Chapter 15 Sawyer
Chapter fifteen
Sawyer
Ifiddle with the fourth button on my sweater as I ascend the stairs of the Wheeler Center.
I’m late.
Not intentionally.
Strike that. Maybe intentionally.
I just… I couldn’t decide on an outfit, then I had to run back to my room—twice—because I forgot my notes and my water bottle.
Clearly, I don’t want to do this. How can I look Mercer in the eye after all that’s transpired over the last forty-eight hours?
Despite my untimely arrival, I left the dorm before Ty was finished with morning skate.
He was in my room when I got home last night. And what happened Monday happened again. Twice.
Except this time after we dry-humped until I came, he didn’t leave.
He stayed over.
In my room.
In my bed.
He slept beside me all night, with his heavy arm draped over my stomach.
Last night, something shifted.
Last night changed everything.
I could have claimed the first time was a fluke. The product of pent-up frustration and complicated emotions fueled by a hormonal response to a man I’ve fantasized about for years.
But there’s no justification for the second incident.
There’s no justification for my behavior.
I’m mortified.
Disappointed in myself.
And terrified of what Mercer will think—and how this could change our relationship.
At the end of the hall, I pause, studying the solid-wood door that leads into his office.
It’s cracked, like it usually is when I arrive for our pre-class check-in.
He’s in there.
The soft taps of his keyboard give him away. So do the subtle notes of aquamarine and citrus of his cologne.
He’s in there and I don’t know what to do or say.
Holding my breath, I knock softly and wait for him to call me in.
Rather than call out, he storms across the office, his footsteps heavy, and flings the door open. He pulls me into the room with enough force to make my head snap back, then wraps me in his arms before I even have a chance to say hello.
“Thank fuck you’re here.” He presses me against the door and cradles my head. Then, with the fervor of a starving man, he kisses me.
His lips are insistent and demanding, stealing my breath.
Though just as I begin to feel lightheaded from lack of oxygen, he slows his movements.
We settle in, find our rhythm. He slides his tongue into my mouth, caressing with a sensual, sacred reverence. All my nerves transform into butterflies, the worry and self-loathing I carried moments ago dispersing into dust.
I’m here. Mercer’s kissing me.
He still wants me.
But that’s because he doesn’t know the truth, a voice taunts in the back of my mind.
My knees are wobbly from the drugging effect of his kisses by the time he pulls back, cups my face in his hands, and says, “God, I’ve missed you.”
Eyes fluttering closed, I inhale, catching my breath and steadying myself. I can’t look at him this closely. Not when his gaze is boring into my soul and searching for my truth.
Because the truth is horrific.
What I’ve done… the confliction eating me up inside …
A cold, sinking sensation settles as shame washes over me, dousing the false sense of safety I allowed myself to cling to while he kissed me.
“Little Nuisance.” He bows his head, planting kisses down my neck. “Jesus H. I hardly slept last night, too overwhelmed with the need to see you again, to touch you again. Too out of my mind with worry.”
He skims his hands over my shoulders and down my sides until he reaches my hips. Gripping tightly, he yanks me closer and bites my neck, then sucks the skin there until the shrapnel of pleasure sparks low in my core.
When he grinds his hips forward, my knees buckle. He’s so solid and sure, his cock hard and perfectly positioned between my thighs.
“I have to have you,” he murmurs into my neck as he releases me.
At the clank of his belt buckle, tears prick the backs of my eyes. Clutching his wrists, I lift my chin. “Not here. Not like this.”
He pulls back and searches my face, his eyes so dark it’s nearly impossible to tell where the pupils end and the irises begin.
“You’re saying no?” He shifts, aligning our bodies once more, ensuring I feel his heat and hardness and undeniable desire.
I want him.
I want to give myself to him so badly I ache.
But it wouldn’t be right or fair to take this any further without having a conversation that I’m not sure I’m ready to have.
Swallowing past the guilt, I nod. “I’m saying no. And I’ll use my safe word if you push. Please,” I say, voice cracking, “don’t make me use my safe word.”
He steps back, holding me by the upper arms, his brow furrowed. “Sweetheart.”
He cups my face, using his thumbs to brush away the tears that have fallen without my permission, studying me, searching for answers.
His concern only makes me cry harder.
I can’t do this.
I don’t want to hurt him.
What I did and what I fear I might continue to do—
“At least tell me you’re okay,” he pleads. “Tell me he hasn’t—that he didn’t—”
He can’t even finish the sentence.
Just like I can’t answer his question honestly.
I can’t quantify what Tytus has done. What I’ve allowed. What I’ve joined in on under the cover of darkness in my room.
Last week, Mercer called me his girlfriend. Unfortunately, that means nothing to the man who won’t stop calling me his wife.
With a shuddering breath, I lift my chin again and will my tears to abate.
I didn’t come here to break down.
I’m here because I have a job to do.
“Sawyer.”
Eyes locked with Mercer’s, I dig deep for strength. “No,” I say, the single word surprisingly even. “I’m not okay. Nothing’s changed. Yet. But I still have the rest of the week to sort this out.”
He opens his mouth to argue, but I cut him off with a shake of my head.
“I don’t want to get swept up in what’s going on and neglect the work. The class needs us. The orchard needs us. And I desperately need some semblance of normalcy.”
Jaw ticking, he steps back, giving me space and honoring my request.
“As you wish, Ms. Davvies.”
He rounds his desk swiftly and sits. I take my place in the seat across from him. Then, for the next hour, we dig in and do the work.
Thirty minutes before class, just after we’ve finished drafting questions for the midterm, there’s a knock on the door.
Rather than get up to open it fully, Mercer simply calls out, “Come in” without looking up from the essay question he’s typing out.
I turn in my seat just as Dean Stalworth steps in.
Our gazes collide, sending me reeling back. He’s affected just as harshly, it seems. He turns so red he’s almost purple as he forces out a stilted greeting.
“Ms—I mean, Mrs. Tremblay,” he chokes out. “I didn’t expect to see you here. In here. In this office, I mean.”
Good grief.
This guy needs to get a grip.
It’s endearing when Noah trips over his words.
It’s repulsive coming from this spineless man who let himself be bullied by a 21-year-old only days ago.
Mercer clears his throat. “Why wouldn’t you expect to see my graduate assistant in my office prior to class?”
“Oh, no. I didn’t mean she shouldn’t be here. Just that I—that she—”
“Right.” Mercer stands. “Let’s take this out to the hall, shall we? That way Ms. Davvies can continue preparing for class without interruption.”
Without argument, the dean scurries out of the office.
Mercer doesn’t move, as if trying to catch my eye, but I refuse to look up.
Eventually, he clears his throat and skirts around his desk. As he passes, he brushes one hand over my shoulder, cupping my neck affectionately.
Instinctively, I lean into his barely there touch.
“I’ll be right back,” he promises.
When he’s gone, the loss of contact is palpable, from the tips of my toes all the way into the hollow of my stomach.