Chapter 28
SAWYER
The champagne bottle is cold in my hand, damp with the condensation. I ease the cork out, and it pops louder than I expect it to, foam bubbling over the top and dripping onto the stone ledge.
I grab the cups I found in our kitchenette—clear plastic, thin, barely a step above a Solo—and pour carefully.
One for her, one for me. I set hers across from where I’m sitting, in case she actually decides to come out.
She disappeared into the bathroom with her swimsuit twenty minutes ago.
Long enough for the water to start pulling the tension from my back, long enough for the champagne to start to lose its chill.
She’s bolder tonight, a little more spontaneous than usual. There’s an energy in her I haven’t seen before—nothing loud or obvious. Just a little shift. A door cracked open. I like it. Hell, I admire it. It doesn’t mean I was convinced she’d actually follow through.
I lean back and look out at the skyline again.
Everything out here feels sharp. Measured. Lights blinking in slow pulses across glass towers, cars threading through dark streets below. There’s a sense of order to it. I’ve always liked that. The illusion that everything and everyone has a place to go.
Julia and I used to talk about getting a place in the city someday.
Something small but modern with big windows.
We figured it’d make life easier—cut out the long commutes, keep us both closer to work.
She wanted houseplants. I wanted a dog. But we kept putting it off, thinking we had years to figure it out.
Turns out, we didn’t.
The door finally clicks open, and I look up.
Everything just…stops. My eyes hit her, and every coherent thought I had leaves my body.
She walks onto the balcony slowly, her hair tied up into a high ponytail and her arms tightly folded in front of her, but it does nothing to hide the fact that she’s wearing a red bikini that barely covers her.
The top is barely there—thin straps around her neck, just enough fabric to cover her small, round breasts.
They’re high, perky, flushed pink from the cold air, and I can see the outline of her nipples, sharp against the fabric.
Her stomach is tight and toned, her waist narrowing to soft curves at her hips.
The bottoms sit low, tied loose at both sides, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.
And her legs— Jesus . They go on forever.
Strong, smooth, perfectly defined. My eyes trail down without permission—ankles, calves, thighs—and then back up again, because I can’t help it.
Heat shoots down my spine and my dick gets hard so fast it’s almost embarrassing.
I try to breathe like I’m a normal person and not like I’m seconds away from losing my grip on every ounce of self-control I’ve managed to hold onto around her.
I shift lower in the water and pull my forearms up onto the rim of the tub, adjusting the angle of my hips and silently thanking God for the jets.
She walks toward the hot tub slowly, carefully, then lowers herself into the water across from me.
Her breath catches when the heat hits her legs.
She eases in with one hand gripping the edge, her chest rising and falling.
The water soaks the fabric instantly, darkening it, clinging tighter to her breasts.
My eyes drag over every inch of her, and it’s a conscious effort not to let my mouth fall open. Every thought I’ve had about playing it safe? Gone. Obliterated. Shattered into oblivion.
She’s fucking stunning. Beautiful in a way that hits so fast it knocks the wind out of me.
I want her.
My dick throbs, and I bite the inside of my cheek.
She leans back against the tile. Her collarbones stay above the water, her chest still rising slow with each breath, the heat bringing more color to her skin. She shifts her legs under the water, and one brushes mine.
Her eyes flick to the champagne in my hand. “You started without me?”
My voice catches for a second. I clear my throat and manage, “Didn’t think you were actually coming out here.”
She smirks a little and takes the cup I offer her, taking a long sip. “This is damn good.”
I huff a quiet laugh, watching the way her lips linger around the rim of the cup. “Agreed.”
And it is—smooth, crisp, with just enough sweetness to keep it from biting too hard. Bright in a way that cuts through the heat, almost refreshing. Which is saying something, considering it’s been sitting out longer than it should.
Wren takes another sip, her eyes flicking over to mine as she swirls what’s left in her cup. There’s a hesitation there—thoughtful, maybe a little mischievous. Then she says, “We should play a game or something.”
I glance at her, surprised. “Yeah? What kind of game?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Just tips back the rest of her drink, then sets the cup on the edge of the tub. Her eyes stay on mine the whole time, steady. Almost daring. She licks a drop from her bottom lip, leans back again, and says, “Truth or dare.”
