Chapter Five
Blake
THE COLD NIGHT’S wind bites my skin even through the fabric of my jacket as I’m riding on the back of Sawyer’s motorcycle, clinging to the man in front of me like he’s a life raft in the middle of a volatile ocean.
And in a way, it feels like I’m drowning.
I’m drowning in the stew of my doubts. My apprehensions. My insecurities. But when I wrap my arms tighter around his waist and press my chest against his back when he takes a turn, he's the one thing keeping me afloat.
And yeah, he’s still speeding like he’s running away from something.
The engine's roar dials down as he gently hits the brake. The bike glides smoothly for another hundred yards before it comes to a halt between an ancient Mercedes and a beat-up Toyota in a tiny parking lot behind a four-story-tall apartment building.
“You were speeding again,” I say as I dismount, my legs still shaky even now when they’re safely on the ground.
He lifts the screen of my helmet that’s still on my head.
“What was that?” he asks, his expression crooked in amusement.
I take the helmet off and inhale sharply, but then my eyes land on his helmet hair, sticking out in every direction, and then his eyes, intense and heavy-lidded, holding a promise of what’s about to come. I shake my head instead. “Never mind.”
He takes the helmet from me, and with both of them held in one hand, he turns and walks toward the eerie-looking building.
I pace behind him until I match his stride. “You’re not leaving them in the trunk?”
Sawyer shoots me a side-glance. “They’re safer inside.”
I look both ways and notice some vehicles that look like they belonged on the road twenty years ago, parked by the curb, and a man sitting on the pavement, hunched over, snorting something off a dirty-looking wrapper.
He’s probably right.
The front door of the building creaks when he opens it and holds it for me. I step inside a pitch-black lobby.
Sawyer walks behind me and presses something on the wall, the lobby turning uncomfortably yellow as a sharp light illuminates the space, stinging my eyes.
There’s no elevator, and I find myself following Sawyer up the stairs, making sure not to touch the suspiciously looking railing.
He glances at me over his shoulder somewhere around the second floor. “Did you expect a red carpet?” he asks as if reading my thoughts.
I school my features. “I didn’t say anything.”
The way up seems to stretch forever, and with each step, the reality of what’s about to happen crashes in, and by the time Sawyer takes a right on the last floor and proceeds to a narrow corridor, my legs are barely cooperative.
I follow him to the end of the hallway, and occasional shouts spill from behind closed doors as we pass them. My heart races when Sawyer fishes a keychain out of his pocket and fumbles with the lock.
The door squeaks when he pushes it open, but instead of stepping in, he turns to look at me. “I know you don’t think highly of me, but I can assure you—no cockroaches at my place.”
“That’s not what I was—” I bite my tongue. Maybe it’s easier to just go with it than to try to explain what’s really causing my mind to spin and my legs to barely hold me upright. I nod. “Good to know.”
I take a calming breath and step inside with Sawyer in tow.
He switches on a small lamp sitting on a table, and a gentle hue illuminates the interior.
His studio apartment is tiny but neat. There’s a kitchenette to the left of the entrance and a single door leading to what I presume is the bathroom on the opposite wall. And in front of me, mere fifteen feet away, a queen-size bed.
I swallow and tear my eyes off it. “It’s really nice,” I say, examining a lonely coffee table and stack of books lined on the floor by a wall. There’s no trace of his past football career in sight.
Sawyer chuckles as he passes me, shrugging off his leather jacket and tossing it on one of the chairs by the table. “If you say so.”
I take a few steps forward until I’m in the middle of the room, where I stop and run my palms over my shoulders, not knowing what to do with my hands. Any farther, and I’d be dangerously close to the bed.
My heart pounds at the idea and I squash it. But then my eyes land on an acoustic guitar resting on a rack next to the bed and I find myself walking over.
“Do you play?” I ask, more to occupy my brain than anything else. I carefully take it off the rack and examine the shiny, dark-brown wood. Unlike anything else around here, it doesn’t look cheap.
“Just a little.” Sawyer’s voice comes from somewhere right behind me.
I turn to face him. “Can you play me something?”
His eyes are intense. He reaches out and takes the instrument from me before resting it against the wall. His voice is deep, reverberating in my brain as he speaks. “Blake? Did you come here for a concert?”
My stalling tactic fails. It’s just him and me now. A promise sparkles in his eyes, and suddenly, I’m not sure if I can handle it. “I’m a little nervous,” I admit, my cheeks flaming.
