4. Daniela
FOUR
Daniela
The fifteen minute drive back to set was the longest drive of my life.
I had nothing to say. Me. Daniela Morales, who had never once in her life been at a loss for words, who had charmed casting directors and navigated industry parties and talked her way into rooms she had no business being in—completely, utterly silent.
Because I knew what was about to happen.
Sawyer drove with one hand on the wheel and one on the center arm rest, the New Mexico desert stretching flat and dusty in every direction. The radio was low—country, of course. I didn’t register the song.
I registered his hands on the wheel.
I registered the way the dashboard light caught the medal at his throat.
I registered that my thighs were pressed together and had been since we'd walked out of the bar and he'd put his hand at the small of my back for exactly two seconds and then taken it away.
Two seconds.
I was losing my mind over two seconds.
The scrub rolled past in the headlights and I looked out the window and tried to think about something else.
But I couldn’t think about anything except the trailer at the end of this drive and what was going to happen when we got there.
What I'd asked for. What he'd said yes to without saying anything at all, just two more to the bartender and his hand finding my waist as we walked out.
"You okay?" he said.
His voice in the dark of the truck cab did not help the situation. His voice did things to me that I was not proud of.
“I’m…” I paused.
Looked at him.
Found him staring at the road.
“I am shamefully attracted to you,” I blurted out.
He snorted. “Shameful, huh? Come on…I’m not that bad, am I?”
“No, it’s not you,” I rushed to correct him. “Shameful as in—I cannot wait to be in your bed? Or…bent over a table or even…I don’t know, just propped up on a fence or a wall if that’s where you want me.”
He was quiet for a second.
"Propped up on a fence," he said.
"I'm just saying I'm flexible."
"I can see that." His hand moved from the armrest to the gearshift, which was closer to my knee, which was—not relevant. "I appreciate the options."
I looked out the window. My face was hot. "Sorry…I've had tequila."
"How much have you had?"
The question came out different than everything else he'd said tonight, making me turn to look at him. He was watching the road but there was a line between his brows that hadn't been there a second ago.
"Two shots and two beers," I said. "Over four hours."
He didn't say anything.
"Sawyer." I turned in my seat to face him.
"I am not drunk. I am warm and I am happy and I have wanted this for an embarrassingly long time and I just told you I'd let you prop me up on a fence, which I would not have said if I wasn't comfortable with you.
" I paused. "The tequila is not why I'm in this truck. "
He looked at me then, cocking his head just slightly.
"Why are you in this truck?" he said.
"Because I asked to leave the bar and you ordered two more drinks first, which I appreciated, and then you put your hand on my back and walked me out." I held his gaze. "And because we really should have done this after Millie and Gage’s wedding but I was definitely too drunk then, and I’m not now.”
Silence.
The property lights were close now.
"You're sure," he said. Not a question exactly. More like the last checkpoint.
"I'm sure." I put my hand over his on the gearshift. "I've been sure. The tequila just made me say it out loud."
He turned his hand over under mine and laced his fingers through mine and didn't let go until he had to shift down to pull onto the gravel.
When we were right outside his trailer, he cut the engine and we sat there for a second in the sudden quiet—just the tick of cooling metal and the horses whinnying in their paddock and his hand still warm in mine.
Then he got out. Came around to my side before I'd gotten the door open, which I did not expect, and offered his hand, which I also did not expect.
I took it and stepped down into the New Mexico dark.
The stars were obscene out here…a sky that made you feel very small and very alive at the same time.
He didn't let go.
We walked to the trailer door and he dug his keys out of his pocket with his free hand, which took a moment, and I watched him try to get the key in the lock one-handed and not drop either thing. I was endeared by it in a way I had no business being.
"Sorry," he said. "It's—hold on."
"Take your time."
He got the door open. Stepped up first, reached back for me.
I took his hand again and stepped up into a space that was small and warm and smelled like him—leather and something clean and underneath it something that was just Sawyer, just this specific man who had been living in the back of my mind for two years taking up space I hadn't given him permission to take.
He clicked on a small light, then reached over and moved a jacket off the narrow bench seat, then a set of reins that had no business being inside.
"Sorry," he said again. "Wasn't exactly expecting company."
