7. Sawyer
SEVEN
Sawyer
She kissed me first.
That was the thing I was going to be thinking about for a while—the way she'd grabbed my jacket and pulled me down like she was done waiting, like she'd made the decision somewhere between the paddock fence and now and wasn't interested in revisiting it.
Six months.
I'd been patient for six months and she'd walked out of Millie's back door in her jacket and her boots and come straight to me like she'd known where she was going the whole time.
I walked her backward to the trailer without breaking the kiss and somehow managed to get the door open. We tripped up the stairs and stumbled in, and I slammed the door shut again with my foot while I pressed her up against the counter.
She moaned against my mouth when her back hit the counter.
Six months. Too fucking long.
Her hands found my hair. Mine found her waist and pulled her in and she came without hesitation—all of her, pressing close like she was trying to erase every inch of distance at once.
I broke the kiss.
She chased it.
I pulled back just far enough that she couldn't reach and looked at her. Flushed. Breathing hard. Lips parted.
"Relax," I said. “I'm gonna take care of you.”
Her lips parted. Her brow furrowed. "Don't be calm right now?—"
"I'm not calm."
"You look calm."
I slid my hands to her hips and lifted her onto the counter in one movement. She gasped and grabbed my shoulders, suddenly eye level, and I stepped into the space between her knees.
Then I grabbed her wrist.
Pressed her hand to my hard cock.
She sucked in a harsh breath.
"I am not calm," I said, rocking into her hand. Her fingers clenched and my eyes closed for a split second. “I am anything but calm. I sat at that table wanting to be inside you all fuckin’ night.”
Her breath came out ragged. Her fingers pressed harder and I let her for one moment—just one—before I pulled her hand away.
She made a frustrated sound.
"Six months," I said.
"I know?—"
"You stopped texting."
"Sawyer—"
"I'm not looking for an apology." I pressed my mouth to her jaw, her throat, felt her head tip back. "I just want you to say it."
"Say what."
"That you thought about this."
A beat. Her fingers curled into my shoulders.
"I thought about it," she said. Quiet. Almost embarrassed.
"How often?"
"A lot."
"More specific."
"Constantly." The word came out tight, like she couldn’t keep it in. "I thought about it constantly. Every—" She stopped.
"Every what?"
Her eyes blazed.
“Every time I was alone. Touching myself…getting off to the memory of you fucking me?—”
I pulled her jacket off her shoulders. Dropped it. Got my hands on the hem of her shirt and she lifted her arms without being asked and I pulled it over her head and tossed it and looked at her…at how perfect she was. At those eyes, those gorgeous lips, long dark hair?—
She reached for my shirt.
I caught her wrists.
"Not yet," I said.
"Sawyer." Her voice was tight with frustration.
"Not yet." I held her wrists in one hand, used the other to trace slow down her collarbone. Her jaw set. The brat flickering back. God…god, she was wild. "Tell me what part you thought about."
"You know what part."
"Tell me anyway."
She pressed her lips together. Said nothing.
I dragged my thumb across the top of her bra, unhurried, watching her try to hold still.
"The way I talked to you," I said. "That part?"
Her exhale was sharp.
"Or the part where you stopped trying to be in charge." I leaned in, mouth at her ear. "And just took what I gave you."
"Both," she breathed. "Both, fine, yes?—"
"Good girl.”
I popped the button on her jeans, shoved my hand inside—no preamble, no buildup—and found her already soaked through her underwear.
"Christ," I breathed. "Six months and you show up like this."
She grabbed my shoulders. "Sawyer?—"
"How long have you been this wet?"
"Since—" She choked on it. "Since the paddock?—"
I pushed her underwear aside and got my fingers on her clit, direct, no easing into it. She cried out and tried to close her thighs, but I held them open with my wrist.
"Keep them open," I said.
"I’m too sensitive?—"
"You can." I kept the pressure steady. Relentless. "You're gonna come fast for me."
