20. The Slow Unfolding
The Slow Unfolding
~AMBER~
The wine sat forgotten on the nightstand, half a glass each, the bottle tipped on its side like it had given up trying to keep pace with us.
My bedroom felt smaller than it ever had, the lamplight carving soft gold across the quilt and the man stretched beside me on the far side of the line I had drawn so carefully hours earlier.
Sawyer watched me with that unhurried Charleston patience, dark curls mussed from the long night, the open collar of his shirt revealing the strong column of his throat.
His scent wrapped around the room—magnolia heavy and sweet, cracked black pepper sharp enough to wake every nerve, and underneath it all that aged bourbon warmth that made my pulse stumble.
I had asked him to show me.
Two words.
The bravest ones I had managed in five years.
Now they hung between us, alive and humming.
He shifted closer, one broad hand settling on the quilt near my knee without quite touching.
“You sure about this, Blooming Apricot?” His voice came low, rough at the edges but steady. “We can stop the second you say. I’m not here to rush you through anything.”
My cheeks burned.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly aware of how thin my sleep shirt felt, how the flannel had ridden up my thighs.
“I’m used to… fast,” I admitted, the words slipping out shy and small.
“That’s how it always was with them. Efficient.
Like checking items off a list before the ceremony started.
” I met his eyes, forcing myself to hold the gaze.
“But I want to try something different. I want to be open-minded tonight.”
A slow chuckle rolled out of him, warm and delighted, the sound vibrating through the mattress.
“I can do both, sweetheart. Fast when you need it. Slow when you deserve it.” He leaned in until our foreheads nearly touched, his breath brushing my lips. “Right now I’m thinking you deserve to be appreciated. Let me show you what that looks like.”
He didn’t kiss me right away.
Instead, his fingers traced the line of my jaw, feather-light, as if mapping territory he intended to memorize. When his mouth finally found mine it was gentle, exploratory—less a claim and more an invitation.
I sighed into it, tasting red wine and the faint salt of the night air still clinging to his skin. His hand slid to the nape of my neck, thumb stroking slow circles that melted tension I hadn’t realized I still carried.
We stayed like that for long minutes, just kissing, learning the shape of each other’s mouths.
When he pulled back his eyes had gone darker, pupils wide.
“Touch is my language,” he murmured against my cheek.
“Always has been. Words are easy. Hands tell the truth.” He pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth, then another just below my ear. “Tell me what feels good.”
The words sent heat spiraling low in my belly.
I nodded, not trusting my voice yet.
His lips trailed down the side of my neck, slow and deliberate.
Each press lingered, warm and open-mouthed, until my skin tingled.
“You ever wonder,” he said between kisses, voice vibrating against my pulse, “if the Mona Lisa knew she’d be admired for centuries? Painted into permanence, acrylics locking her in time. Would she have felt so alone in the world before someone decided her beauty was worth keeping?”
I laughed softly, the sound catching when his teeth grazed my collarbone.
“You’re comparing me to the Mona Lisa while you’re kissing my neck?”
“Seemed fitting.” Another kiss, lower this time, right where my shoulder met my throat. “You’ve been hanging in galleries of other people’s expectations long enough. Time somebody looked at you properly.”
His fingers found the thin string tie at the neckline of my pajama top. He tugged it loose with one gentle pull, the fabric parting like it had been waiting for permission.
Cool air brushed my skin as he eased the top down my shoulders. The bra underneath was simple cotton, nothing special, but his gaze made it feel like silk.
“Aren’t these uncomfortable to wear at night?” he asked, tracing the strap with one fingertip.
I blushed hard, heat flooding my face and chest.
“Yes,” I whispered. “But you’re here.”
“And?” He arched a brow, that playful challenge sparking in his eyes.
The single word undid me.
I reached back and unclasped it myself, letting the straps slide down. He helped, reverent, setting the bra aside on the nightstand like it was something precious.
My breasts spilled free, nipples already tight from the cool air and the weight of his stare.
Sawyer’s breath hitched.
“Beautiful,” he said simply, and lowered his head.
His mouth closed over one nipple, warm and wet, tongue circling slow. I moaned, the sound surprising me with its depth. He hummed in response, the vibration shooting straight between my legs.
“From now on,” he muttered against my flesh, switching to the other side with the same unhurried care, “your comfort is my priority. Yours. No more putting everyone else’s needs first. Not tonight. Not ever again if I have anything to say about it.”
