13. Daniela
THIRTEEN
Daniela
I loved him.
I loved him and he loved me…and oh God, he was pulling me into the camper, up the little set of stairs, pushing my jacket off my shoulders…
He was slow, not frantic, but…still desperate. Desperate and enjoying it as much as I was enjoying him, my hands sliding under his shirt and sweater, curling against his abs. He leaned in to kiss me, pressing me against the counter, then he trailed his lips down my neck.
“We're doing this now?" I managed. "I've been driving for three hours."
"Mm." His mouth moved down my throat. "You can sleep after."
"That's very generous of you."
"I thought so." His hands found the hem of my shirt and slid underneath, warm against my waist, and I arched into him and forgot what I'd been about to say.
"I'm serious," I said. "I'm exhausted."
"You're not exhausted." He pulled back just far enough to look at me, dark-eyed, unhurried. "You drove two and a half hours in the dark to get here. That's not exhaustion. That's adrenaline."
"That's the same thing."
"It really isn't." His thumbs moved in slow circles against my hip bones and my brain went sideways. "Tell me to stop and I'll make you eggs."
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
“Right…” he said. “That's what I thought.”
He smiled—and then his mouth was back on my throat and I stopped having opinions about anything.
"I missed you," I said into his hair.
He pulled back and looked at me.
"I know," he said. "I missed you too."
Then he picked me up.
Just—hands at my waist, lifted me onto the counter in one move, stepped into the space between my knees the way he always did, eye level now, close. I grabbed his shoulders.
"Hi," I said.
"Hi." His hands slid up my thighs, slow and deliberate, pushing the fabric of my jeans. "You going to behave?"
"Absolutely not."
"Didn't think so." He leaned in, mouth at my ear. "That's fine. I've got time."
"You have eggs to make."
He stopped in his tracks.
“You wanna stop or not?”
I bit my lip.
“Keep going,” I breathed. He got my shirt over my head and I reached for his and he caught my wrists.
"Not yet," he said.
I stared at him. "You're joking."
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
He looked devastating. That was the problem. Dark sweater, dark eyes, the medal swinging forward when he'd leaned in, and the absolutely insufferable patience of a man who knew exactly what he was doing and had no intention of being rushed by me.
"I just told you I loved you," I said. "In the cold. At six in the morning. I drove?—"
"Two and a half hours, I know." His thumbs traced my collarbones. "I was there."
"So you could maybe?—"
"I could," he agreed. "But I'm not going to."
I narrowed my eyes. "I hate you."
"No you don't." He reached around and unhooked my bra with one hand, which I refused to find attractive. "You love me. You said so."
"I'm reconsidering."
"Mm." He slid the straps down my shoulders and looked at me and the reconsideration evaporated completely. His eyes moved over me slow, taking stock.
“What's the hold-up?” I asked.
He slid his hands up from my hips. Twirled his fingers around the peaks of my breasts.
“Trying to decide what I want to do with you,” he growled. “My girl.”
The words settled low in my stomach.
My girl.
"You're stalling," I said. My voice came out less steady than I wanted.
"I'm not stalling." His thumbs moved in slow circles and my eyes tried to close. "I'm deciding. There's a difference."
"Sawyer—"
"Shh." He leaned in and pressed his mouth to my collarbone, the curve of my breast, unhurried, like he had all morning and intended to use it. "I've been thinking about this for a week. Let me have it."
"You've been thinking about—" I stopped, grabbed his shoulders. "You've been thinking about this for a week and your solution is to go slow?"
"My solution," he said against my skin, "is to do it right."
"I will get down off this counter."
"You won't."
He was correct. I wouldn't. My legs were already hooked around the backs of his thighs and my hands were in his hair and I had approximately no leverage, physical or moral.
"You're insufferable," I told him.
"Mm." He pulled back and looked at me, dark-eyed, the medal swinging forward. "Hands behind your back."
I stared at him.
"Daniela."
"We've been apart for a week?—"
"And I want to look at you." His voice dropped. "Hands. Behind your back."
I held his gaze for one long defiant second.
Then I put my hands behind my back.
Something moved through his eyes. Satisfaction, dark and warm.
"Good girl," he said.
I felt it from my throat to my knees.
He took his time. Both hands on me, slow and thorough, thumbs tracing patterns I couldn't predict, mouth following wherever he decided, and I sat on that counter with my hands behind my back and my jaw set and tried very hard not to make noise and failed completely.
"Sawyer—"
"Stay still."
