Chapter 10 Savannah #2
"Savannah—" He catches my wrist. "If you keep that up, this'll be over before it starts." He catches my wrists and pins them above my head with one hand. "Enough. My turn. Eyes on me," he commands, and I force them open. "Want to watch you take me."
He pushes in slowly, so slowly, and the stretch is intense, almost too much. I'm still swollen and sensitive from two orgasms, and every inch feels like fire and perfection.
"So tight," he grits out, jaw clenched with control. "So perfect. Made for me."
He watches my face, and the stretch, the fullness, the rightness of it makes us both gasp. For a moment, neither of us moves, overwhelmed by the connection.
When he's finally, fully inside, we both need a moment. I've never felt so full, so complete. He releases my wrists to frame my face with both hands, and the tenderness in the gesture contrasts beautifully with the raw possession of him inside me.
"Perfect," he breathes. "You're perfect."
"Please move."
He does, pulling out almost completely before sliding back in, setting a rhythm that builds slowly. Each thrust goes deeper, hits differently, and when he shifts my hips, angling up—
"There! Oh God, right there!"
He grins, fierce and male. "Found it."
He hits that spot with devastating accuracy, over and over, until I'm climbing again, impossible as it seems. His thumb finds my clit, circling in time with his thrusts, and the dual sensation is overwhelming.
I wrap my legs around his waist to pull him closer. One hand threads through mine against the pillow while the other grips my hip, angling me until—
"Oh God, right there—"
"I've got you." His rhythm never falters, building me back up with devastating precision. "Let me see you fall apart again."
His words are my undoing. I clench around him, my third orgasm rolling through me in waves that seem endless. He curses, thrusts going erratic, and then he's following me over, my name a broken prayer on his lips.
But he's not done.
The angle, the friction, his thumb finding exactly the right spot—it's too much and not enough. I'm climbing higher, faster, and when he shifts slightly, hitting deeper, I break.
He stays hard inside me—how is that even possible?—and rolls us so I'm on top, straddling him. From this angle, he's even deeper, and I gasp at the sensation.
"Want to watch you ride me," he says, hands gripping my hips.
I've never been on top—Nathan always insisted on control—but Sawyer's eyes are hot with encouragement, with need, with something deeper than lust.
I start tentatively, rolling my hips experimentally, but when his head drops back, and he groans, I grow bolder. I find a rhythm, rising and falling, taking him deep. His hands cup my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples, and the combination of sensations has me climbing yet again.
"That's it," he encourages, one hand sliding down to where we're joined. "Take what you need."
When his thumb presses firmly on my clit while I grind down, taking him to the hilt,
"Come for me," he demands, voice rough. "Let me feel you."
I come apart completely. This orgasm is different—deeper, more intense, pulling from my core. He wraps his arms around me as I shake apart, and then he's coming too, face buried in my neck, my name reverent on his lips.
My name is rough and reverent on his lips as he buries his face in my neck. We cling to each other, trembling through the aftershocks, neither willing to let go.
When he tries to move, I hold him tighter. "Not yet. Please."
He stays, taking his weight on his elbows but remaining close, still inside me. His forehead rests against mine, and we breathe the same air, hearts gradually slowing to match.
"That was..." I can't find words.
"Yeah." He kisses me softly. "It was."
We lie tangled in damp sheets, my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my spine while mine map the scars on his ribs. I'm deliciously sore in all the right places, my body still humming from his attention.
I'm completely wrecked—muscles like jelly, body still pulsing with aftershocks. I've never come four times in my life, let alone in one session.
"Nathan never—" I start, then stop. "Sorry. I shouldn't compare."
"Say it." His voice rumbles under my ear. "Whatever you need to say."
"Is it... is it always like that? Nathan treated sex like a transaction. Efficient. Goal-oriented. He never..." I trace the burn scar that wraps around his ribs. "He never made me feel wanted. Just convenient."
"Never?"
"Never."
"His loss." Sawyer tilts my chin up. "You're not convenient, Savannah. You're essential."
