Chapter 6 Savannah
SIX
Savannah
His mouth claims mine—slow at first, then deeper, hotter, as if every ounce of fear and grief has melted into want. His hands roam up my back, down my sides, relearning me with every pass of his palms.
My body responds instantly, hips rocking into his, breath catching, pulse pounding hard enough to drown out the storm raging outside.
He teases my lower lip with his teeth, a slow drag that sends a tremor straight down my spine. His voice is wrecked, barely holding on.
“Tell me what you want.”
“You.” My mouth skims his, breathing the word into him like a vow. “All of you. Tonight.”
He exhales hard, forehead dipping to mine, his breath shaking with restraint.
“How do you want me?” His fingers tighten on my hips—testing, hovering on the edge of control. “Hard? Soft? Slow? Tell me.”
I lift my hips just enough for him to feel how badly I want this, want him.
“Hard.” The word slips out on a shiver. “As hard as you can.”
His breath stutters—one heartbeat of disbelief, then hunger surging up to swallow it whole.
“You sure?” His voice drops, darker, rougher. “Because I won’t hold back.”
“Please don’t.” I guide his mouth back to mine, my voice threading into his lips. “I want to forget everything except what you’re doing to me. Take me there. Take control.”
He groans—deep, primal—hands locking around my hips like he finally has permission to do what he’s been fighting since the moment we met.
And then he moves—
And I feel the shift in him.
The surrender to the part of himself he’s been trying not to unleash.
His chest rises sharply, and he flips us in one smooth motion, laying me back on the sleeping bag, his body covering mine, heat and muscle and restraint stretched thin. His forehead drops to mine, breath trembling.
I pull him down into another kiss—and this time, neither of us holds back.
His hands are everywhere—rough, sure, mapping my skin like territory he's staking a claim on.
Our kiss turns feral, tongues tangling, teeth nipping as I taste the salt of his sweat and the desperation he's been burying for days.
He breaks away just long enough to yank his shirt over his head, the fabric whispering against his skin before it's discarded in the corner of the shelter.
Scars crisscross his chest and abdomen, pale lines against tanned muscle, and I trace one with my fingertips, feeling him shudder under my touch.
"Fuck, Savannah," he growls, voice low and gravelly, eyes dark with something primal. "You have no idea what you're unleashing."
"Show me."
His mouth descends again, hot and demanding, trailing down my jaw, my neck, to the swell of my breast. He captures a nipple between his lips, sucking hard enough to make me arch off the sleeping bag with a gasp that borders on a moan.
His tongue flicks, teases, then he bites—just a graze of teeth that sends liquid heat pooling between my thighs.
I writhe beneath him, my hands clawing at his back, nails digging in as if to anchor myself to this moment.
But he's not done stripping away the barriers. One hand slides down my side, fingers hooking into the waistband of my pants. He doesn't ask—doesn't need to.
With a swift, possessive tug, he peels them down my legs, taking my underwear with them in one rough motion. The cool air hits my exposed skin, but his gaze devours me, making me feel feverish, wanted, owned. I kick the clothes aside, bared completely now, vulnerable and aching under his weight.
Sawyer pauses, hovering over me, his broad frame caging me in the best way. His eyes rake over my body—slow, deliberate—like he's memorizing every curve, every freckle.
"Look at you," he murmurs, voice thick with hunger. "All mine. Spread those legs for me, baby. Let me see how wet you are for me."
The command in his tone sends a thrill straight to my core.
I obey, parting my thighs, and his breath hitches as he takes in the slick evidence of my need.
He doesn't waste time—his fingers trace the inside of my thigh, inching higher until he cups me fully, thumb circling my clit with just enough pressure to make stars burst behind my eyelids.
I buck against his hand, a whimper escaping me, but he pins my hip down with his other arm, holding me steady.
"Not yet," he says, his mouth curving into a wicked smile against my skin as he kisses a path down my stomach. "I'm gonna make you beg for it first. Gonna taste every fucking inch of you until you're shaking."
His head dips lower, and then his mouth is on me—hot, insistent, his tongue delving deep and lapping at my folds like a man starved. I cry out, fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer as he works me over with filthy perfection.
He sucks on my clit, grazes it with his teeth, then thrusts two fingers inside me, curling them just right to hit that spot that makes my vision blur. The shelter fills with the wet sounds of his mouth, my ragged breaths, the storm outside fading to nothing.
"Sawyer—please—" It's half plea, half prayer, my body coiling tighter with every stroke.
He lifts his head just enough to meet my eyes, lips glistening. "Please what? Say it. Tell me you want my cock buried inside you, claiming this pretty little pussy."
The words are crude, filthy, but they ignite something wild in me.
"Yes," I gasp, hips grinding against his hand. "Please fuck me."
That's all he needs.
He rears up, shedding his pants and boxers in a blur of motion, his cock springing free—thick, hard, veins pulsing with the same urgency I feel.
He doesn't tease, doesn't prolong; he positions himself at my entrance, one hand gripping my thigh to hook it over his hip, the other bracing beside my head.
"You're mine," he growls, eyes locking on mine as he thrusts in—deep, unyielding, filling me in one brutal stroke that steals my breath.
I cry out, the stretch burning sweet, and he stills for a heartbeat, letting me adjust, his forehead pressed to mine. But then he moves, pulling back only to slam home again, setting a rhythm that's all power and possession.
