17. Daniela
SEVENTEEN
Daniela
Apparently I'd been awfully smug during the shoot today.
And Sawyer…Sawyer needed to remind me that safety was paramount.
The set belonged to us at night. That was just the reality of how a location shoot worked—the crew went back to the hotel in town, Ellis went wherever Ellis went, the AD's and the grips and the camera department all cleared out by seven.
But the horse master stayed with the horses.
Always. That was non-negotiable on any shoot, and on this one it meant Sawyer's trailer was parked at the edge of the temporary paddock and I had a perfectly good room at the production hotel that I had not slept in once.
Nobody said anything about it.
A few people had figured out we were together—it wasn't like we were obvious on set, we were both professionals, but there were only so many times the lead actress could bring the horse master a coffee before someone did the math.
Mark had given me a look about it on day three that was mostly just appreciative.
The second AD had asked me at lunch on Friday if the horse master had a brother, which I'd taken as confirmation that the situation was understood.
Sawyer was unfailingly professional during the day.
What he did at night was a separate matter entirely.
Tonight, though.
Tonight was his.
I'd known it the second I came back around on Bishop after the stunt—the one where I'd dropped my outside hand because I'd done the math in half a second and knew the grab would look better, knew it was a marginal risk at most, knew I could handle it.
And I had handled it. Ellis had called it perfect. The DP had actually clapped.
Sawyer had looked at me with a completely neutral expression and said good work today and turned to check Bishop's foreleg.
Which meant I was in trouble.
He hadn't said a word about it on the walk back to the trailer.
Hadn't said anything while I changed out of the costume.
Had made dinner—actual dinner, because he cooked now that we had a two-burner stove and somewhere to be—and talked about the next week's schedule and asked about my call time tomorrow.
I'd almost convinced myself I'd imagined the look.
Then he'd told me to sit on the bed and wait for him.
So I was sitting on the bed. Waiting.
The trailer was warm. Outside I could hear the horses moving in the portable paddock, the soft sounds of them settling for the night. The set was dark and still in every direction, the Hill Country spread out around us, no one for miles.
Ours.
Sawyer came out of the small bathroom. He'd changed—dark henley, jeans, barefoot, the medal against his chest. He was holding his lasso.
I looked at the lasso.
Looked at his face.
"Sawyer," I said.
"You dropped your outside hand," he said.
"The grab looked better."
"The grab looked better," he repeated. Flat.
"It did. Ellis said?—"
"I know what Ellis said." He came to stand in front of me, looking down. "I was there."
"Then you know it worked."
"It worked," he agreed. "This time."
"I did the math?—"
"Daniela." He crouched down in front of me, eye level, the lasso loose in his hands. His voice was even. Patient. The paddock voice. "You dropped your outside hand at a full gallop with the camera running and a fence post coming up at thirty miles an hour. If Bishop had shifted two inches left?—"
"He didn't."
"If he had."
I pressed my lips together.
"Say it," he said.
"I could have gone down," I said. "Under his feet."
"Under his feet," he confirmed. "At thirty miles an hour." He held my gaze. "You want to tell me again that the grab looked better?"
I said nothing.
He stood up.
"Hands out," he said.
I looked at the lasso.
Looked at him.
"We're doing this?" I said.
"We're doing this." The corner of his mouth pulled. Not quite a smile. "Hands out, Daniela. Or I'll put you to bed and we'll talk about it in the morning."
I held my hands out.
He shook out the lasso—soft nylon, his working rope, worn smooth from use—and looped it around my wrists with the focused efficiency of a man who did this for a living. Not tight. Enough. He ran the tail through the headboard slat and secured it and stepped back and looked at me.
I pulled once, testing.
Wasn't going anywhere.
He reached out and tipped my chin up. "You scared me today."
The playfulness dropped out of his voice for just a second.
"I know," I said. "I'm sorry."
"You're not sorry yet." The corner of his mouth pulled again, the almost-smile coming back. "But you will be."
"That's—" I started.
"A promise," he said. "Not a threat."
He sat on the edge of the bed beside me and ran one hand slowly up my thigh and I forgot what I'd been about to say.
"Here's what's going to happen," he said, conversational, his hand moving higher.
"You're going to stay exactly where I put you.
You're not going to rush me. You're not going to tell me you've done the math.