I grin, mostly because I can’t help it. Whatever version of Wren this is—brave, flushed from the champagne and the heat and maybe just a little tipsy—I’m all in. “You’re on.”
She holds her cup out toward me. “Top me off.”
I grab the bottle and pour without looking away from her, careful not to spill it. She takes it back and rests the base against her thigh, water beading off her skin.
Her voice is casual. “So, which one? Truth or dare?”
I hesitate. Part of me wants to say dare just to match the energy she’s giving me right now. But the other part—the rational one that’s a little chickenshit and still remembers there’s only one bed in that room—plays it safe.
She tilts her head and pretends to think, but I can already see the smile forming before she even says it. “Okay. Let’s start with something easy. Have you ever had sex in public?”
I laugh, a little too loud, shaking my head. “Jesus Christ, Wren. That’s easy?”
She shrugs, taking another sip, her mouth fighting a full-blown grin. “That’s a yes.”
I’m still grinning when I finally say it. “Fine. Yeah. It’s true.” I lean back, resting my arm along the edge behind me. “What about you? Haven’t you? Or not really your style?”
She lifts one shoulder, water sliding off her skin. “I just haven’t really had the opportunity. So I don’t know if I’d like it.”
The end of her ponytail floats behind her, dipping and swirling in the water, and something about the way she says it—a little unguarded—makes my chest tighten. It shouldn’t affect me as much as it does, but it does.
I clear my throat, shifting against the jets. “Alright. Your turn. Truth or dare?”
She presses her lips together, pretending to think, but there’s a gleam in her eye now. “Truth.”
I take a sip, let the bubbles settle on my tongue. Then I look right at her and ask, “Have you ever sexted someone and immediately regretted it?”
Her jaw drops. “Oh my god.”
I shrug, fighting a smirk. “It’s a fair question.”
She groans and sets her cup on the ledge behind her. “Once. And it wasn’t even good sexting. I didn’t know what I was doing. I think I said something about unbuttoning his shirt and then panicked and blocked him.”
I laugh, full-out now. “Unbuttoning his shirt?”
“Shut up.”
“That’s some Fifty Shades level of foreplay right there.”
She lifts her middle finger, but she’s smiling too hard to make it threatening. “It was horrible. I was seventeen and mortified and I’ve never done it since.”
I raise my cup in her direction. “Here’s to personal growth.”
She clinks her drink against mine. “Here’s to never unbuttoning anyone’s shirt ever again.”
She takes a sip of champagne, eyes on the skyline now, but I’m still looking at her.
It’s easy with her.
It’s never awkward, never too much or not enough. She doesn’t fill the silence just to kill it. Doesn’t pretend to be someone she’s not. She just…is. And somehow, that’s more than enough.
Most people try too hard. Wren never does. There’s a kind of peace in that I didn’t realize I missed until I had it again. Until I had her.
She turns back to me with a crooked little grin, her eyes flicking over my bare chest and then up to meet mine. “Truth or dare?”
I let the warmth of the champagne settle in my chest before answering. “Dare.”
That earns a raised brow from her. “Dare?”
“Why not?”
She swirls the last bit of champagne in her cup like she’s thinking it over—probably trying to gauge how far I’ll go. And right now, I’d go pretty much anywhere she told me to. Then she sets the cup down, looks me dead in the eye, and says, “I dare you to whisper your biggest turn-on in my ear.”
I give her a slow smile. “You sure you can handle that?”
Her smirk deepens. “Try me.”
I grin and nod once. “Come here then.”
She sets her cup down, but her fingers linger on it a beat too long, like she’s thinking about it—whatever this is—just long enough to talk herself out of it.
But she doesn’t. Instead, she moves closer.
Her legs shift through the water until she’s between mine, her knees just barely brushing against my thighs.
That won’t do. Not tonight.
I reach for her. My hands find her waist like they were made to hold her.
The dip of her ribs, the flare of her hips—I trace them with my fingers like I want to memorize every single inch of her.
She’s so small compared to me, so damn perfect.
I don’t ask, don’t hesitate. Just keep dragging her closer until she’s sinking onto my lap.
And then she’s there.
Sitting on me, straddling me, her chest rising faster than it was a minute ago. Her hands find my chest, her fingers splaying across my skin. Her thighs bracket mine beneath the water, and I swear I can feel every place we touch burning straight through me.