I arched into his mouth, fingers threading through his curls.
“Sawyer—”
“Say it again.” He sucked harder, just enough to make my toes curl. “My name. Like you mean it.”
“Sawyer.” It came out breathy, half plea, half discovery.
He stripped the pajama top the rest of the way off, tossing it toward the chair in the corner. Then his hands moved lower, hooking into the waistband of my shorts.
He paused, eyes meeting mine.
“Still good?”
“Still good,” I confirmed, lifting my hips to help him.
Shorts and panties slid down together. He took his time, kissing every new inch of skin he uncovered—hip bone, inner thigh, the sensitive crease where leg met body.
When the fabric finally cleared my ankles he sat back on his heels at the end of the bed and just looked.
I fought the instinct to cover myself.
Instead, I let him see me—flushed skin, the soft curve of my stomach, the way my thighs pressed together instinctively before I forced them to relax. His gaze traveled every inch, slow and appreciative, like he was committing a painting to memory.
“You’re getting redder by the second,” he observed, voice husky. “It’s a good look on you.”
“Shut up,” I muttered, but there was no heat in it.
Only nerves and building want.
He grinned and reached for the hem of his own shirt, peeling it off in one fluid motion. My mouth went dry.
Chiseled was an understatement—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, defined muscle that spoke of real work, not just gym vanity. A faint scar crossed one rib. Dark hair dusted his chest and trailed lower.
“I didn’t think you were that fit,” I admitted, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.
He laughed, unbuckling his belt with deliberate movements.
“A wedding planner who isn’t fit shows a lack of discipline.” He winked, stepping out of his pants and boxers in one go. “Can’t very well keep up with you if I’m winded after one dance at the reception, can I?”
Naked, he was breathtaking.
Thick, hard, already flushed at the tip. I held my breath as he stood at the end of the bed, both of us bare now under the lamplight. Anticipation coiled tight in my chest, sharper and sweeter than anything I had felt in years. This wasn’t rushed efficiency.
This was deliberate, chosen, savored.
“What do you want, Amber?” he asked, voice low and serious. “Tell me. No guessing. No performing. Just what you want.”
Heat flooded my face again, but I refused to hide.
I had spent too many years swallowing my own desires. With Sawyer it felt different—safe to reach. I spread my legs slowly, revealing the glistening folds already slick with need, and pointed.
“I want you to crawl to me,” I said, voice steadier than I expected, “and eat me out like a good Alpha.”
His smirk was slow and devastating.
“Yes, Omega.” Sawyer held my gaze as he began to move, lowering himself onto his hands and knees at the foot of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, creaking softly in the quiet cottage.
He crawled forward with deliberate slowness, each shift of muscle rippling across his shoulders and arms. Seductive didn’t begin to cover it. His dark eyes locked on mine, pupils blown wide with hunger that made my breath catch.
No rush. No performance.
Just raw, focused want aimed entirely at me.
His scent rolled ahead of him like a tide—magnolia blooming thick and heady, black pepper cutting sharp through the sweetness, bourbon warmth deepening until the air felt drunk with it.
The combination bathed my bare skin, sinking into every pore. It pulled at something low and needy in my belly, far more attractive than it had any right to be at this hour.
He looks like he could devour me and thank me for the privilege.
When he settled between my spread thighs, his broad shoulders nudged my legs wider. Warm breath ghosted over my inner thighs first.
Then his tongue—slow, thorough—traced the trails of slick that had already dripped down my skin. He licked them clean with appreciative hums that vibrated straight through me.
“Smelling your arousal for me is so fucking sexy,” he murmured against my thigh, voice rough. “Makes me far too thirsty to be patient, Blooming Apricot. I have to get a taste.”
I shivered, fingers twisting in the quilt.
“Then stop teasing and—”
He cut me off with a soft laugh.
“Apologies in advance. I can’t take this part slow at all.”
No further warning.
He dove in.
His tongue slid between my wet folds in one long, firm stroke, parting me open.
I moaned loud enough that the sound bounced off the low ceiling, raw and unrestrained.
He answered with a growl of approval, burying his face deeper.
The man knew exactly what he was doing. He ate me like he couldn’t afford to leave a single crumb—broad, hungry licks followed by precise flicks against my clit, then slow circles that had my hips jerking off the bed.