His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, angling me to take him deeper, harder, each thrust punctuated by the slap of skin on skin.
"That's it," he rasps, voice breaking with the effort of restraint he's no longer bothering with. "Take it. Feel how fucking deep I am. This is what you wanted—me breaking you open."
"Yes!" I meet every thrust, nails raking down his back, lost in the filthy symphony of it—his grunts, my moans, the creak of the sleeping bag beneath us.
He shifts, hooking my other leg over his arm, folding me nearly in half so he can hit even deeper, his thumb finding my clit again to rub in tight circles.
The pressure builds, white-hot and relentless, until I'm teetering on the edge.
"Come for me," he demands, teeth grazing my earlobe, breath hot and ragged. "Milk my cock, Savannah. Show me you're mine."
I shatter—waves of pleasure crashing through me, clenching around him as I scream his name. He follows seconds later, burying himself to the hilt with a guttural groan, spilling hot inside me, his body trembling as he claims me completely.
We collapse together, sweat-slick and spent, his weight a comforting anchor as our breaths slow. He doesn't pull away—instead, he rolls us so I'm draped over his chest, his arms wrapping around me like he'll never let go.
His arms tighten their grip, one hand splaying possessively across my back, the other tangling in my hair as he presses a lingering kiss to my temple.
The heat of him seeps into my skin, chasing away the chill of the shelter, and I melt against his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat under my ear.
It's a rhythm that grounds me, pulling me from the whirlwind of the night into this quiet, intimate space where nothing exists but us.
"You're incredible," he murmurs, voice husky and sated, his fingers tracing lazy circles along my spine.
The touch is gentle now, a stark contrast to the raw hunger from moments ago, and it stirs something deeper in me—a warmth that blooms slow and sweet in my chest.
I tilt my head up, brushing my lips against the stubble on his jaw.
"So are you." My words are soft, but there's a spark in them, an invitation I can't quite suppress.
Even spent, my body hums with awareness of him, of the hard lines of muscle beneath me, the faint scent of sweat and earth clinging to his skin.
His eyes meet mine, that molten gray darkening again as he reads the want lingering in my gaze. A slow smile curves his mouth—predatory, knowing.
"Round two?" he asks, but it's not really a question.
His hand slides down to cup my ass, squeezing firmly, pulling me flush against the growing hardness between us.
I nod, breath catching as I shift my hips, feeling him twitch against me.
This time, it's unhurried, sensual in a way that builds like a gathering storm.
He rolls us again, but gentler, settling between my thighs without the urgency of before. His mouth finds mine in a deep, languid kiss—tongues sliding slowly, exploratory, tasting the remnants of our first frenzy.
I arch into him, hands roaming over the ridges of his scars, memorizing him as thoroughly as he's been memorizing me.
Sawyer breaks the kiss to trail his lips down my neck, nipping softly at my pulse point before moving lower. He lavishes attention on my breasts, sucking and swirling with deliberate patience, drawing out gasps and shivers until I'm writhing beneath him.
"That's it," he whispers against my skin, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me. "Let me take my time with you."
He eases into me then—slow, inch by inch, filling me with a stretch that's pure, exquisite pleasure.
No slamming thrusts this time; instead, he rocks his hips in a steady, grinding rhythm, each movement deep and controlled, hitting every sensitive spot inside me.
His hands pin mine above my head, lacing our fingers together as he holds my gaze, watching every flicker of ecstasy cross my face.
"Feel that?" he growls softly, his breath mingling with mine. "Every bit of me, made for you. Gonna make you come undone nice and slow."
I do—god, do I.
The build is torturous, delicious, coiling tighter with every measured thrust, every brush of his thumb over my clit. When I shatter, it's with a drawn-out moan, my body clenching around him in waves that pull him over the edge with me.
He buries his face in the crook of my neck, groaning my name like a prayer as he spills inside me again, our bodies locked together in the aftershocks.
We stay tangled like that for what feels like hours, cuddling in the dim light filtering through the shelter's cracks.
His arms are a fortress around me, one leg thrown over mine to keep me close, his fingers idly stroking my hair.
It's peaceful, intimate—his dominance softened into something protective, tender.
I trace patterns on his chest, content in the silence broken only by our slowing breaths and the distant sound of wind whipping outside.
But eventually, the weight of exhaustion tugs at me. Sawyer senses it, shifting to sit up and gently ease me toward the sleeping bag's edge.
"Bedtime, Savannah," he says, his tone firm, authoritative—alpha through and through. "Get some rest. I'll keep watch."
"Bossy much?" I prop myself on an elbow, eyeing him with a playful challenge despite the drowsiness pulling at my lids.
He smirks, that wicked curve of his lips sending a fresh flutter through my belly. Leaning in close, his voice drops to a gravelly promise.
"Baby, you haven't seen me being bossy yet."
I bite my lower lip, heat sparking in my veins as I give him a look that's all lingering hunger and anticipation—eyes half-lidded, a silent dare that says I'm ready for whatever commanding side he unleashes next.
"Wake me in four hours. You need rest, too."
"I will," he lies, and we both know it.
But I'm already falling, exhaustion pulling me under. The last thing I see is his silhouette against the window, standing watch like he promised, keeping the monsters at bay.
For the first time in days, I don't dream of Nathan. I dream of gray eyes and steady hands, of someone who jumped out a window to save a stranger, of later and all its dangerous promises.