Chapter 28 #2
Her body is warm and slick, the soft swell of her hips fitting into my grip like it’s the only place she was meant to be.
And Jesus, the feel of her—light but solid, soft but not delicate.
She’s all muscle and curve, her red bikini clinging to her in a way that’s begging me to peel it off.
Every inch of her is close now, and I feel the shift in my own body immediately.
Every muscle in my body coils.
She has to feel it—the hard, aching proof of what she does to me. There’s no hiding it, no pretending.
But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. She just looks at me. Eyes wide, lips parted, her breath catching in her throat.
And I look right back. My hands still holding her, not because I need to—but because I don’t want to let go.
The air between us is heavy, pulled tight.
Her ponytail drips slowly down her back, water sliding over her shoulders.
Her chest brushes mine when she breathes.
And every second she doesn’t move is another second I get to stay in this exact place—halfway between self-control and something else I’ve been trying not to want.
But God, do I want it now.
She shifts just slightly on my lap, and it’s fucking torture.
My fingers dig into her hips, my jaw locking tight.
My dick’s throbbing under the water, trapped beneath the curve of her in that sinful, barely-there bikini.
Her thighs tighten around me, her fingers pressing deeper into my chest like she’s not sure if she wants to pull back or crawl closer.
My hand slides up, my fingers rough but deliberate as they catch her jaw. A slow drag of my thumb beneath her chin, tipping her face toward mine.
That little hitch in her breath? Mine.
The way her ribs flutter under my touch? Also mine.
My mouth brushes the shell of her ear, and I feel it—her inhale—sharp and shaky. A shiver races through her, so slight I might’ve missed it if I wasn’t tuned into every goddamn tremor of her body.
Fuck, she’s close. So close I can smell the champagne on her lips, feel the warmth of her breath as it ghosts over my skin, wrapping around me, pulling me deeper into her orbit. Into her.
My voice is gravelly, rough and ruined, when I lean in and murmur, “Biggest turn-on?” A heartbeat. Hers or mine, I don’t know. “When a woman takes what’s hers.”
Her thighs tighten around me again and I can’t hold in the groan that escapes my lips. “When she sits on my cock like it belongs to her.”
She doesn’t pull back, not really. Just enough that her nose skims mine, her breath warm against my lips.
“Yeah?” Her whisper is a challenge, a dare.
And then she moves.
Slow at first—just a shift, a teasing roll of the hips that has my fingers digging into her waist like I’m clinging to the last shred of my sanity. My brain flatlines. The air in my lungs turns jagged, trapped somewhere between my ribs and my throat.
She does it again.
Fuck.
My hands drop lower, greedy, possessive, palming the sweet curve of her ass as I drag her harder against me. I need more. More friction. More of the way her body teases mine, every slick slide sending lightning straight down my spine. My pulse stutters, wild and uneven.
Her lashes dip, her head tipping back just enough to expose the delicate line of her throat, water gliding over her skin like liquid silver. She’s luminous. Alive. Unraveling me completely.
A rough groan tears out of me. “Fuck, Wren.”
Her gaze drops to mine, cheeks flushed, eyes dark with the same hunger eating me alive. “Your turn,” she murmurs, but her hips don’t stop. They keep rolling, tortuous and ruthless.
My turn?
Shit, I don’t even know what planet I’m on anymore.
I blink, trying to claw back some semblance of control, but there’s nothing left. Just her. The heat of her body. The hitch in her breath. The way she moves over me and against me like she knows exactly how close I am to snapping.
Every rational thought I’ve had has left the building. I’m not functioning anymore—I’m reacting. Reacting to the glide of her skin, the needy little sounds she’s trying to swallow, the way her fingers twist in my hair.
I pull back just enough to look at her.
Her eyes are bright, wild—electric blue and heavy-lidded. Her hair’s sticking to the sides of her neck, damp and curling from the steam, beads of water catching against her collarbone. Her lips are parted, her breathing shallow. Every inch of her is lit up.
And God, I want to memorize this version of her. Not the one she shows the world. This one. Unfiltered. Wanting.
“Kiss me,” I murmur, my voice low.
Her gaze snaps to mine. “Is that a dare?”
I shake my head once. “No, Wren. It’s just me. Me wanting to be ruined by you.”
Her breath catches, barely audible over the jets behind us. She’s still watching me, but she doesn’t speak.
“I don’t want to kiss you as your fake husband,” I clarify, tucking a piece of damp hair behind her ear. “I want to kiss you as me, Sawyer. And I want you to kiss me as you, Wren.”
She’s still for a second, the kind of stillness that crackles between us like a live wire.
And then she leans in, and my world as I know it tilts on its axis.
Her lips meet mine, soft at first—just a breath, a hesitation—before she kisses me like she’s been starving for it. Like every glance, every late-night note, every almost has led us here, and she’s done holding back.
She’s still in my lap, still warm and wet and perfect, and I slide my hand around the side of her neck, my thumb brushing her jaw. Her mouth opens against mine and I groan somewhere deep in my throat, because fuck, this isn’t careful or sweet or restrained.
It’s hunger. It’s relief. It’s weeks of pretending we weren’t already drowning in this.
Her tongue tangles with mine, and I grip her waist hard enough to bruise, like I might lose myself in her if I don’t hold on.
Her fingers slide into my hair, tugging just enough to drive me fucking insane and her hips roll again, instinctual and needy, as if kissing isn’t nearly enough.
Like she’s trying to crawl inside of my skin and live there.
Like she needs more.
And I’d give it to her.
I’d give her every last thing she wanted.