"I'm trying?—"
"Try harder." His mouth closed over my nipple and my head fell back and I stopped trying entirely.
"Please," I said. To the ceiling of the trailer. To no one in particular. "Please, I need?—"
"What do you need." Not a question. He knew. He always knew and made me say it anyway.
"You," I said. "I need you, please?—"
"You've got me." His hands moved to my jeans, button, zip, pulling them down my hips. "You've always had me. Took you a while to figure that out."
"Don't be smug about it?—"
"I'm not smug." He got my jeans off and dropped them somewhere and looked at me, just looked, and I felt it like a hand at my throat. "I'm grateful."
Something cracked in my chest at that. The teasing falling away for just a second, real underneath.
"Sawyer," I said. Softer.
"I know." He stepped back in close, hands on my thighs. "Lay back."
"I'll fall off the counter."
"You won't. I've got you."
I laid back on the counter, which was narrow and cold against my spine and absolutely did not matter because his hands were on me and his mouth was following and I stopped caring about anything structural.
"Perfect," he said against my stomach. Lower. "You're perfect."
"I'm really—" The word dissolved. "I'm really not?—"
"You are." His mouth moved lower and I grabbed the edge of the counter with both hands. "You're mine and you're perfect and I've been thinking about this all week." His breath was warm against my inner thigh. "So you're going to let me have it."
"Yes," I breathed. "God, yes, okay?—"
"Good girl."
He put his mouth on me and I forgot my own name.
He was thorough about it. Unhurried, focused, the same way he approached everything—like he'd assessed the situation and made a plan and was executing it with complete confidence and no interest whatsoever in being redirected. My hands found his hair. He let me pull. Kept going.
"I'm already—" I managed. "I'm going to?—"
He hummed against me and I went over fast and hard, his name coming out of my mouth twice, my whole body locking up and then shaking apart. He worked me through every second, not letting up until my thighs were shaking around his head and I was gasping at the ceiling.
He held my thighs as he stood…pulled me into his arms.
I nestled against the warm fleece of his sweater, hanging onto him tight.
"I've got you," he murmured into my hair. "I've got you."
I was boneless against him, arms around his neck, face pressed to his throat. He carried me the three steps to the bed like I weighed nothing, which I did not, and I did not care even slightly because his arms were solid and warm and I was still shaking faintly from the aftershocks.
He sat on the edge of the mattress with me in his lap and ran one hand up and down my spine, slow and steady, the way he settled Bishop after a hard training session.
"Still with me?"
"Barely."
"Good." His hand kept moving, up and down, unhurried. "Because I'm not done with you."
I lifted my head. Looked at him.
"No?" I said.
"Not even close." He pushed my hair back from my face, thumb at my cheekbone. "I've been thinking about what I want to do to you for a week." His voice had dropped to that register, the low one, the paddock voice. "You want to know what I decided?"
My mouth went dry. "Tell me."
He tipped my chin up.
"I'm going to bend you over this bed," he said, "and take you apart from behind until you're begging.
And when you think you can't take any more—" his thumb traced my lower lip, "—I'm going to flip you over and do it again.
" His eyes held mine. "And somewhere in the middle of all that I'm going to put my mouth on every inch of you.
Including," his thumb moved, just slightly, "places I haven't spent enough time on yet. "
The implication landed and my whole body went hot.
"Sawyer—"
"You're going to let me," he said. "Because you're mine. And because you want to." His thumb traced my lip again. "Don't you."
It wasn't really a question.
"Yes," I breathed.
"Good girl." He stood, set me on my feet, turned me by my hips until I was facing the bed. His hands ran down my sides, my waist, the curve of my hips, unhurried and possessive and absolutely deliberate. "Hands on the mattress."
I put my hands on the mattress.
"Good." His palm pressed flat between my shoulder blades, gentle, bending me forward. "Just like that. Stay there."
I stayed.
Behind me I heard his sweater hit the floor. His belt. The sounds of a man taking his time, not rushing, knowing I could hear every second of it and letting me.
"Sawyer." I couldn't help it.
"I know." His hands found my hips again, warm and sure. "I know what you want."
"Then—"
"Then let me give it to you." His mouth pressed to the back of my neck, my spine, moving down, and I grabbed the blanket with both fists. "Let me have you. All of you." His hands spread warm across my lower back. "Every part."
"Yes." My forehead dropped to the mattress. "Yes, okay, everything, just?—"
"Just what." His mouth at the small of my back. Lower. "Use your words."
"Please," I said. "Sawyer, please?—"