The weight of that admission hangs between us. This thing between us—it's not just adrenaline or proximity. It's something rare, something worth fighting for.
The word hits me in the chest, and I kiss him to avoid the emotions threatening to spill over.
Hours later, we're tangled in sheets that smell like hotel detergent and us. Sawyer traces lazy patterns on my shoulder blade while I scroll through delivery options on my new phone.
"Thai or pizza?" I ask.
"You pick."
"That's a cop-out answer."
"I'm not picky." His hand slides down my spine. "But I am hungry."
I order Thai because the pizza place has a two-hour wait, and because pad see ew sounds like comfort food. While we wait, Sawyer flips through channels until he lands on some action movie—explosions and car chases that feel absurdly tame compared to our last forty-eight hours.
"The physics are all wrong," he mutters during a particularly ridiculous crash sequence.
"You're critiquing the realism of a movie where the hero just jumped a motorcycle onto a helicopter."
"Still. Basic physics should apply."
I laugh, and it feels strange. Normal. Like we're just two people spending a lazy afternoon together instead of two people who might not survive the week.
The food arrives, and we eat cross-legged on the bed, containers spread between us. He steals bites from mine even though he ordered the same thing. I pretend to be annoyed. He grins like he knows I'm not.
"When this is over," I say, then stop. Because I don't know how to finish that sentence, when this is over, assumes we both make it out. Assumes there's an after.
"When this is over," Sawyer says quietly, "I'm taking you somewhere normal. Dinner. A movie. Maybe dancing if you're into that."
"I'm a terrible dancer."
"Good. So am I."
The movie plays on, forgotten. His hand finds mine, fingers lacing together, and I'm struck by how easy this is. How right it feels to be here with him, despite everything.
Despite the fact that I've known him less than three days. Despite the fact that we're both probably going to die.
I should be terrified. I am terrified. But not of dying—of losing this. This feeling like I've finally found something I didn't know I was looking for.
"Come here," he murmurs, pulling me closer.
We make love again, slower this time. Less desperate. His hands map every inch of my skin like he's memorizing me. I let myself get lost in him, in us, in this perfect impossible moment that feels stolen from someone else's life.
Afterward, he holds me against his chest, heartbeat steady under my ear. I trace the scars on his ribs—the ones I noticed earlier but didn't ask about.
"Bosnia," he says quietly. "Shrapnel."
"The burns?"
"Different deployment. Different bad day."
I kiss the scarred skin. He pulls me tighter.
The movie has ended. Another one starts—something with subtitles that neither of us read.
Outside, the sun sets, painting the room in shades of amber and gold.
It's beautiful and surreal and terrifying because I know this ends.
Tomorrow, or the day after, this bubble bursts, and we're back in the real world where people are trying to kill me.
Where I might lose him.
Where he might lose me.
"What are you thinking?" His voice is rough with exhaustion.
"That this doesn't feel real."
"It's real."
"I've known you three days."
"Yeah." His hand slides into my hair. "Feels longer, doesn't it?"
It does. It feels like I've known him forever and no time at all. Like we're running out of time even as we have all the time in the world.
"I'm scared," I whisper.
"Me too."
"Of dying?"
"Of losing you."
My throat tightens. I don't trust myself to speak, so I just hold him tighter, memorizing the feel of him. The weight of his arms around me. The way his breathing slows as he starts to drift off.
I should sleep. I know I should. But I'm afraid that if I close my eyes, this disappears. That I'll wake up and find out it was all a dream, or worse—that I'll wake up alone.
Eventually, exhaustion wins. I sink into sleep wrapped in him, his heartbeat the last thing I'm aware of.
Safe. For now.
I wake to Sawyer's phone buzzing. He's wrapped around me, skin to skin, and for a moment I let myself pretend this is normal. That we're normal people who met normally and have a normal future ahead.
"Yeah," he answers, voice rough with sleep. "Copy that. ETA?"
Reality crashes back. The mission. Prometheus. Mass murder.
"Teams are thirty minutes out," he tells me, already moving. "We need to get ready."