"Sawyer—"
"Right now." Firm. "Come on."
"I can't just—on command?—"
"You can." I leaned in close, mouth at her ear. "You've been thinking about this for six months. Your body's been ready since you walked out that back door. Stop fighting it." My fingers moved faster. She was shaking. "Come for me, Daniela. Right now."
She shattered.
Fast and hard, the way I'd told her to, her whole body clenching, face buried in my neck, one broken sound after another that she was trying to muffle and failing.
I worked her through every second of it, not letting up until her thighs were shaking and her hands were twisted in my shirt and she was gasping for air.
“Jesus, you're already building up to another one, aren't you?” I slid a finger inside her and she moaned so loud I was sure the whole ranch could hear. “Fuck…the way you're clenching around me, Daniela. You're so fucking sweet, baby.”
She rocked her hips into my hand like a feral animal.
"That's it." I added a second finger and she made a sound that went straight to my cock. "There you go."
"Sawyer—" Broken. Desperate. Nothing like the woman who'd walked out to the paddock with her chin up and her attitude intact. "Please?—"
"Please what." I curled my fingers and watched her head fall back. "Use your words."
"I need—" She rocked against my hand again, chasing it. "I need you inside me?—"
"Not yet."
"Sawyer—"
"Not yet." I kept the slow curl of my fingers, the steady press of my thumb against her clit, and watched her try to hold herself together and fail completely. "You're gonna give me one more first."
"I can't?—"
"You can." I pressed my mouth to her throat, felt her pulse hammering under my lips. "You're gonna be so good for me."
"I hate you," she gasped.
"No you don't."
"I really—" Her whole body shuddered. "I really do?—"
"Liar." I twisted my wrist and she cried out, loud, loud enough that some part of my brain noted the ranch was not that far away and didn't care even slightly. "Come on. Give it to me."
She came apart on my hand—harder this time, longer, her thighs clamping around my wrist and her fingers digging into my shoulders hard enough to bruise and my name coming out of her over and over, rough and wrecked and nothing like Daphne Wilder.
Just Daniela.
I worked her through it until she went boneless against the counter, breathing in ragged pulls, her forehead dropping to my shoulder.
But I wasn’t done. Not even close. My fingers stayed inside her as I reached around with my other hand to unhook her bra, then lowered my head to suck hard on her nipple.
She cried out, this strangled sob. Just…gave it to me. So fucking wet and clenching and…
Giving into it like she had when I scooped her onto Bishop’s back all those months ago. Letting me take care of her.
I pulled my hand free. She whimpered at the loss.
"Off," I said, fingers at the waistband of her jeans.
She lifted her hips and I got them down and off—underwear with them—and she was bare from the waist down and reaching for me again and I stepped back just far enough.
"Sawyer—"
"I know." I pulled my henley over my head. Dropped it. Her eyes went to my chest, my stomach, the medal swinging forward, and I watched her watch me and felt it deep in my gut.
I finally took a second…looked at her. All of her, fucking perfect Daniela Morales, in my trailer again, begging for my cock.
“Come here,” I growled.
She slid off the counter. Stood in front of me…I reached for my belt.
She watched my hands with dark eyes and didn't offer to help this time, just watched. I got my jeans open and pushed everything down, then I just…let her look. A reminder.
She sucked in a breath when she saw me.
"Yeah?" I said.
"It's been six months," she said. "I forgot."
"Did you?"
"I said I thought about it. I didn't say I remembered accurately."
I frowned. Fuck…needed to get a condom. I thought I still had one handy, even if I hadn’t touched another woman since?—
“Hey,” she said. “I’m uh…I have an IUD. You don’t have to, if that’s?—”
I looked at her.
She looked back, steady, chin slightly lifted the way she did when she'd said something bold and was committed to it.
"You sure?" I said.
"I've been sure for six months." A pause. "I'm clean."
"Me too." I hadn't been with anyone since June. Hadn't wanted to. "You wanna ride me raw?"
