Zelda
I’ve settled into my chair in front of the computer again, my mind taking the hard fall back into concentration, when there’s a knock at my door.
“Didn’t we just—?” I’m smiling when I open the door, expecting to see my mom standing there even though she told me that she was running across town to the craft store, but it’s not her.
It’s Sawyer.
My breath hitches at the sight of him, the space between my legs heating up, but a beat later I register the look on his face. It’s somewhere between anguish and anger, his jaw clenched tight.
“Are you okay?”
“Can I come in?” He shifts his weight from foot to foot and takes a deep breath.
“Are you sure you want to?”
“What do you mean?”
“You look like you have some—” I stop myself from saying “extra energy,” because Sawyer is definitely not one of the kids at the library who frequents the tween section and wreaks havoc. “I could come with you, if you wanted to go for a walk or something.”
“No. All I want—” He looks into my eyes and something in his face shifts, gives way, and the next thing I know he’s stepping forward in one motion, wrapping his hands around my face, covering my mouth with his and taking all of me in.
The momentum pushes us back through the door and into my apartment.
Sawyer kicks the door shut behind us, not bothering to lock it, and I don’t care.
I don’t care, because his hands are everywhere, sliding down to my waist, stripping off my pants, coming back upward and tearing my shirt over my head.
We’re making our way to the bedroom in a hurricane of flying clothes. Sawyer’s deft fingers unhook my bra and my breasts spring out into his waiting hands, and I’m soaking wet, the dampness beading on the skin between my legs.
Where did his clothes go, and when did he have time to take them off? All I know is that he’s on full display, his tattoos dark against his skin, every muscle working together to bring us to the bed.
One tug of his wrist and I’m straddling him, my wetness planted against his hard hipbone, and I lean down and put my lips against the skin of his chest, licking hard.
His hands are at my waist again, pulling me up, and it’s the dance of a hot fuck that’s happening now, my pussy coming down on his cock in one motion, taking all of him in, riding him with an abandon I’ve never felt.
His hands guide me up and down, up and down, harder and harder, faster and faster, and he lets out a low growl. I bite my lip, trying to keep any noises to a minimum, but it lasts for only a few moments before I forget myself.
I think he’s on the verge of a powerful orgasm when he lifts me off his cock, putting me down next to him on the bed, on my knees, upright, and then he’s behind me, his hands on my wrists, moving us toward the headboard.
“Hands on the wall.”
That’s all he has to say, and I brace myself against the wall, his head moving behind me.
He lowers his head and kisses the curve of my shoulder, sending shivers all through my body, and his hands are spreading me wider, tugging my hips back from the wall so that I’m open for him, completely open for him.
My muscles tense, holding myself in place, and then he’s pressing in, filling me, stretching me, taking me with a kind of possessiveness I’ve never wanted from another man.
Then, because I’m at a dizzying level of pleasure already, the corners of my vision going blurry, I’m almost there and he seems to sense it, he dips one hand down and strokes my throbbing clit.
One stroke.
That’s all it takes, and I’m coming so hard I can’t see or breathe, my muscles clenching around him as he pounds into me again and again, his other hand tight on my hips for balance as he goes over the edge of his own release, inside me to the hilt, his heat meeting mine.
His muscles tense, freezing in place, and we’re both breathing hard, the only sound in the room, my hands trembling against the wall. My skin is covered in a sheen of sweat from our efforts.
After a minute, Sawyer’s hand releases from my hip. He stands up next to the bed and guides me gently down after him.
“Do you have your own shower down here?” He runs a hand through his hair, trying to put a smile on his face and failing.
“Yeah, of course I do.” I reach for his hand and my fingers curl easily into it. “This way.”
It’s big enough for two, a nice perk of the recent renovation, and I turn on the water to the perfect temperature and step inside. Sawyer steps in after me and takes a big breath that ends in a shudder.
I’ve never seen him like this before. I have no idea what happened, no idea what to do, but I start by switching places with him so that the water can run warm down his hair, down the back of my neck.
I reach up instinctively to help the water through his hair, and he bows his head, lips pressed tight together, and his chest gives a funny jerk. Is he crying? I can’t tell, not with the water droplets running down over his face, but he keeps his eyes closed. He doesn’t pull my hands away.
“What happened?”
I keep my voice soft and low, no pressure. It takes him a long time to answer. In the meantime, I work some shampoo through his dark hair, coaxing him to tip his head back so I can rinse it out.
“I went to visit my dad.”
“How did it go?”
He has to lean down a little bit so I can reach up high enough to rinse all the suds away. “He finally apologized.”
I don’t know what it was like for Sawyer growing up, and I can’t pretend to understand it. My father never raised a hand to me, or to anyone else, as far as I know. His turmoil is written all over his face. I can’t find the words.
“I—” He takes another breath, blowing it out through his lips. “As long as he was a piece of shit, I could hate him. But seeing him like that—”
There’s something I’m missing here, some crucial piece of information that Sawyer has kept locked inside.
“Is he doing okay?”
He turns off the water. “No.”