13. Daniela #2
"There it is." I could hear the smile in it. "That's what I wanted.”
He spread me open with both hands and put his mouth on me from behind.
The sound I made was not dignified. I didn't care. My fists tightened in the blanket and my knees tried to buckle and he held me up with one forearm braced across my hips, keeping me exactly where he wanted me, exactly where I couldn't move.
"Sawyer—" His name came out broken.
He didn't answer. Just worked me with his tongue, slow and focused, tasting every part of me he could reach from this angle, which was—God—which was a lot. My whole body was shaking. My arms were barely holding me up.
"Please—" I didn't know what I was asking for. More. Everything. "Please, I need?—"
He pulled back just enough. "Need what."
"Inside me?—"
"Not yet." His thumb moved, slow circle, and I gasped. "You said please. Keep doing that."
"Please," I said immediately. No pride left. None. "Please, Sawyer, please?—"
"Good girl." His mouth came back and this time he added his fingers, two of them pushing inside me slow while his tongue kept moving, and I cried out into the blanket and pushed back against his hand and he let me, held the angle and let me work myself on his fingers while his mouth did what it wanted.
Then his thumb moved lower.
I went completely still.
"Okay?" he said against me. Low. Careful underneath the control.
"Yes." It came out fast. Certain. "Yes."
"Tell me if you want me to stop."
"I won't."
"Daniela."
"I won't want you to stop," I said. "I trust you. Keep going."
A beat of silence. His mouth pressed to the base of my spine.
"Good girl," he said, and his thumb pressed slow and easy and I dropped my forehead to the mattress and breathed through it, the stretch of it, the specific unfamiliar pressure that made my whole body clench around his fingers still moving inside me.
"Oh God," I managed.
"Still okay?"
"Don't stop." My voice came out wrecked. "Don't you dare stop."
He didn't stop.
He worked me slow and thorough, fingers curling forward while his thumb pressed careful circles and his mouth moved back to my clit and I stopped being able to track any individual sensation because it was all of them at once, everywhere, too much and not enough and I was shaking so hard the mattress was moving with me.
"Sawyer—" Desperate now. "Sawyer I'm going to—I need?—"
"I know." His fingers moved faster. "Come on. Let me feel it."
I came so hard I couldn't make sound for a second—just locked up completely, everything clenching, and then it crashed through me in waves and his name tore out of my throat and his hand worked me through every shuddering second until I was lying flat against the mattress unable to move anything.
He stood up behind me.
I heard his belt hit the floor.
"Still with me?" His voice had gone rough. The patience wearing thin at the edges finally, finally.
"Yes." I didn't move. Couldn't. "Yes. Please."
He ran both hands up my spine, over my waist, gripping my hips. Positioned himself. Pushed inside me in one long slow stroke that dragged a sound out of both of us.
"Christ." His forehead dropped between my shoulder blades. "Daniela?—"
"I know." I pushed back against him. "I know. Move. Please."
He moved.
Nothing held back this time. His hips driving forward, deep and hard, the trailer creaking, his hands gripping my hips tight enough that I'd see the marks tomorrow and wanted them.
I grabbed the headboard and held on and pushed back to meet every stroke and his breathing went ragged against my spine.
"You feel so good," he gritted out. "God—a whole week without—you feel so?—"
"Don't stop," I said. "Don't stop don't stop?—"
"Not stopping." His hand slid around to my front, fingers finding my clit again, still swollen and oversensitive, and I whimpered. "One more."
"I can't?—"
"You can." He kept the rhythm, kept the pressure. Relentless. "You've got one more in you. Give it to me."
"Sawyer—"
"Give it to me, Daniela." His mouth at my spine, his fingers moving, his hips not slowing for a single second. "You're mine. Give me all of it."
I gave it to him.
It rolled through me slower this time, deeper, less like crashing and more like drowning—my whole body locking up around him, his name coming out of me on a long broken exhale, and I felt him shudder at the clench of it, felt his rhythm finally break apart.
He drove deep one last time and held there, his hands gripping my hips hard, his forehead dropping to my back, my name in his mouth over and over low and rough and wrecked.
We stayed like that until neither of us could hold the position anymore.
He gathered me up. Turned me over. Laid me down against the pillow and pulled the blanket up and tucked me against his chest and pressed his mouth to my hair.
I lay there completely hollowed out in the best possible way, his heartbeat under my palm, the morning gold through the small window.
"Sleep," he said into my hair.
"You said eggs."
"After."
"Sawyer."
"Daniela." His arm tightened around me. "Sleep. I'll make eggs every morning for the rest of your life if you want."
I went very still.
He did too.
Neither of us said anything for a long moment.
Then I smiled. “I think I'd like that,” I whispered.
He kissed the top of my head. “I would too.”