Her eyes dropped. Came back up. "Yes."
I didn’t even bother getting to the bed; I sat down on the narrow bench seat right behind me. Patted my thigh.
She came to me without questioning it. Climbed into my lap—straddling me, her knees on either side of my thighs, the bench barely wide enough, her hands braced on my shoulders. Eye level. Close.
"I'm in charge up here," she said, a little too smug.
"Sure," I said.
Her eyes narrowed.
I put my hands on her hips—not guiding, just holding—and looked at her. Waited.
She reached between us. Positioned me. Sank down slow.
We both went absolutely still.
The air went out of me. All of it, gone.
Nothing between us. Just her—warm and tight and real—and six months of waiting collapsed into one moment.
Her breath came out shaky against my neck.
Mine wasn't steady either.
"Sawyer." Barely sound.
"I know." I pressed my mouth to her temple, her cheek, tasted her skin. My hands were gripping her hips harder than I meant to. "I know."
She shifted—just slightly, just a fraction—and I made a sound I hadn't planned.
She pulled back to look at me. Something flickering in her face. Surprise, maybe. Or satisfaction.
"The horse master needs a second," she said.
"The horse master," I said carefully, "is exercising considerable restraint."
"How noble."
"Daniela." I looked at her. "Move."
She moved.
Slow at first—a roll of her hips that dragged a rough sound out of me—and I felt her everywhere, the slick heat of her, the way she fit, the way my hands were leaving marks on her hips that I'd think about later.
She found a rhythm. Picked up the pace. Her breath went ragged against my jaw.
"God," she breathed. "God, you feel?—"
"Yeah." I pressed my face into her hair. Inhaled. Cedar smoke and the cool night and Daniela, Daniela, sex and Daniela. "Yeah, I know."
She was chasing it now—hips rocking, fingers digging into my shoulders, little sounds escaping her that she wasn't trying to suppress anymore. The brat gone completely. Just Daniela, moving in my lap in the December dark, taking what she needed.
I let her run it for a while.
Felt her start to shake. Felt the rhythm getting desperate, breaking apart at the edges, felt her clench around me and gasp.
Then I gripped her hips.
Stopped her.
"Sawyer—"
"I've got you." I shifted forward on the bench, changed the angle, heard her breath catch on a moan. "Let me."
"I was?—"
"I know what you were doing." I started to move—slow, deep, deliberate—and felt her whole body shudder in response. "Now let me."
She made a sound against my neck that was half frustration and half something else entirely.
Her arms came around my shoulders and she held on and stopped fighting it—stopped performing, stopped running it, stopped doing anything except feeling—and that was it, that was the whole thing, that was what I'd been waiting for.
"There," I said against her throat. "That's it."
"Don't stop," she breathed. "Don't—please—Sawyer?—"
"Not stopping." I drove deeper and she arched and cried out, loud in the small space. "Not even close."
The bench creaked. Her nails raked down my back. I felt her building—felt it in the way she was clenching, in the broken sounds she kept making, in the way she'd stopped saying words and was just making noise against my shoulder.
"Come on," I said low. "Come on, baby. Give it to me."
She broke.
Hard—harder than either time before, her whole body locking up and then shaking apart, my name tearing out of her throat, her fingers twisted in my hair pulling hard enough to sting.
I followed her over with my face pressed into her neck and her name in my mouth like it meant something.
I gave it a second…waited until my knees weren’t weak anymore.
Finally stood, and she didn’t even utter a word of protest—just held on tight and folded into me, letting me carry her to bed.
I laid her down carefully, and only then did I pull her off my cock…
and that, she did get mad about, frowning up at me.
Still, she curled into the blankets as I crawled in beside her.
Opened her eyes again to look at me when my head hit the pillow. Smiled.
I smiled back.
“I missed you,” she said.
That raised a hell of a lot of questions—but I just reached out to brush a lock of hair from her temple.
“Missed you too, Daniela.”