4. Daniela #2
I pushed his jeans down and he stepped out of them and I took a moment to just—look.
Because I had been thinking about this, specifically, since approximately Millie and Gage's wedding when he'd danced with me once and his hand had been at my waist and I'd spent the rest of the night being extremely normal about it.
He was worth every second of the thinking.
Big and thick and hard as a rock…circumcised, gorgeous. I wrapped my fingers around him and stroked him, and my eyes darted up to see his own closed, his brow furrowed.
His hand shot out to grip my hair.
“Christ,” he gasped. “Daniela?—”
I took him into my mouth—just barely. Tasted salt and heat and god, the weight of him on my tongue was so good…
“God,” he rasped. “Where did you?—”
I slid deeper, slowly, enjoying it. I’d watched him controlling that horse earlier, let him control me…and I wanted this, just for a second.
To be the one in charge. To take him apart.
But of course he couldn’t let that happen.
His fingers tightened in my hair.
I looked up at him and his jaw was tight and his eyes were dark and he was looking down at me like I was something he'd been trying not to want for a very long time.
"Stop performing," he said. Low. Rough. "I don't want Daphne Wilder."
I stilled.
"I want Daniela." His thumb stroked along my jaw. "Just you. Let me have you."
Something cracked open in my chest.
I let go. Stopped thinking about technique, stopped thinking about anything, just—let him have it. And he took it. His grip shifted in my hair and his hips moved, slow at first, careful, watching my face.
"Okay?" he said.
I hummed against him.
He exhaled hard. "God."
He found a rhythm and I let him set it, my hands on his thighs, his fingers wound through my hair, and the sounds he made were nothing like the controlled quiet of earlier. This was…rough. Filthy. He was losing it.
"That's it," he breathed. "Just like that."
His hips moved and I let him, my hands on his thighs, and he stroked through my hair with his free hand like he was settling something.
"Good girl." Low. Steady. The same voice he'd used in the paddock when I'd gotten it right. "You're so good."
My eyes went hot.
"Taking me so well," he said. "Look at you."
I looked up at him and something in his face came apart a little at the edges.
"Yeah." Rough. "Just like that. Keep your eyes on me."
I kept my eyes on him. His jaw tight. His chest heaving. The medal swinging forward when he moved.
"You have no idea—" He stopped. Started over. His hand tightened in my hair, not rough, just holding. "Been thinking about your mouth since this morning. Since you said my name at craft services and I—" His hips stuttered forward and he exhaled hard. "Christ."
I hummed against him and he made a sound that wasn't a word.
"Daniela." Urgent now. The patience gone completely. "You have to—I need you to?—"
His hand tightened in my hair.
"Stop," he managed. "I need you to stop or I'm gonna?—"
He pulled me off by my hair and looked down at me breathing hard, wrecked, all that careful steadiness finally cracked open, and I felt powerful in a way that had nothing to do with performing.
"Come here," he said.
Not a request.
I got on my knees and he moved to take my jacket off…to pull my dress over my head.
Then I was naked in his bed. Like I’d wanted all night.
And he was standing over me with his jeans around his ankles and his cock…his cock, oh my god, huge and shining with my spit, and?—
He stepped out of his jeans and I lowered to my back. He followed me down.
He reached past my head. The small drawer slid open. Wrapper tearing.
I watched him deal with it and thought about his hands on Bishop's reins, his hands at my waist in the paddock, his hands in my hair twenty minutes ago. By the time he looked back down at me I was already half gone.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey," I said. Wrecked.
His thumb brushed my cheekbone. Gentle, after everything.
"Still with me?"
"Sawyer." I grabbed his hips and pulled. "Get inside me."
The gentleness didn't leave his face. The patience did.
He pushed inside me slow.
The stretch of him dragged a sound out of me I'd never made before—low and desperate and completely unplanned—and he made one back, rough against my throat, his forehead dropping to my shoulder.
"God." Strained. "Daniela?—"
"I know." I tilted my hips up. "Move. Please."
"Give me a second." His voice was tight. "You feel—Christ—just give me a second."
I gave him a second.
We lay there breathing, fully connected, his weight pressing me into the narrow mattress. I felt him everywhere. I understood suddenly, completely, why Millie couldn't stop getting pregnant. I understood it in my bones.
Then he moved.
Nothing held back. His hips driving into mine, the trailer creaking, one hand braced by my head and the other finding my thigh and pushing it higher. The angle shifted. I cried out. He did it again, watching my face the whole time, deliberate and focused.
