Chapter 15
Sawyer
I’m in the milkhouse when I hear the door open behind me.
I know it’s her after only three steps, her cadence softer and slower than those of Oak’s or Cash’s.
She’s wearing shoes, the soft sound of rubber meeting concrete loud in my ears despite the machines.
She prefers to be barefoot, the soft padding of her feet often a gentle shush-shush against the floor, but she’s respectfully worn shoes where we’re preparing food.
She’s thoughtful, kind, sweet . . . and I want badly to make her forget any of that.
I want her to be a leaking mess beneath me, to hear her choke on my name and . . .
“Good morning,” she says brightly as she comes closer. She stopped announcing who she was almost immediately when she realized I already knew. She’d been worried about startling me before. Now she knows that’s almost impossible.
“Morning,” I reply, turning my head toward the sound of her voice.
I’m wearing my glasses today, but it does fuck all to see her beauty.
It’s all blurry today, just as it is most days, so all I can see is the bright colored blurs of her hair and a fuzzy shape.
The scent of her—vanilla and citrus—reaches my nostrils and I’ve never cursed my eyesight more than I do right now.
I don’t want to just hear her. I don’t want to just smell her. I want to see her.
“Is there something you need?” I ask, pausing the process I’d been working on.
She nods, the sound of her hair touching her chin loud against my nerves as she moves her head.
“Yeah. So, I know you and I are going to be on tonight for photos and a new video. I came to see if you have any ideas about what we can do. I know you three have a schedule and while I do as well, my subs know that the schedule is different for collabs. So I just wanted to see what I should be prepared for.”
Do I have any ideas? The question pops into my head and I glance away from her as if looking in some other direction will make her presence smaller in my mind.
It doesn’t work. Not when I can hear the shifting of her clothing against each other.
Not when the sound of her cracking her knuckle, almost as a habit, ricochets inside my skull.
Of course I have ideas. I have every idea possible, to bend her over this table right now, to torture her as I taste the deep arousal between her thighs, to make her moan my name as I fuck her until we both cream.
What I wouldn’t give to grab her roughly right now, shove her against this table, and pound inside her sweet pussy.
I clear my throat. “I don’t like to plan things out.”
“I don’t really work like that,” she replies, shifting her weight. “I need something to go on.”
“I prefer my partners to . . . go in blind,” I say, my fingers tracing the edge of the table in front of me, imagining her pressed against it. “So to say.”
She huffs out a small breath, not in annoyance, but amusement. “Ah, so I’m to be at your mercy, and get a taste of what it’s like for you.”
I smirk. “Would it make you feel better if I tell you I’m also planning to blindfold you?”
She laughs fully this time and shakes her head, the movement making her bright purple and yellow hair shift again. “It’s clever. I’ll give you that.” She crosses her arms. “So, I’ll be blindfolded. Got it. Should I wear anything specific?”
I pause my stroking of the table and focus fully on her.
She’s close enough to reach out and touch, so I do.
She doesn’t back away, but I pause just before I can touch her cheek.
“May I?” When she nods, I press my palm to her jawline, stroking the smooth skin there, memorizing the feeling.
“What I wouldn’t give to see you clearly,” I whisper.
I don’t mean to say the words. They slip out before I can catch them, just as the soft breath does from between her lips.
She reaches up and presses her hand against mine, holding me to her. “What’s it like?”
I sigh, my brows furrowing. “You ever drive through a car wash?” She nods.
“It’s like when your car is covered in soap and you can’t see out the windows, only in small spots and cracks where the soap runs.
Sometimes, you can catch a blurry sight of the brushes coming.
Sometimes, you see nothing at all.” I take a deep breath. “It’s a lot like that.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “That must be hard.”
I shrug. “It is what it is.” I stroke my hand along her cheek and down to her neck, circling her throat gently. “Wear a skirt tonight,” I say. “No panties.”
I hear the sharp intake of breath and because of where my hand is, I also feel it.
It’s a beautiful sound, one of arousal and excitement, and it makes me nearly forget that we’re supposed to be purely a business transaction, and not actively dating.
My hand moves along her skin, memorizing it.
I can see the dark ink designs on her pale skin, so harsh against the smoothness, but by touch alone, there’s no difference.
Beautiful, she’s a beautiful blur, made even more beautiful by the personality inside her.
I’ve never felt quite like this with any of the other collaborations, but then again, none of them have ever come into the milkhouse and made cheese with me.
None of them have ever listened or cared.
Outside of collaborations, the women run away from my disability, afraid of it.
Not Jules. She doesn’t shy away. She comes with curiosity.
“Skirt, no panties,” she repeats. “Got it.”
I smile, reaching up to press my thumb against her plump lips. “I’ve got you,” I whisper. “Trust me, beautiful.”
She smiles against my thumb. “See you in a few hours then?”
I nod. “See you in a few hours.” And then as an afterthought, I add, “if you need anything before then, questions or . . . to practice, let me know.”
She laughs. “I’m good. See you later, cheese boy.”
I wink at her and turn back to the table, but my hands don’t move as I listen to every step she takes away from me. I have a hard time resuming my work once she’s gone.
All I can think of is the way she’d met me head on . . . and smiled.