Chapter 29 #2
His arm tightens around me, and I let myself sink into it—into him.
Because this is what I want. Not to be rescued, not to be put back together.
Not to be changed or fixed. Just to be held.
And somehow, Sawyer does that without asking me to be anything but exactly who I am.
He sees all the parts I’ve learned to hide, all the places I’ve second-guessed—and he chooses to stay.
With him, every inch of me is alive.
Sawyer carries us into the shower without missing a beat, like this has been inevitable from the beginning.
My legs are still locked around his waist and I barely register the sound of the glass door closing before my back hits the tile.
It’s cold enough to make me gasp—but the sound disappears into his mouth, his lips already on mine again.
Hot. Desperate. Wet. The kind of kiss you never come back from.
Water pours down around us, soaking my hair, sliding down my spine, but all I feel is him. His hand planted on the wall beside my head. The other cupping the underside of my thigh, keeping me wrapped around him like he can’t bear the idea of me letting go.
My hips move on instinct, grinding down on the hard length of him through his swim trunks, and I swear I hear him curse under his breath.
Everything’s a little fuzzy—steam curling at the corners of the shower, his mouth pulling at mine like he’s starving, the slick sound of our bodies moving together, water rushing around our skin.
I don’t even realize what he’s doing with his hands until the strings of my bottoms come loose, sliding down my legs and falling to the floor with a soft splash. And still—his mouth doesn’t leave mine.
We can’t stop kissing. Not even for a second.
His tongue moves against mine like he has all the time in the world.
It’s as if he’s determined to unravel me with nothing but the slow slide of his mouth.
And God, it’s working. I feel it everywhere.
I press myself closer, my hips rocking instinctively.
His hand that was braced beside my head shifts, trailing down my rib cage, over the curve of my hips, his hands warm and possessive.
Then one finger slides through my slick center, slow and sure, parting me with a stroke so deliberate I forget how to breathe. He circles my clit once, then again, and my head falls back against the tile with a quiet thud.
His teeth find the delicate skin of my neck—a sharp, delicious bite that makes me gasp.
But before the sting can settle, he’s soothing it with the broad, wet flat of his tongue.
The rough scrape of his stubble against my throat sends chills all over my body, my fingers tightening in his hair as my breath comes in shallow, uneven pants.
And then—
Oh God.
One finger slides into me, slow and relentless, the stretch so perfect it steals the air from my lungs.
He curls it and my hips jerk forward, quietly asking for more.
Then he slides another finger inside while his thumb circles over my clit in circles.
My body is strung as tight as a bowstring, every nerve ending lighting up, every thought obliterated except for him— the way his fingers work me open, the way his thumb teases me with a maddening precision.
His voice is a gravelly murmur at the base of my throat. “Is all of this for me, Wren?”
I can’t find words, not even one. So I nod.
It’s all I can give him right now. It’s also the truth.
He sets me down gently, and I whimper at the loss of him—the heat, the pressure, the way our bodies fit so perfectly together.
But then his mouth is back on me, trailing kisses over my collarbone, down to the swell of my breast, lower still.
His tongue follows, warm and reverent, his hands anchoring me at my hips like he knows I might come apart.
And then I freeze.
Every muscle in my body locks up as I realize where he’s going.
He feels it immediately and looks up at me with brows furrowed and soft eyes. “Hey,” he says, voice gentler now. “You okay?”
I nod too fast, my cheeks already heating. “Yeah. I’m just…” My voice thins. “I’ve never done that before.”
He tilts his head a little, confused. “Done what?”
God. I really don’t want to say it. It sounds so stupid out loud. I kind of wish the water were louder—enough to drown me out. But I say it anyway, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Had someone…well, you know. Do that down there. ”
I sound like a pathetic little girl.
Sawyer goes still. His brows lift, just a little. “I thought you had a boyfriend?”
I nod again, my throat tight. My heart is pounding so hard I’m almost certain he can feel it—right there, pressed against his chest.
He blinks. “And he never…?”
“No,” I say, then clear my throat. “He, um, said he didn’t like doing that.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. His grip on my hips tightens—not painfully, but like he’s holding back something primal.
