Chapter 17
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
SAWYER
I’m getting ready for bed in one of the Boyers’ guest rooms when the door slowly creaks open. A smile pulls at my cheeks even as a weird sour feeling churns in my stomach. It isn’t the decadent charcuterie we had for dinner. Or the awful pumpkin brandy Mrs. Boyer foisted upon us.
The blue room is my “usual room” when I stay with the Boyers. It’s decorated with a mix of antique furniture and simple, clean lines. A large four-poster bed sits in the middle of the room, and by the window is a seating area with a loveseat and armchair.
“Sawyer?” comes Preston’s whisper, then the snick of the door latching shut behind him.
I turn from my duffle bag on a luggage rack—yes, the Boyers keep hotel-style luggage racks in their guest rooms—to find Preston dressed in plaid pajama pants and an old varsity t-shirt of mine from high school.
It’s much too big on him and he swims in it, but the sight makes my heart clench so hard it hurts. God, he looks so good wearing my clothes. It’s so cliché, and yet I can’t help the possessive satisfaction it gives me. Preston’s mine. I’ve put my mark on him.
Fuck. This whole situation is so fucked up.
I love him. I want to shout it from the rooftops. I want everyone to know. But I can’t.
In the few days since Preston came charging into Mars, all freaked out, we’ve had quite a bit more sex, but we’re still very much in the honeymoon phase.
Any minute now, Preston could tell me this has been a huge mistake.
It’s why I suggested we tone things down for the weekend.
There’s no point in raising suspicions when there will be nothing to suspect in a couple weeks.
I’ve managed to avoid Fitz too. The timing happened to work out in my favor—Fitz left the city early for Thanksgiving, and we’ve only had a couple text messages back and forth.
I won’t be able to avoid him forever, though.
I’ll have to break up with him after Thanksgiving.
No matter what happens between me and Preston, even if he wants nothing to do with me tomorrow, I can’t in good conscience keep dating Fitz.
It wouldn’t be fair to him—or to me. Fitz is a nice guy, sweet, smart, attractive.
But he doesn’t hold a candle to Preston. I was fooling myself to think he could.
Preston takes a few steps forward, then hesitates. “Is this… is this okay?”
I hate the uncertainty in his eyes, the waver in his voice, as if he’s not sure where he stands with me. That should never be in question. I will always be here for him—nothing will tear me away.
“Of course it is. Come here.” I wave him over and he rushes forward, arms snapping around my waist like a vise, face burrowing into the crook of my neck.
I hold him, nose in his hair, breathing in his lavender scent. It takes a few seconds for the tension in Preston’s body to melt away and he relaxes into me, letting me bear some of his weight.
Thanksgiving and Christmas are always fraught for Preston, and this weekend hasn’t gotten off to a great start. First the grilling from Madison. I know she didn’t mean him any harm, but what the fuck, Madison. Then Mrs. Boyer keeping us company by the fire downstairs.
Despite being a socialite, Mrs. Boyer has an eagle eye and she doesn’t miss anything. She rarely lets on how perceptive she is, but I have no doubt she keeps dossiers on every person she meets, and she’s not afraid of using the intelligence to her advantage.
Madison was right to warn us about limiting our PDA. It wouldn’t take much to trigger Mrs. Boyer’s suspicions. And once she’s got a scent in her nose, there’s no stopping her from tracking down the whole story.
There was a moment after we sat down with our food and drinks. Mrs. Boyer got this look in her eyes as she regarded Preston. It was calculating and shrewd and scary as fuck.
Then she turned it on me and for a second, I could’ve sworn she saw right through the inch of air I’d put between me and Preston. I fully expected the first words out of her mouth to be along the lines of, “How dare you touch my son. Get the hell out of my house.”
We managed to evade an interrogation tonight, but we’re by no means out of the danger zone. The fact that Mrs. Boyer didn’t say anything now, might just mean she’s saving it for a more advantageous opportunity later on.
Which is why, when we called it a night, I pushed Preston toward the house’s family wing while I retreated meekly to the guest wing. Not that I expected him to stay there; he knows where I usually am.
“Don’t want to stay in your old room?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
He shakes his head. “It’s cold in there.”
It’s not—every room has independent temperature controls. Preston just thinks it was because he was alone.
“Warmer now?” I rub my hands briskly up and down his back.
“Mmhmm.”
“Good.” I don’t bother asking whether he wants to stay with me tonight. It’s a given. I won’t turn him away when he’s come to me.
