Chapter 39
Two days (and one phone call with Pierre) after Lili’s engagement party, I drive to his house.
I was supposed to head back to Manhattan yesterday, but Rory returned alone to resume her internship.
My parents were thrilled for me to extend my time here until my trip to visit my grandparents.
Especially thrilled after a lengthy conversation explaining the diamond ring I’ve since shipped back to England.
My parents liked Pierre on the few occasions they met him, but were obviously relieved when I said I wasn’t ready for that sort of commitment.
As many times as they’ve encouraged me to grow up, I’m not sure either of them—especially my dad—is prepared for that to truly take place.
Church Street looks the same as it did two summers ago. So does number twenty-three.
I park alongside the curb, leaning over the center console to study the exterior now that I’m not distracted by driving. Interior lights are on, and his truck is in the driveway. He’s home, it seems, but that doesn’t mean he’s home alone.
I’m filled with grim determination as I climb out of my convertible and start up the walk.
If he’s not alone, that might be better.
Will mean we can’t “catch up” and “pretend to give a fuck.” Will mean he’s moved on, the same way I tried to, and hopefully ensure I can leave this town with some shred of closure.
He opens the door alone. And shirtless, which is almost worse.
As long as I’ve known Sawyer Bennett, I’ve been attracted to him.
Seeing him this time, the awareness is so sharp that it’s painful.
At Atlantic Crest, he was detached and distant.
This—him leaning a shoulder against the doorframe, wearing nothing except a pair of mesh shorts slung so low on his hips that I doubt he’s wearing anything underneath them—is too familiar.
Too exactly what I’ve spent the past twenty-three months desperately missing.
He says nothing, which I’m not entirely surprised by. It tracks with his dismissiveness at the club. And with the fact that I’ve shown up at his home, seeking him out. Forcing this conversation.
All he does is shove the screen open wider when I reach the doorway. Which is, I guess, better than slamming the storm door in my face.
I slip through the opening, barely aware of the clap as it swings shut.
Still, he’s silent.
I reach out, grabbing his wrist and rotating it so the inside of his forearm is exposed. So I can stare at the sailboat there.
It’s not an I missed you or a love declaration.
But it is something. Some evidence that I crossed his mind once in the past two years.
That he liked something I’d created enough to permanently ink it on his person.
That he wasn’t entirely averse to a reminder of me, although that could also mean it didn’t bother him to have one.
He doesn’t pull away. His arm looks fine, uninjured, so I’m no clearer on what happened with baseball.
I drop one wrist and lift his other. No new tattoos. And no visible damage. My thumb settles against the divot above his palm, feeling the steady pound of his pulse. It feels fast—affected—but that’s likely wishful thinking, plus my nonexistent medical training.
Still, he says—does—nothing. Doesn’t ask why I’m here. Doesn’t ask what I’m doing. Appears unconcerned about my “fiancé” as I fondle his wrist.
So, I step closer, rise on my tiptoes, and kiss him.
Kiss him for real, with my tongue in his mouth and with my hands in his hair, the way I know he likes.
He doesn’t groan like he used to. But I can feel the chemistry crackling between us, the leashed power as his muscles tense to stave off any reaction.
I suck his lower lip between mine, biting gently, then slide my right hand out of his hair and down the center of his chest.
Finally, Sawyer reacts. But not in the way I’m increasingly needy for. He stops my hand before I can discover if he’s boxer-less, spinning us so I’m the one against the wall and pinning my hands overhead.
I try to pull my hands free, and his hold on them only tightens. My heartbeat turns frantic, a wild rhythm banging against my rib cage so loudly that I’m worried he can hear it.
Because I like it, not because I don’t.
Because I know Sawyer would never hurt me—not physically at least—and that certainty means him holding me hostage is thrilling, not threatening.
I missed this. Him. Sex. Being treated like I’m durable, not dainty.
“Wren.” My name comes out like a curse, his tone low and dark and aggravated. “Get out.”
Disappointment free-falls through my chest, originating awfully close to the organ that was formerly thrashing.
“Or get naked.”
My gaze snaps up, meeting the challenge in his. “Those are my only two choices?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t do either while you’re holding my hands.”
He releases them, the rush of blood as my arms fall hot and hurting.
My decision isn’t much of one. It was made when I came here.
Made when I followed him to the parking lot.
Made when I followed him into Wade’s bedroom.
If I had to trace it to a singular moment, I think it was when I kissed him before jumping.
Some part of me has known since the second I saw him, if there was a choice between Sawyer Bennett and anything else, I would choose Sawyer Bennett.
He doesn’t think I did two summers ago, but I did. I chose to save him at the expense of us.
Tonight, those aren’t my options. So, I choose him over and over and over again, until we collapse in his bed an hour later, both sweaty and breathless.
I keep waiting for him to tell me to leave, but he doesn’t. Not before I get up to use the bathroom and not when I return to his bedroom. He just shuts off the lamp and rolls over on one side, punching his pillow once.