It’s mortifying, admitting that. It reminds me how low the bar has always been and even worse—that I let it stay there.
Maybe that’s the worst part. That I convinced myself I didn’t need to be wanted that way. That pleasure was some kind of luxury I hadn’t earned.
With Ethan, it was always about what I could give, and what he could take.
I’d chalked it up to being inexperienced or bad timing or his personality or whatever other excuse I could think of, but the truth is—he never made me feel like I was more than a means to an end.
I was something to use. Never something to savor.
And maybe that’s why I’ve always felt weird about sex. Why I second-guess every little sound, every movement, every ounce of want in my body like it needs to be justified. No one ever taught me that it could be different. That it should be different.
I feel it now, though.
In the way Sawyer’s hands are still on me, like he’s trying not to crush me and also like he never wants to let go. In the way his gaze flickers from my eyes to my mouth and back again, as if he’s trying to say a thousand things he doesn’t know how to say yet.
One of his hands moves from my waist to the back of my neck, his fingers threading through my damp hair as he kisses me again—slow this time. Deep. Like he’s anchoring both of us to something steadier.
“I won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss to the corner of my lips. “But I want to take care of you, Wren. If you’ll let me.”
And maybe he doesn’t realize it, but that sentence alone…
it loosens something in my chest, something that’s been knotted up for years.
Like he’s reaching in and stitching together this small, frayed part of my heart that never believed I was worthy of being taken care of.
That learned early on how to give without expecting anything back.
That stayed in situations where I made myself smaller just to feel needed.
Where I gave and gave and gave until I disappeared altogether.
He kisses me again, soft and sure, and whispers against my jaw, “Just so you know—you dated a little bitch.”
A startled laugh escapes me before I can stop it, sharp and real and maybe a little too loud—but he grins against my neck as if he’d been hoping for exactly that.
“I like that,” he says.
“What?” I ask, my voice breathy from the kiss and the laugh and the way his hand is still cupping the back of my neck.
“Your laugh.” He kisses the side of my neck. “Your freckles.” Another kiss, lower this time, right at the hollow of my throat. “You.”
I swallow, every part of me lit up. “I want you to. To do that, I mean.”
His head lifts, his gaze meeting mine. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” It comes out too fast, but I don’t take it back. Because I am. Because I trust him in a way I didn’t think I was capable of anymore. Because if there’s anyone who’d know exactly how to touch me, how to see me, how to make me feel—not used or tolerated, but wanted —it’s Sawyer Hart.
And for once, I want to be the one taken care of.
By him.
Sawyer’s eyes are heavy-lidded and ravenous, water sliding down the sharp line of his jaw. A droplet clings to his lashes before it falls, tracing the edge of his cheekbone like it’s been given the privilege.
“Good.”
Before I can process what he means, he’s dropping to his knees—his hands at my thighs, lifting, guiding, arranging.
My legs go around his shoulders, my back hitting the cold tile as his palm steadies me with such effortless strength I barely have time to gasp.
His grip doesn’t falter. Not even for a second.
Holy shit.
He’s strong. Not just gym-rat strong. Sawyer Hart is ranch-boy, vet-tech, could-save-a-hundred-pound-dog-from-a-flood strong. His muscles in his shoulders flex and shift beneath my calves, his biceps taut, his forearms corded and soaked, holding me up.
When he looks up at me, his smirk— sure and hungry—cuts straight through me. “I’ve been waiting a long time to taste my wife.”
And then he does.
His mouth is on me before I can respond, before I can say anything sarcastic or teasing or even remotely coherent. The first swipe of his tongue through my slit knocks the breath right out of me.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, my hand flying to the slick tile.
I try to jerk back, reflexive, but his hand at my waist doesn’t let me. I’m pinned—completely at his mercy. And I want to stay here forever.
He groans, and the sound vibrates against me, low and consuming, like it’s meant to echo through my bones.
His tongue moves slowly—intentionally—and then firmer, more sure.
I press my palms against the wall behind me because I need something to hold on to.
I need to remember how to breathe. My head tips back as the heat builds, steady and consuming, and I bite down on my lip to keep from crying out.