lightly down, down…
"Oh, ah, aah!"
I am suddenly enveloped in velvet heat and my head jerks back so hard I strike it against the bookshelf above my desk. But the cry I give is not of pain -indeed it's entirely the opposite as Sam proves the perfect distraction from the throbbing in my skull with his lips, his teeth, his tongue… heavens, how did he learn to do that? Oh! Uh, or that!
Sam! Oh Sam, don't stop don'tstopdon'tstop
My hands unthread from his hair and grope over my shoulders for the shelf, gripping it tightly and using it to lever myself; arching my body, pushing up into him.
Now Sam's hands are on my backside, kneading at it as his mouth releases me and begins kissing back up my body. At first I whimper protest, then reach down and grip his shoulders, pulling him up to fix my mouth to his once more. His tongue slides against mine, caressing, twining as I push my hands between us and frantically unfasten his breeches buttons.
Skin. The first touch of it leaves me desperately aching for more. I reach down to take him in hand, but he moans, crushing our bodies together and urging my hands out from between us.
I bring them to his hips instead, pushing his trousers down and crying out into his mouth as his arousal, hot and hard, meets mine; now without any fabric separating.
Sitting on the desk, I lift my legs and wind them about him, pressing him closer. Hips jerking into mine, I meet his thrusts, pushing against him, writhing, rubbing…. Close… close…
My fingers and teeth bite into his shoulders as I reach a dizzying climax, spilling wetness onto his belly, choking back a scream as my whole body shudders and jerks beyond my control. I feel his release even before mine is over and I collapse, boneless, into his arms.
I bite my lip, hitching in a great, deep breath. My body is still tingling.
"Oh Sam, I love you. I've always loved you."
His warm hand brushes over my face, smoothing my hair back. "I know," he breathes.
I open my mouth to speak again, but he quickly pushes thought of whatever I was about to say from my mind as he lunges forward and kisses me, deep and slow.
You're distracting me, Sam…
But, I realise as I wind my fingers into his hair and pull him down on top of me, I've decided that being distracted by the gardener isn't such a bad thing after all.