" His fingers found the hem of my shirt.
"And you're going to think very carefully about whether dropping that hand was worth it. "
"It was worth it," I said. Immediately.
He looked at me.
"The shot looked incredible," I said. "I stand by it."
"Of course you do."
He didn't take my plain t-shirt off. He couldn't—my wrists were tied. Instead he bunched the fabric up slowly, his knuckles dragging warm up my stomach, my ribs, until the shirt was above my breasts and the cotton hem was right at my chin.
He looked at my face.
"Hold it," he said.
I opened my mouth and took the hem between my teeth.
He reached behind me and unhooked my bra. Slid the straps down as far as they'd go with my arms above my head—not all the way off, not possible—just enough that it fell loose and he pushed it up alongside the shirt.
He stepped back.
Just looked.
I was tied to his headboard with his lasso, shirt held between my own teeth, and he was standing there in his henley with his arms crossed looking at me like he had nowhere else to be and nothing more pressing to do than take me apart at whatever pace he decided.
I was going to kill him.
He uncrossed his arms. Sat on the edge of the bed beside me. Reached out and traced one finger—just one, just the tip—along the curve of my breast.
I breathed through my nose.
"Don't drop it," he said.
I held it.
He did it again. Slower. The same path, unhurried, watching my face the whole time. His thumb grazed my nipple and my back arched off the mattress and he pulled his hand back immediately.
I made a sound that was not dignified.
"Hold still," he said.
I held still.
He leaned in and pressed his mouth to my collarbone. My sternum. The curve of my breast, his breath warm against my skin, his lips barely touching. Not enough. Nowhere near enough. I pulled against the lasso and it held and his hand came up to my hip.
"Still," he said against my skin.
I went still.
"Good girl." His mouth moved, just slightly. Closer. "You're doing so well."
The shirt was still between my teeth. I was focusing very hard on that. On keeping my jaw closed and my breathing even and not making another undignified sound.
Losing on all fronts.
His thumb moved again, slow circle, and I exhaled hard through my nose and he made a low sound of approval that went straight through me.
"You know what I keep thinking about?" he said against my breast. Conversational. Like we were at the picnic table. Like he wasn't currently destroying me. "That stunt today."
I stared at the ceiling.
"The way you looked coming in at speed." His mouth moved to my nipple and closed over it warm and I bit down on the shirt and made a muffled sound that echoed off the trailer walls. "Incredible." He pulled back just enough. "Reckless. But incredible."
I said something into the shirt that wasn't a word.
"What was that?" he said.
I said it again. Still not a word.
"Drop the shirt," he said, "and we stop."
I held the shirt.
"That's what I thought." His mouth came back and this time he wasn't being gentle about it—his tongue, his teeth, just enough pressure to make my whole body clench—and his other hand came up to the other side and I was actively trembling and completely unable to do anything about it because my hands were tied and my shirt was in my teeth and this man was methodical and patient and absolutely merciless.
"Sawyer—" Into the cotton. Muffled. Wrecked.
"Mm." He didn't stop.
"Sawyer—"
"You're doing so well." His thumb moved in slow circles while his mouth kept working and I pulled against the lasso again, both hands, and it held and he held and I was trapped between all of it. "Staying so still for me." His voice dropped lower. "You want to know what you get when you're good?"
I nodded frantically.
He pulled back just far enough to look at my face.
"I'm going to tell you what you get," he said, low and even. "And you're going to hold still and listen."
I nodded again.
"I'm going to free your hands from the headboard.
" His thumb moved once, slow circle, and I bit the shirt harder.
"Not take the lasso off. Just give you enough slack to get on your knees.
" His mouth brushed the curve of my breast. "And you're going to put that pretty mouth on me and take what I give you.
" His eyes came back to my face, dark and certain.
"And when I decide you've been good enough—when I think you've earned it—I'm going to take you from behind and fill my future bride up so deep she forgets what she did wrong today.
" His hands gripped my hips. "And you're going to take every bit of it.
Because you're mine. And that's what mine does. "
The word landed low and warm and total.
Mine.
Future bride.
I let the shirt fall from my teeth.
"Yes," I breathed. "Please. Sawyer, please?—"
"Drop the shirt," he said, "and stay dropped."
"It's dropped?—"