I fully expect him to mock me, but he takes a step back and raises his hands in a placating motion. “That’s okay. Take your time. I’ll be right here.”
My mouth grows dry, too dry to speak, and I find myself stepping closer until I’m directly in front of him, within arm’s reach, in the middle of a tiny room that’s about to become a witness to—
Hell, I’m not even sure. Or maybe I choose not to focus on it.
My hands all but shake as I lift them and bring them to his neck, loosening the slim, red tie that’s a part of his usual work attire.
Sawyer tilts his head back and lets me.
How is it that just a few days ago, hell, even earlier today, I was able to get out of my head and do things I never expected myself to do, yet now, even the faintest brush of my finger against his neck makes my hair stand on end?
Something about it feels different, more intimate as I widen the red loop and then slowly pull on one end until it unwraps from his neck entirely.
I look to the chair where he’s dropped his jacket. “Should I—”
A shudder runs through me when our fingers touch as Sawyer takes it from me, slowly. Patiently. “Don’t worry about it.”
He drops the tie on the floor.
Lifting my gaze to his, I reach for the bottom of his shirt and pull it from under the waistband of his slacks, the fabric hot and wrinkly where it’s been trapped between his pants and flesh.
Sawyer stands perfectly still, his hands hanging idly by his sides, letting me go at my own pace.
I lift my right hand and put it on his chest, and I can’t figure out if it’s my pulse or his heartbeat I feel.
I brush my fingers over his collarbone, slide them all the way down to his stomach and walk around him.
Once I’m behind, I flatten both hands on his abs, the heat of his back radiating to my chest even though our bodies are not yet connected.
It’s like his gravity pulls me closer, and I’m powerless to resist it.
Wrapping my hands around him, I locate the top button of his shirt with my fingers and pop it open before I move down and do the same with the rest of them.
Sawyer squeezes his shoulder blades together, giving me better access, and I pull the shirt open before sliding it off his shoulders and down his arms and forearms before it drops, pooling on the floor between us. I’m presented with the full glory of his wide, muscular back.
I can’t resist running my fingers over it, learning, memorizing every small muscle, every nook, and cranny of his powerful body.
With my hands still connected with his smooth skin, I walk around him again until we’re face to face.
Sawyer lifts his chin, looking down at me, but there’s no challenge in his expression now.
I melt under his gaze, and it feels like a part of me is dropping, pooling on the floor before him, much like his shirt. But then I gasp when my gaze drops to his chest.
A thin, pink scar, zipper-shaped, stretches from the middle of his collarbone to where the first line of his abs starts.
My eyes grow wide, and I trace my index finger along the scar, feeling gentle bumps and callouses. “What’s that?” I whisper.
Sawyer’s voice is stoic. “Nothing.”
“But—”
“Blake…” He puts his palm on mine, halting my movement.
Sawyer’s eyes are no longer half-closed, peering at me with intensity, and although a part of me is dying to know like there’s some integral part of him he’s keeping from me, I don’t push.
His expression softens when I nod. “Thank you.” His words sink into my brain, and his warm breath brushes my face as he speaks.
And although I haven’t planned it, not today, and maybe not ever, his gravity pulls me stronger than ever before, and I find myself leaning in until his face grows blurry, and my lips connect with his.
The smell of his aftershave caresses my senses, soothing my racing mind.
I stick out the tip of my tongue and run it along his bottom lip as if knocking, asking permission to enter. And Sawyer grants it, his mouth parting as he puts his hand on the back of my head, touching me for the first time since we stepped into his apartment, and pulls my head closer.
We both gasp as my tongue slides into his mouth, his meeting mine there, until they connect in a slow, passionate dance.
He tastes like freshly brewed coffee, waking up my senses.
My eyes fall closed, and I put both hands on his neck, deepening the kiss.
Everything about it is strange—the rough edges of his lips, the lingering smell of male cologne, the scrape of his five o'clock shadow on my cheek. It should feel strange kissing a guy, but it doesn’t.
It’s just different, unlike anything I’ve experienced before. Maybe something about that unfamiliarity makes my insides tie into a knot and my cock chub up and press against his thigh.
Sawyer tilts his head to the side, his tongue battling mine, until both end up in my mouth, massaging, wrestling each other in a sensual match, as we’re drinking unspoken words.