Chapter 8
Isqueal as he dives for me, inhaling a lungful of salt water when a wave closes over my head. I surface with a burning throat, splashing Sawyer between hacking coughs. “You asshole.”
“Get some new insults, Kensington,” he says, swimming away.
I huff and twist onto my back, floating along the surface as I stare up at the sky. It’s almost a full moon, bathing everything with a silvery glow that’s ethereal. I can’t remember the last time I felt this light, and it has nothing to do with buoyancy.
I feel normal, swimming late at night with a boy I really like. No envy-inducing trust fund, no pending college decision, no polite answers to formulate.
My fingers and toes are pruned by the time we finally head ashore. Sand sticks to my feet as I step out of the shallows, the crunch of dried seaweed uncomfortable. At first, I think that’s what the sharp prick is. But it’s followed by a burst of pain and a warm trickle I’m concerned is blood.
“Shit,” I hiss, pausing.
“What?” Sawyer asks, stopping too.
“My foot. I stepped on—”
He’s already bent down to inspect it. I don’t look. Blood makes me queasy.
“It’s not bad,” he says.
I grimace, keeping my gaze on his truck ahead. “I think you and I have different definitions of not bad.”
Sawyer’s smirking when he stands. “I promise you’ll live.”
“That’s not very reassur—oof.”
He’s scooped me up, carrying me back toward the water.
“I can walk,” I add awkwardly.
My cheeks are hot, and I hope he can’t tell I’m blushing. I feel … unsteady, in a way that has nothing to do with my injured foot.
He doesn’t reply. Or set me down. Not until we reach the shoreline.
“Stick your foot in the water,” he tells me. “The salt will sanitize it.”
“What advanced medical training you have,” I tease, but I do as he said, suppressing a wince as the cool water stings the cut.
As soon as Sawyer is satisfied by the submersion, he picks me up again.
This time, I don’t protest. I tuck my head under his chin, enjoying the feel of his arms around me and the steady rocking of his steps. It’s like riding bareback, except better.
When we reach his truck, Sawyer sets me on the open tailgate. “I’ve got a first aid kit in the cab,” he tells me, walking off.
I stay in place, tilting my head back to stare up at the stars overhead. For everything Manhattan has to offer, this is one view it lacks. The city lights are too bright for any astronomy.
Crunching gravel announces Sawyer’s return.
I risk a quick peek at my foot. He was right; it’s not bad. Blood has welled again, but it’s more of a scrape than a cut. Probably from a rock.
“You’re prepared,” I comment, as he opens a white square box with a red cross printed on the top.
“Yeah, I—” He suddenly stops talking.
I lean back on one palm, watching him spray some antiseptic on the wound, then cover it with two overlapping Band-Aids.
“Thanks,” I say softly.
“No problem,” he answers.
I lean forward. My wet bra and panties weren’t hiding a whole lot anyway, but it’s an invitation to look. I want him to look.
“Any suggestions for how else I could thank you?” I nudge his thigh with my knee.
He steps away, not meeting my gaze as he shuts the box. “We should go. I’ve gotta work in the morning.”
I sigh. “I didn’t think you were supposed to say anything, okay?”
He glances at me, expression unreadable. But he’s listening.
I swing my feet forward and back, not looking at him, but not, not looking at him either.
“All my friends … I thought it was some unwritten rule unless you’d been dating the guy since, like, elementary school.
No guy really wants to know, even if he asks.
And you didn’t ask, so …” I shrug a shoulder, swallowing rapidly.
“It was my decision, how I lost my virginity. Not really any of your business.”
Sawyer still looks serious. But the left corner of his mouth has crept up, just a little. “None of my business?”
“I didn’t think it … mattered. Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”
I stare down at the Band-Aids he carefully applied. I don’t believe Sawyer—about the asshole thing. How someone acts says a lot more than what they share aloud. My gut says he’s a good guy.
A callous thumb tips my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze. “You didn’t lose anything, Wren. And you should have told me.”
“Would you have stopped?” I ask, holding his gaze.
He exhales. “Probably.”
“Then I’m glad I didn’t tell you.”
Sawyer scoffs, but his mouth is still turned up a tiny bit. Like he wants to smile but is fighting it. “It had to have hurt. I was rough, and you didn’t come.” He raises a brow, challenging me to argue.
I can’t disagree. It did hurt, and I didn’t come. But I don’t regret it, not at all. In fact, I want to do it again.