I looked around. Everything had a place, even the things that were technically out of place.
A coffee mug in the small sink. A worn paperback face-down on the narrow counter.
His hat on a hook by the door. A blanket folded at the foot of the bed that was barely big enough for one person, let alone?—
I looked at the bed.
Stared, really.
He caught me looking and turned away, shockingly bashful.
"Water?" he said. "I've got—" He turned to the small cabinet and opened it. "Water. I've got water."
"Sawyer."
"Yeah?”
I stepped toward him.
He turned from the cabinet and I put both hands on his chest, looking up at him in the low light.
He looked surprised that I was being so forward…
but honestly, he shouldn’t have been surprised, and I wanted him too much to care.
My hands roamed lower, down his abs, hooked into his belt, and he sucked in a breath.
“I want you to fuck me, Sawyer,” I whispered.
He went very still.
Then his hands came down over mine on his belt and he held them there, not letting me move. He was looking at me with something in his eyes that was dark and unhurried and made my breath catch.
"I know what you want," he said. "I'll get there."
"Sawyer—"
"Hey." His thumb stroked over my knuckles. "I've got you."
He took my hands off his belt and walked me backward to the bed. My knees caught and I sat down too fast, looking up at him. I reached for him again, but he caught my wrists.
"Let me," he said.
Not a question. Not a request.
I let him.
He knelt down and took my shoes off, which was not what I was expecting, and set them aside and ran both hands up my calves and looked up at me from the floor of his trailer with those dark eyes.
His hands were still on my knees…thumbs gliding in slow circles over my bare skin, under the sundress I’d put on tonight with a denim jacket I hadn’t needed.
"You've been driving me crazy all day," he rasped. "You know that?"
"The corset?"
"Before the corset." His hands moved higher, past my knees, thumbs tracing the inside of my thighs, and I grabbed the edge of the mattress. "Craft services. You threw your arms around my neck and you smelled—" He stopped. Shook his head. "Couldn't think about anything else all day."
"You were very professional about it."
"I was." His hands pushed higher and I sucked in a breath. "I'm done being professional."
He pushed my skirt up, spread my legs, and buried his face between my thighs.
I was still wear cotton underwear, but he didn’t seem to care; he lapped at me, tasted how wet I already was, sucked on my clit even through the fabric.
"Sawyer—" His name came out broken.
He hooked his fingers into my underwear and pulled them down my legs and off and then his mouth was back and there was nothing between us and I stopped being able to form words.
His hands spread my thighs wider, easy, like he had every right to, and held them there when I tried to close them around his head.
"Stay open," he said against me. "Let me taste you."
"Sawyer—"
"I've been thinking about this all day." His voice was rough, urgent. "Since this morning. Since you smelled like that and looked like that and I had my hands on you and couldn't do a damn thing about it."
He put his mouth back on me and this time there was nothing patient about it.
He ate me out like he was starving for it, like he'd been holding himself back all day and was done holding back, his hands gripping my thighs hard enough to bruise and his tongue moving fast and focused and I stopped trying to be quiet.
"God—yes—right there?—"
He groaned against me, the vibration going straight through my core, and pushed two fingers inside me and curled them and I grabbed his hair with both hands and held on.
"You're so wet," he breathed. "Christ, Daniela—how long have you?—"
“All night,” I said. “Since the bar. I was squeezing my thighs…fuck, I was squeezing my thighs together in the truck…wanted you?—”
He made a sound that wasn't a word and worked me harder and I went over fast and hard, thighs shaking around his head, his name coming out of my mouth in a way I'd never said anyone's name before.
He was on his feet before I'd stopped shaking, pulling his henley off, and I lay there watching him and felt my whole body clench again at the sight of him. The medal swinging against his chest. The belt buckle. The line of his stomach disappearing into his jeans.
"You're staring," he said, reaching for his belt.
"You're worth staring at." I sat up and reached for him. "Let me?—"
"I've got it." But he didn't stop me when my hands found his belt alongside his, both of us working it open.
He hissed out a breath when my hand slipped inside.
"Daniela—"
"Let me." I looked up at him. "You said let me earlier. Same thing."
Something flickered in his eyes. He didn't stop me.