Preston shifts and suddenly I feel soft lips against the base of my neck. They travel up to the point of my jaw, then down toward my chin before sliding over my mouth.
He makes a soft moaning sound that goes straight to my dick. There’s a hint of minty fresh toothpaste on his lips and they part when I nibble on them.
Kissing Preston is such a head rush. I never imagined I’d be allowed to, that I’d ever know what it feels like, what he tastes like. It’s so much better than anything my imagination can conjure up.
But before we get too carried away, I break off the kiss, soothing Preston’s whine with a quiet hush. With my forehead resting against his, I whisper, “Are you sure about this? In your parents’ house?”
He stands stock-still for a moment before pulling away to look up at me. There’s confusion in his eyes and I could fucking kick myself.
“You don’t want to?” The hurt in his voice is clear.
“Of course I want to.” I brush my thumb across his gorgeous, gorgeous cheekbone. Then across his damp, rosy bottom lip.
“You’re not doing it just for me?” His limbs stiffen as some tension returns to his body. He tries to step back, despite his hands fisting the hem of my shirt.
“What are you talking about?” I sway us slowly from side to side.
“You don’t have to have sex with me if you don’t want to. I won’t be hurt. I’ll understand,” he says, eyes trained on my collarbone. He’s such a bad liar.
I lift his head with a finger under his chin. “I very much want to have sex with you.” I tug him closer so my hard-on is pressed against his stomach. “Feel that?” I say, lowering my head to growl in his ear.
Preston nods breathlessly.
“That’s because of you. You make me so fucking hard, Pres.”
A shudder runs through him and an answering bulge grows against my hip.
I snag his earlobe between my teeth and bite down gently. The bulge at my hip grows bigger and Preston lets out a helpless, fragile sound that fuels my own erection.
He squirms, scrabbling at me and arching into me, like he wants something but he doesn’t know how to ask for it, and he’s getting more frantic with each passing second.
I walk us toward the bed. “What do you need, Preston? Tell me what you need.”
I have to hear him say it out loud so there’s zero doubt where he wants this to go. So I don’t end up second-guessing myself later when I wonder if I pushed him too far.
“Please, I want… I need…” Preston says, barely audible.
“Tell me.” I work my way up his jaw to that beauty mark behind his ear. The one I’ve been fascinated with for as long as I’ve known it was there.
His fingers drag over my scalp as I suck on that spot. “I… I… need to orgasm.”
I hum and murmur against his skin. “I can make that happen. How do you want me to do it? With my hand? My mouth?”
I’m already salivating at the thought of getting Preston’s cock between my lips.
A tremble races through Preston at my suggestion. “Your… your mouth?”
I hum again. “Yes, good choice.”
I strip my t-shirt off Preston, then push the pajama pants off his hips. He’s not wearing anything under them—minx. Then I carefully ease him down to the bed.
His cock lays on his stomach, hard with thick veins running along its length.
His foreskin is pulled back, revealing that bulbous head, swollen and wet with pre-cum.
I push his legs apart so I can kneel between them, pausing for a moment to give him a chance to object to being spread wide.
But Preston only spreads himself wider. Fuck.
I run my hands up his legs, thumbs grazing his inner thighs. At the crease between his hips and legs, my thumbs slip under his balls to his taint. Preston lets out a cry, with his eyes wide open, staring unseeingly at the ceiling while he pants through his mouth.
“This okay?” I ask, checking in.
He lets out a strangled sound.
“Preston? Is this okay?”
He nods frantically. “Uh huh.”
I scoot down, open my mouth, and take his balls into my mouth.
“Oh fuck! Sawyer!”
I hum at my name on his lips, incontrovertible proof that he knows who he’s in bed with. Me—Sawyer—I’m the one sucking his balls. But we’re not alone in the house and the last thing we want is someone knocking on the door to save Preston from me.
“Shh,” I say. “They’ll hear.”
That’s all Preston needs to slap one hand over his mouth. But his other hand lands in my hair, pulling me close, pushing me deeper into his groin. I lave at his ball with my tongue, increasing the pressure before letting it plop out to subject the other one to the same treatment.
Preston smells divine down here. Musk, with that lingering hint of lavender. I breathe him in, filling my senses with him until I’m lost in him.
Preston. My Preston. My best friend. The man I’ve been in love with for years. He’s such an integral part of me I don’t know who I am without him.
I pause for a moment, resting my face in his groin, overcome with the emotions roiling inside me. Gratitude, joy, love. Disbelief that this is finally happening. Fear that it will be torn away.