17. Daniela #2
"Good girl." He reached up and freed the lasso from the headboard—not off my wrists, true to his word, just enough slack that I could move—and guided me forward onto my knees in front of him.
He stood at the edge of the bed.
Got his belt open. His jeans. Pushed everything down and stepped out and stood there and just—let me look.
I'd never get used to it. Four months and I still hadn't gotten used to it, the specific way he looked at night in low light. The medal. The line of his stomach. The patience in his face that wasn't patience at all, just control, and the control slipping at the edges because of me.
My hands were still loosely bound in front of me. The lasso trailed warm across the blanket.
I reached for him.
His breath hissed out.
I wrapped both hands around him—tied together, easier than it should have been—and stroked once and watched his head tip back and felt the specific satisfaction of taking Sawyer Holt apart, which never got old and never would.
"Daniela." Warning.
"You said put my mouth on you," I said. "I'm getting there."
"Get there faster."
I took my time.
When I finally took him into my mouth his hand went straight to my hair. Not guiding. Just holding. Like he needed something to hold onto and this was what he had.
"God." Rough. Unsteady. All that careful control fraying at once. "Just like that. Don't stop."
I didn't stop.
I took him slow and then deep and then slow again, my hands still wrapped around the base of him, the lasso a warm weight across my wrists, and I looked up at him through my lashes the way I'd learned made him lose twenty seconds of coherent thought immediately.
It worked.
His grip tightened in my hair.
"Stop performing," he managed. Barely. "I don't want Daphne Wilder."
I hummed against him.
"Daniela." My name in his mouth, rough and wrecked, nothing like the careful man he was anywhere else.
"You have no idea what you do to me. Every day on that set just—" His hips pushed forward and I took it and he exhaled hard.
"Every time I watch you on that horse. Every time Ellis calls cut and you look at me across the set like—" He stopped.
His jaw was tight. His hand in my hair not gentle anymore, just holding on. "Like I'm the only person there."
I hummed again.
He pulled me off by my hair.
I looked up at him breathing hard, lips parted, completely wrecked, and felt powerful in a way that had nothing to do with performing.
"Turn around," he said.
Not a request.
I turned around. Went to my hands and knees on the mattress, wrists still bound, the lasso trailing forward. He gathered the tail of it in one hand—not pulling, just holding, just the awareness of it—and his other hand ran slow down my spine.
"You're so beautiful," he said. Quiet. Into the space between us. "You know that? Every day. Every version of you."
My throat went tight.
"Sawyer—"
"I know." His hand spread warm across my lower back. "I know. I've got you."
He pushed inside me slow.
The sound I made echoed off the trailer walls and I didn't care. Couldn't care. He was everywhere—deep and full and certain—and his hand tightened on the lasso tail just slightly, not pulling, just present, just the reminder.
"Mine," he said against my spine.
"Yours," I breathed into the pillow. "Always yours."
"That's right." He started to move and I grabbed the blanket with both bound hands and held on. "My girl." Deeper. "My future wife." Deeper still. "Mine."
He found a rhythm that was going to ruin me and he knew it—slow and deep and deliberate, the kind that built and built and gave you nothing to rush toward, just wave after wave of it until you were shaking apart at the seams. His hand came around to the front and I arched back into him and cried out and he held me there, hips still moving, patient and merciless and completely certain.
"Sawyer—" Broken. "Please?—"
"Please what."
"I need—more—please?—"
"More," he repeated, and gave it to me. His hips snapped forward and I buried my face in the pillow and let the sound come out muffled and desperate and completely undignified. "Like that?"
"Yes—don't stop?—"
"Wasn't planning on it." His mouth at the back of my neck, the curve of my shoulder. "Come on. Let me feel it. Give me one."
"I can't just?—"
"You can." His fingers moved and his hips didn't slow. "You always can. Come on, baby. Be good for me."
I came.
Hard and fast and completely, his name tearing out of me, my whole body shaking, his hand holding me through every second while he kept moving, kept driving deep, kept his voice low and steady in my ear—good girl, that's it, you're so good, give me all of it—until I had nothing left to give and then he took that too.
He followed me over with both hands gripping my hips and my name in his mouth, rough and wrecked and reverent all at once, shuddering against my back. It wasn't long before we rolled to the side, his cock still inside me, thrusting every so often…just letting me feel him.
I looked over my shoulder with bleary eyes.
Found his face.
“Five years,” I said.
He frowned. “...what?”
“That's how long I want before we start trying for kids,” I said. “Then—then I want you to tie me up and breed me until I'm pregnant. I want to get this IUD out and I want to have lots of gorgeous babies. Okay?”
He went very still behind me.
Then—I felt it. A slow, deliberate roll of his hips. Still inside me. That particular twitch that meant his body had heard something his brain was still processing.
I smiled into the pillow.
"Sawyer."
"Five years," he said. His voice had gone rough again. Different from before—not the paddock voice, not the Dom voice. Something rawer than either. "Five years and then?—"
"And then I want you to take the lasso out again," I said, "and I want you to tie me up and put a baby in me."
He made a sound that wasn't a word.
His hips rolled again. Slow. Involuntary.
"Sawyer," I said, very seriously. "Are you getting hard again."
"..."
"Oh my God."
"You said breed," he said. Like that explained everything. Like that was a complete sentence.
"I did say breed."
"Daniela." His forehead dropped to the back of my neck. His hips moved again, more deliberate this time, and I felt exactly what was happening and bit my lip against the smile. "You can't just—in the middle of—you can't say things like that."
"I just did."
"I know you just did." Another roll of his hips, slow and deep, and I sucked in a breath. "You did it on purpose."
"I did it because I meant it." I looked over my shoulder at him again.
His eyes were dark and slightly wrecked and entirely certain, the way they always were when he'd decided something.
"Five years. Then babies. Then we do this the fun way without the IUD and you give me everything you've got.
" I held his gaze. "That okay with you?"
He answered by pulling out slow and pushing back in deep and I gasped and grabbed the blanket with both hands.
"Yeah," he said, rough against my ear. "That's okay with me."
"How okay."
"Extremely." His hand spread flat across my stomach, low, warm and deliberate and full of intent. "Five years." His hips moved and I arched back into him. "And then I'm going to take that lasso out and I'm going to keep you right here until it takes."
"Promise?" I breathed.
"Promise." His mouth at my throat. "Every night until it takes."
"That could take a while."
"I know." I could hear the smile in it. Dark and warm and entirely Sawyer. "I'm not in a hurry."
I laughed, and it dissolved immediately into something else as his hand moved and his hips didn't slow, and I thought about five years from now—this man, this trailer, or whatever came after it—and felt something so simple and complete settle in my chest that I didn't have a word for it.
Didn't need one.
"Sawyer," I breathed.
"I've got you," he said. Like always. Like every time.
"I know," I said. Like always. Like every time.
He kept his promise.
Twice.