The loss of his warmth makes me shiver. I watch him dress, cataloging new details—a scar on his lower back I hadn't seen before, the way he automatically checks his weapon even half-asleep, how he looks younger in the pre-dawn light.
"Stop staring and get dressed," he says without turning around.
"How did you—"
"I can feel you thinking." He turns, and his expression is soft. "No regrets?"
"None. You?"
"Only that we don't have more time."
I head to the bathroom, take a quick shower, and dress quickly.
A knock interrupts—three short, two long, one short. Code.
"That's them." Sawyer checks the peephole, then opens the door.
Two men enter, and the room immediately feels smaller. The first is massive—shoulders that barely fit through the doorway. The second is leaner but no less dangerous, with dark hair and scars that make Sawyer's look mild.
"Name's Flint," the blond one says, offering me a hand that could crush mine without effort. "Heard you've been giving Hawk here a run for his money."
The other one takes in the room, the rumpled bed, then turns to Sawyer. "You're supposed to be running a simple extraction. Now, you've got us assaulting Titan International." He turns to me and offers a hand. "Colt. Nice to meet you."
"Gentlemen." Another voice from the doorway, a man with the bearing of someone used to command. "Ms. Cross. I'm CJ, Lead for the Guardian teams. Flint and Frost are feral."
"Frost?" I look between the men.
"That's me." Colt lifts his hand.
Unlike Colt—Frost—who checked out the room, CJ focuses solely on me. Cataloging threats, skills, and potential. Then he nods. "Hawk says you have intel on Prometheus."
Hawk?
Ah, like Frost, that must be Sawyer’s nickname. Or is it a call sign? I shake my head.
"Yes. Everything." I open my shiny new laptop. "Membership lists, chemical compositions, target locations, timeline. Nathan encrypted it, but I've broken most of it."
"Our tech team can handle the rest," CJ says.
"What?" I look to Sawyer, then back to CJ. "No. I've been inside Nathan's head for three years. I know how he thinks, how he codes. Your tech team will be fumbling in the dark."
"Our tech team has cleared NSA-level encryption." CJ's tone doesn't change. "They can handle it."
"Not in the time frame you have." I pull up the file structure. "See this? Nathan used a cascading cipher system that references classical literature. Your team could crack it eventually, but I can do it in hours because I know which books he was reading."
CJ's eyes narrow slightly. First point to me.
"Fine. You work with our analysts and brief the tech team."
"And I'm going in the field."
"Negative."
"I can shoot, I can fight." I meet his gaze head-on. "You need me."
"What I need is an operator who won't get my men killed." CJ crosses his arms. "Convince me you're an asset in the field, not a liability."
"I've survived three days with them hunting me. I built a dead man's switch and stayed alive long enough for Sawyer to extract me. I don't need to justify myself to you—I'm offering a partnership."
Frost whistles low. "Hawk, you sure can pick them. She's got spunk."
"Spunk doesn't mean training," CJ says. "Our teams are highly skilled and integrated. They work as a unit. This isn't the time or place to insert yourself into that dynamic."
"Then put me on comms. Tactical support." I'm not backing down. "I can warn your teams before they walk into something your intel doesn't cover."
There's a beat of silence.
"She's not wrong." Sawyer's voice is quiet but carries weight.
CJ's jaw tightens. "You're vouching for her?"
"I’ve seen her in action with trained operators hunting her. That counts for something."
CJ studies me for a long moment. "Tactical support only. You stay with comms. The second you become a liability, you're out. Clear?"
It's not boots on the ground, but it's not sitting in some safe house either. "Clear."
"Good. Ms. Cross, you have thirty minutes to brief our tech team, then you're with me." He turns to Hawk. "Alpha and Bravo are in this. Your team’s not fully kitted out, but I’m sure, between the three of you, you can show up for Echo team.
He turns to leave, and I catch Sawyer's eye. There's something there—approval, maybe concern. He gives me a slight nod.
I got my foot in the door. Now I have to prove I belong there.