Bluntness worked last time. So, I ask, no hedging, “Can we do it again?”
He studies me. And I force myself to hold eye contact as I internally squirm from the foreign sensation of vulnerability. Being at a disadvantage? Needing something from someone? Both unfamiliar. Two things I normally avoid at all costs.
I can’t tell why he’s conflicted, which makes this more difficult. If it’s that I lied, or that I was a virgin, or that he’s already lost interest.
What I do know? “An asshole would already have a condom on.”
“Or he’d tell you he doesn’t do repeats,” Sawyer says.
I tilt my head. “Is that your final answer?”
He exhales, and I’m surprised to hear it’s a little unsteady.
“It was a yes-or-no question, Captain.”
Sawyer takes another step. Closer this time, not away.
As soon as he’s near enough, I wrap my legs around his waist, anchoring him to me.
His skin is still damp, boxers dripping seawater.
He’s solid. Warm. Firm. Stable. And his abs are ridiculous.
Until I saw him shirtless by the cliff, I thought guys my age were incapable of being so built.
I trail my fingers over the miniature mountain range, lingering in each valley between ridges.
He watches me touch him, his mouth quirking in another almost smile.
“You’re really hot,” I tell him honestly.
Sawyer laughs, making the muscles under my fingers flex from the vibrations. “You’re not so ugly yourself.”
“That is, by far, the worst compliment anyone has ever given me.”
His hands slide under my ass, and I’m suddenly airborne. Being carried for a third time tonight.
He walks us over to the driver’s side, setting me down on the edge of the seat. I would have been really impressed if he’d opened the door while carrying me, but it was already ajar. Probably from him grabbing the first aid kit.
“Lie back,” he tells me.
I unclasp my arms from around his neck, missing the heat of his body as I recline on the seat. It’s not that cold out, but it’s not warm either. I’m not wearing much, especially since Sawyer is tugging my underwear down, and the bra I’m left wearing is flimsy and wet.
A rush of anticipation chases away most of the cold as his hands grip the inside of my thighs, parting them wide. I startle when night air gusts there. Again when his hot tongue replaces it.
This is another new experience. After a few fumbling fingering attempts, having a guy lapping down there sounded really unappealing.
I was missing out, or maybe Sawyer’s skill is just superior because the rush of arousal is so rapid that it’s dizzying.
A lightning bolt of lust, immediate and devastating.
I try to lift my hips for more, silently begging.
But his hold on my thighs is firm, allowing me only what he decides to give.
There’s something arousing about that, too, having to cede all control to him.
I’m going to come.
I’m stunned, suddenly sensing it hovering ahead, my muscles trembling and tingling as I brace for the incoming wave of pleasure.
I’m so thrilled about it, so relieved that my body is cooperating the way I want it to, that I forget about being cold or self-conscious or apprehensive.
I let go, relaxing into the pleasure as it washes over me in steady pulses.
I’m not quiet. I’m not sure I could stay silent, even if I had to.
It’s too much to bottle inside. Too intense and too consuming. That’s never happened before either.
The bliss fades slowly, like an undertow receding from the shore. I can feel my heartbeat everywhere, loud and steady. I’m energized and sleepy, and I don’t know how I’ll continue to exist without craving that sensation every second.
Sawyer straightens to his full height, tossing my underwear onto my stomach.
I sit up slowly. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to call him an asshole and mean it again. Because he looks smug—deservedly so—but his eyes are soft as he surveys my likely dazed expression.
“Thanks,” I say.
He smiles, one shoulder propped against the doorframe. I was right; it’s bad for my heart health.
“I owed you one,” he says simply.
My gaze drops to the big bulge in his boxers. I didn’t get a good look in the dark bedroom, but I got the gist of his dick’s dimensions during sex. I’m not sore anymore, but that’s a very recent development.
“Do you have a condom?”
“Glove compartment,” he replies.
I scoot back until it’s in reach, twisting the knob I assume opens it.
Mixed in with gas receipts and packs of gum, he doesn’t have a condom.
There are several strips of them and a few wrappers.
There’s a strange spasm in my chest when I picture this exact scene, but with Cammie or a faceless girl in my position.
A weird and unwelcome reaction, considering I’m leaving tomorrow morning and this will probably be the last time I ever see him.
Probably just because I don’t have anyone else to picture in his position yet.
I tear one condom off, shut the glove compartment, and toss the packet to Sawyer. He catches it one-handed, climbing into the truck and shutting the door.