Chapter 29 #3
His hands stay steady on my hips, fingers splayed wide, holding me like I might disappear. The tile is still cold against my back, but I barely notice it. All I can feel is him. His mouth, the heat of him, the friction of stubble against the soft skin of my inner thighs.
And when his tongue flattens and licks deeper, I forget how to think. I forget my own name. I forget how I ever thought sex was supposed to feel like anything less than this.
My hands slide into his hair without thinking, wet and thick between my fingers. I hold on tighter than I mean to, and he groans again—low and rough—clearly into it. Into me like this. Undone. Not pretending to be anything but completely his.
Every stroke of his tongue winds tighter through my core, until I can’t tell where I end and he begins.
I can’t think. I can barely breathe. My hips jerk forward again, unbidden, and his grip on my thigh tightens as he pulls me open wider, like I’m his and his alone to feast on. Devour. And maybe I am.
He pulls back just long enough to look up at me, his eyes dark, his chin wet. “You taste so fucking sweet, Wren,” he murmurs, almost like he’s in awe. “It’s perfect.”
And then his mouth is back on me—hungrier now, as if he’s starved and this is the only thing that’s ever come close to feeding him.
His tongue strokes firm and deep, then flicks with just enough pressure to make me cry out and hold on, because I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything this good in my entire life.
His tongue moves faster, more intentional, and my whole body arches toward it, toward him. His shoulders shift under my calves and I can feel everything—his strength, his precision, his devotion.
“God,” I manage, panting, my lips parted. “Sawyer, I’m—close, I—”
That’s all I get out.
He moans into me, but his mouth doesn’t stop—doesn’t even pause—and I come with a cry that echoes off the tile walls, every muscle clenching, my body caving into him like it was built to fall apart in his hands.
One hand grips his shoulder, the other is still tangled in his hair. My eyes slam shut and all I see is white starbursts. Heat. Light. Relief.
Thirty years. Thirty years on this earth and I’ve never known this sort of pleasure. Never known what it meant to be taken care of like this. To be seen like this.
To be worshipped like this.
When I come down, I’m still trembling. My body doesn’t know how to stop wanting him. I don’t think it ever will, especially after that.
Sawyer stands, still holding me, my legs still locked around his waist. His chest is heaving and his eyes look wrecked in the best way—like he’s been waiting his whole life for this and didn’t know it until now.
“That was…” I trail off, my throat tight, still panting. My chest is rising and my cheeks are burning and I don’t know how to look at him when I say it. “You’re, um…well, you’re very good at that.”
His mouth curves into a slow, devastating grin, one that shows just a sliver of perfectly straight teeth and the faintest dimple in one cheek. “Yeah?” And then he kisses me again, and I don’t even care that I can taste myself on his tongue. I want every piece of this man.
“Wanna see what else I’m good at?” he murmurs against my mouth.
I nod before my brain can catch up. Before the nerves can win.
He sets me down and spins me so I’m facing the wall. He takes my hands and places them against it, like he’s giving me something to stay steady against. I hear the rustle behind me—the unmistakable sound of wet swim trunks being pushed down—and I peek over my shoulder.
Shit. Shit shit shit.
He’s… huge . Hard and leaking and absolutely not something I should be this calm about. My pulse starts rioting beneath my skin.
He smirks when he catches me looking. “Like what you see?”
I manage a breathless nod.
“Look what you do to me, Wren,” he says. And then I feel him—his chest against my back, his breath at my ear, and the thick press of him against my ass.
“Do you feel that?” he whispers, guiding my hips back against him. “That’s because of you.”
My hips tilt instinctively, chasing the friction, the pressure, the heat of his skin on mine. His fingers trail over my hip, his mouth brushing behind my ear.
“This,” he murmurs, his voice low enough to shoot straight into my bloodstream as his hips roll against me, taunting me, “ this is what you’ve been doing to me all fucking night in that bikini.”
A whimper escapes me before I can catch it, my hips moving like they’ve got a mind of their own. His teeth drag over my shoulder, and I gasp as his free hand slips between my thighs, finding me wet and ready. “Christ, Wren. You’re still fucking drowning for me.”
I am. God, I am. I’m drowning for him.
But even as my hips tilt back, a flicker of doubt curls low in my stomach. It’s been so long, and he’s—fuck, he’s so big .