"There," he said. "That's the spot."
"Yes—don't stop?—"
"Not stopping." His mouth at my throat. "You feel so good. I thought about this. How you'd feel." His hips snapped forward and I gasped. "Thought about it all day. Every time I had my hands on you." Another stroke, harder. "Couldn't stop thinking about getting you here."
"Sawyer—"
"Tell me you thought about it too." Low. Against my ear.
"Yes." My nails raked down his back. "God, yes, since this morning?—"
"Since craft services." He pulled back slow and pushed back in and I whimpered. "Since you smelled like that and looked at me like that." Again, harder. "Drove me out of my mind."
"I was trying to be professional."
"You were." His hips found a rhythm that was going to kill me. "You were very professional." He reached between us and his thumb found my clit and I arched off the mattress. "I wasn't."
"Sawyer—please?—"
"Please what." He kept the rhythm. Kept the pressure. Watched my face like he was reading it.
"I need—more?—"
"More." He shifted the angle again, deeper, and I grabbed his shoulders and held on. "Like that?"
"Like that like that don't stop?—"
His thrusts got faster. He smiled against my shoulder.
"Come on." His mouth at my ear, low and steady, the paddock voice, the voice that meant he knew exactly what he was doing and was going to get what he wanted. "Give me one more. You can."
"I already—twice?—"
"I know." His thumb moved in slow circles. Patient. Merciless. "One more. Be good for me."
Be good for me.
I came undone.
It cracked through me from somewhere deep and total, my whole body arching, his name tearing out of my throat over and over while he worked me through every shaking second.
His hips didn't slow. His voice stayed low in my ear—good girl, that's it, you're so good, give it to me—and I gave it, all of it, until I was shaking and boneless and couldn't remember my own name.
Then his rhythm finally broke.
All that steadiness dissolved at once—his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise, his face buried in my neck, my name coming out of him rough and desperate and nothing like the careful man who'd driven me across the desert.
Not patient anymore. Not controlled. Just him, completely undone, shuddering against me.
He went still.
We lay there.
His weight was heavy and warm and complete. I kept my arms around him and didn't move. Above us the small window was full of stars. His heartbeat slowed against my chest.
His hand moved eventually. Up my side. Down again.
"Hey," he said. Rough and quiet.
"Hey," I said.
Outside one of the horses blew softly in the dark.
“You’re leaving tomorrow,” he murmured.
“Yeah.”
“I’m set to stay for another six months to finish shooting.”
I sighed. Closed my eyes.
“...yeah.”
Neither of us said anything after that.
His hand kept moving. Up my side. Down. The slow stroke of someone who wasn't ready to stop touching.
I stared at the small window and the stars and thought about my pickup shot at seven in the morning and the drive to Albuquerque and the flight home and my abuela's kitchen table and everything that was waiting for me in San Antonio that had nothing to do with this trailer, this man, this night.
Six months.
He was here for six more months and I was leaving at dawn and we'd just?—
I pressed my face into his neck and breathed him in.
"I want to do this again," I said. Quietly. Into his skin.
His hand stilled on my side.
"Yeah," he said.
"That's not—" I lifted my head. Looked at him in the low light. "I don't mean tonight. I mean?—"
"I know what you mean."
"Do you?"
He looked at me for a long moment. His thumb moved against my ribs.
"You're going home tomorrow," he said.
"Yes."
"And I'm here until December."
"Yes."
"And Millie's your best friend."
"Sawyer."
"I'm not—" He exhaled. "I'm not saying no. I'm just—" He looked at the ceiling. Back at me. "I want to be clear about what we're doing."
"I don't know what we're doing," I said. "I just know I don't want tonight to be the only time."
He was quiet for a moment.
Then he rolled toward me, propped on one elbow, and looked down at my face in the dim light the way he'd looked at me in the paddock when he was deciding something.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay?"
"When I get back to Texas." His hand came up to push my hair back. "We figure it out then."
I searched his face. He meant it.
"Okay," I said.
He pressed his mouth to my forehead and lay back and pulled me against his chest. I listened to his heartbeat and thought about six months and thought about Texas…
and then I thought about his hands and his voice and be good for me and felt the specific particular ache of wanting something you couldn't have yet.
The horses were quiet outside.
The stars hadn't moved.
I was leaving in a few hours.
I closed my eyes and held on and let myself have tonight.