So, I take the other side, the same half of the bed I slept on the last time we spent a night together.
Stare up at the ceiling, split between happiness and despair.
I can’t separate sex and love, but I know Sawyer has.
Does. I’ve seen him switch it off—go from fucking me one minute to asking, “Why?” the next.
The sooner I fall asleep, the sooner I’ll wake up to that indifference.
I’m tempted to leave tonight anyway, just to avoid it.
His voice startles me. I thought he was already asleep. “Does he make you happy?”
I open my mouth to reply. Close it again.
Silently debate how many details to share.
All but once, he ran when things got serious between us.
And the time he didn’t run, he never chased after me.
It’s better for both of us, probably, that he thinks I’m not still devastatingly in love with him.
That I came here, seeking nothing except pleasurable nostalgia.
“He doesn’t make me sad.”
Sawyer doesn’t reply.
Maybe he did fall asleep in the time it took me to come up with that response.
I sense him start to shift in bed beside me, preparing to get up. Surprising since I’m a deep sleeper, but I’m not accustomed to having someone else in bed with me.
I roll over, trapping his arm under me. “Stay.”
“I know steady employment is a foreign concept to you, but I have to go to work.”
I try to scowl, but it’s hard to do with a wide smile on my face. I’m happy. I’m really, really happy right now.
And there’s a softness to Sawyer’s expression as he turns his head to study me that makes me think I’m not the only one appreciating this start to the day.
“You can be a little late.” I sit up, then twist so I’m straddling his stomach. Keep a smile fixed on my face, not saying what I’m really thinking.
This could be it.
Every time I have sex with Sawyer, it feels like a first and last time. Maybe that’s the root of my obsession with him, why I can’t seem to flush this craving out of my system. We’re a thrill. Remnants of a teenage crush, the sort of obsession and adoration and giddiness that borders on addiction.
If we started that way, it shifted a long time ago. For me at least. What I want, more than anything, is assurance we’re not finite. I can handle everything else in the world changing, even embrace the constant newness of it, but I want us to stay the same. Stay like this.
I move down the bed, pulling the covers with me. Slowly kiss my way down his chest and over his abs, lingering at the start of his happy trail. Glance up, meeting his heated gaze. “Too bad you have to go …”
“I have some time,” Sawyer says quickly, not even looking at a clock.
“It won’t take more than five minutes,” I say.
He glares.
I laugh, then suck him into my mouth.
He swears loudly, hips jerking as the head hits the back of my throat. I slow my speed, lifting my head until only the wet tip remains in my mouth. Let that slip out too, meeting his gaze again.
Sawyer says nothing, tucking one arm behind his head in a casual pose. But his expression is ablaze with emotion. Lust and arousal, yeah, but maybe some awe. Heated possessiveness. I feel worshipped, even though I’m technically the one pleasuring him.
It’s one of the most intimate moments we’ve ever shared, and my battered heart beats faster.
Why does something that feels so inevitable never come to the right conclusion?
Would he ever love me the way I’ve loved him?
Will I ever be brave enough to tell him everything?
I resume blowing him. This is one thing I can control. And I missed this part too—the physical feel of him in my mouth and the power of knowing I’m controlling his pleasure. The private familiarity of knowing exactly what he likes.
I moan and slurp and lick and tease until he chokes out, “Wren, I’m gonna …”
I don’t pull away. I suction harder, satisfaction flowing through me as he swells in my mouth, flooding it with warm liquid. Swallow quickly because him warning me, him not expecting me to, makes me want to even more. Keep sucking once his cock is clean, until he starts to harden again.
Sawyer sits up, reaching for me and pulling me onto his lap. He kisses me hard, urgently, sliding a hand in my hair and tugging the strands. His grip is demanding, and so is his tongue. He’s a current I allow myself to get swept away in, even knowing it’s dangerous.
I swivel my hips, begging for more against his mouth. He came, but I haven’t, and I woke up wet, as soon as I realized I was in bed with him.
His hands slide from my hair down my back, finding my hips and adjusting me. And then I feel him there, and it feels so good that I can hardly stand it. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, breathing heavily as that delicious stretch starts.
Suddenly, Sawyer freezes. “I’m not—I need a condom.”
I still too, stunned that it never occurred to me. “Right,” I say quickly, lifting my pelvis so he slips out. Move away a few inches as Sawyer reaches for the drawer next to his bed. Stare at the comforter as I hear the crinkle of a wrapper.
“You’re, uh, you’re on birth control, right?”
I glance up, flipping the strands of hair that fell in my face over my shoulder. “Of course.”
Relief spreads across his face. “Okay. Good.”
He reaches for me again, and I go willingly, letting pleasure wash away the bitterness of my lie.
But a little lingers as I slump on the sheets after. As Sawyer kisses me a final time, then leaves for work.
If I told him the truth, he might have asked, Why?
And I don’t think that’s a question he wants the answer to.