As if he can hear the panic threading through my thoughts, his fingers slide into my hair, gently sweeping it aside before his mouth finds my fluttering pulse. “I’ll go slow,” he promises, his lips moving against my skin like a vow. “And if it’s too much, you tell me, and we stop. I mean it.”
Like hell we were going to stop. But I nod, my throat too tight to talk, all coherent language reduced to nothing but static in my brain, in my body.
“Say it. Promise you’ll tell me, Wren.”
His voice is firm but it lands somewhere soft inside me. And it’s not just the words—it’s the way he’s looking at me when he says them. Like I matter. Like I’m not just someone to touch, but someone to take care of.
His eyes search mine, not hurried, not demanding—just patient. Blue, but not cold. Warm blue. Deep blue. With those rings of gold circling the center like summer wheat caught in late afternoon light. They move over my face like he’s reading a language he’s still learning but desperate to get right.
And it hits me then. For how big he is—for the sheer size of him, the power in his arms, the strength I’ve felt pressed against every inch of my skin—he’s gentle. He’s always been gentle. With his hands. His words. The way he always makes sure I’m okay before he moves forward.
My throat tightens and I nod, but he’s still watching me. Waiting for the words.
“I will,” I finally whisper. It’s quiet, almost nothing, but it’s the best I can do.
And somehow, it’s enough, because he exhales like he’s been holding that breath for a while. Like that whisper—my shaky, barely-there yes—means everything to him.
His hand slides down my back, pressing between my shoulder blades until I’m bent forward, my palms still flat against the wall—and then he pushes in.
The first press of him is slow, just the barest stretch and my breath stutters, my body clenching around him. Behind me, he groans, deep and wrecked, his fingers digging into my hips. “Fuck. Fuck . Jesus. Shit, Wren. You’re so tight—”
He’s barely inside of me, just the thick head of his cock stretching me wide, and it already feels like he’s splitting me open in the best way possible.
The burn is sharp, blissful, and I arch my back, bowing under the sweet agony of it.
He stills, his breath ragged against my shoulder, giving me time to adjust—but then he rolls his hips again, sinking deeper, and my vision whites out at the edges.
The line between pain and pleasure blurs until I can’t tell which one I’m feeling—only that I don’t want it to stop, whatever it is. I bite my lip to keep from crying out, but a broken noise escapes me anyway, half-pained, half-wild.
“Fuck, Wren,” he breathes out, his voice tight, strained. “You feel—”
The rest gets lost in a groan as he pushes in deeper, until I’m shaking with the feel of him.
His mouth grazes the curve of my shoulder, and he pants against my skin. “You okay?”
I nod, but that’s not enough. Not with the way I need him.
“Yes,” I whisper, the word breaking apart in my throat. “More.”
He obliges with another slow push and my spine bows again, my hands scrambling against the wall to keep from collapsing.
Fuck. He’s huge. Not just long, or thick, but consuming in the way my body feels it now—stretched, stuffed, so full of him that there wasn’t room for a single thought that wasn’t about him.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, dragging out almost to the tip before sinking back in, and my body jerks forward with the motion, water splashing around our legs. “God, you take me so fucking good, baby.”
The sound of skin meeting skin echoes in the steam-heavy air, each thrust punctuated by the slap of wet flesh and the ragged pull of our breathing.
He starts slow, achingly so, letting me feel every inch, every ridge—then faster, deeper, until the rhythm turns relentless, until I’m gasping at the stretch, at the way my body yields and resists in equal measure.
His fingers dig into my waist, grounding me as he drives deeper with a low, guttural sound.
“Jesus, Wren,” he breathes, his mouth at my ear. “You feel like you were made for me. Like your body already knows mine.”
I grind my hips, just slightly, testing how he feels when I move like that—and he groans against my skin.
His hand finds my ponytail and wraps around it, firm but careful, pulling just enough to tip my head back and bare my throat.
His mouth is there immediately, hot and open, his teeth dragging over the skin just below my ear as he thrusts again—deeper, harder.
“Yeah,” he pants, his voice rough against my neck, “you like this, don’t you?”
I nod, but he tsks, giving my hair another tug. “Words. I wanna hear you say it.”
“I love it.”
He lets out a dark laugh against my neck. “Yeah? Tell me what else you love.”
“I love how you feel inside me,” I admit, the words spilling out between breaths. “Love your hands on me. Love—”