Chapter 21
Twenty-One
Sawyer
“Yes, Sawyer.”
Thank fuck.
I close the final distance between my lips and that gorgeous pussy of hers—all slick and glistening in the soft light of the family room, the lights from the Christmas tree adorning her skin with rainbows.
She gasps and I groan as the taste of her hits my tongue.
Sweet like sugar but with an edge of tart.
Kind of like her.
Fuck, I’ve ached to do this again—to taste her, to touch her, to stroke every single inch of her.
Our first time was fast, frenzied.
Tonight, I’m in the mood to savor.
She’s beautiful with all that golden, silky skin, gorgeously curved with hips that call for a man’s hands and breasts that overflow them.
She arches slightly, offering herself up, reminding that she also has—
A pretty pussy I’ll never get tired of.
“Sawyer,” she moans as I drag the flat of my tongue through her labia, licking up her desire, burying my face in her pussy, kissing her until my lungs protest for air.
Fuck, but suffocating in this glorious cunt of hers wouldn’t be a bad way to go.
Still, I’d better get her off first.
Her hands tighten in my hair and I focus on doing precisely that—licking her and watching her body react, only doing what makes her moan and rock against my face and not stopping as she grinds down, desperate for more.
She likes fingers and tongue and a dash of teeth.
But fucking loves it when I suck on her clit.
And loves it more when I do it while fucking her with my fingers.
“I can’t wait to feel you wrapped tightly around me again,” I rasp, circling that sensitive bundle of nerves, making her jump and moan and then look down at me with half-mast eyes and ask,
“Why don’t you feel it right now?”
Fuck.
It would be so damned easy to do it.
So damned easy to shove down my pants, to thrust into the hot, slick pussy.
But this isn’t about me right now.
I want to make her feel good.
“I am, Pages,” I tell her, nipping at her clit and making her hips jerk, her head drop back onto the cushions.
“No fair,” she moans.
“Maybe not.” I flick out my tongue. “But you still like it, don’t you?”
“Y-yes.”
I grin. “Tell me what else you like, Pages.”
“Your tongue.” Her hands find my hair again, holding my head against her. “Especially when you do, oh, that.”
“Mmm,” I murmur, drawing my fingers back. Then sliding them deep, just like that.
Her pussy clenches around me.
So, I do it again, and I keep doing it until she’s so slick, so wet, clamping so damned tight around me that I’m going to lose my fucking mind.
And I still don’t stop.
Not as she grinds against me.
Not as her fingers fist my hair so tightly it feels like my scalp is on fire.
That’s nothing compared to the ache in my balls.
And I still don’t stop.
I can’t.
Not until—
I feel it.
The rhythmic clench. The sudden gush of desire. The way her entire body trembles.
“Oh, fuck,” she whispers, eyes flying open. “Oh—ah—oh my God! Sawyer— I—” She goes tense for one long moment…
Then beautifully limp, her expression suffusing with pleasure, her eyes sliding closed, her limbs falling back against the couch.
I slowly slip my fingers out of the tight clasp of her, slowly crawl my way up her body, gathering her close.
Needing her close.
But when she rolls into me, her hand snaking down my front, I capture her wrist, bring her palm to my mouth. “No, Pages. That was for you.”
She frowns, presses closer. “But who’s going to take care of you?”
My insides twist. My heart rolls over in my chest. “You,” I say softly. “Just…another time, baby. Okay?”
Her eyes start to clear, and I don’t want that, don’t want her to be concerned or annoyed or frustrated. I want her lax-limbed and heavy-eyed, aftershocks of pleasure luring her into her dreams. So, I kiss her.
And I do it long and deep, do it until my body’s screaming for air again.
Only then do I break apart and tuck her back against me, stroke my hand up and down her back.
“Are you going to try to win every argument by kissing me?”
I chuckle. “Is it working?”
“Yes”—a yawn—“and only because it’s been a long couple of weeks. Next time, you’re all mine.”
I still because…
God, that’s all I’ve ever wanted.
“Deal,” I say, doing my best to make my voice sound neutral, doing my best to make it sound as though that simple statement hasn’t rocked me to my core.
But of course she sees right through that.
It’s in her eyes.
In the gentle way she cups my jaw.
In the fierceness of her hug.
I grab the blanket and tuck it over our bodies, hold her as her breathing evens out and the night grows late.
Only then do I gather her into my arms and carry her upstairs.
It’s when I’m tugging the blankets up and over her that I see the notebook on the nightstand, one of the pens I bought her atop it.
And there my heart goes again.
“I promise you,” I whisper, smoothing back her hair. “I fucking promise you that I won’t mess this up.”
She burrows into the blankets, breathes my name.
I watch her for one more moment, committing the sound of her, the sight of her, the way it feels to be allowed this close to her to memory.
Then I slip out of the house, locking the door behind me.
I shiver when the cold air cuts through my clothes, rubbing at my nape as I walk to my van.
Snap!
I whirl around at the sound of a tree branch breaking, my stomach clenching, my pulse speeding, searching the shadows for the source of the noise—
A raccoon materializes out of the darkness and my shoulders relax.
Its beady eyes lock onto me and it hisses.
“Chill,” I mutter, reaching for the door handle. “You leave me alone, I’ll leave you alone.”
It glares at me for one long second.
Then waddles its fat ass away.
Amused, I shake my head, climb into the driver’s seat, and go back to my empty house.