Chapter 33 #2
“Fuck, Wren,” I growl against her ear. “You know what I want to do to you in this dress?”
She lets out a breathy gasp, and I don’t wait for an answer.
“I want to bend you over that bed, push this dress up around your waist and fuck you until you’re screaming.
I want to feel you come with those heels still on.
” I drag my fingers through her slick center, and her whole body shudders.
“I want to ruin you so badly you forget where we’re even supposed to be tonight. ”
She pants, her lips brushing my neck as I pull her thong down, watching it slide over smooth, golden thighs. I want my hands on her everywhere.
I stroke her again, slick and perfect, before bringing my fingers to my mouth. “Sweet,” I murmur, tasting her. “Just like I fucking remembered.”
Her eyes lower to my belt, working it open. The button next. Then the zipper. And then— finally— her fingers wrap around my cock, her thumb swiping over the head in a way that makes my hips jerk.
“You like being this hard for me, don’t you?” she purrs, her voice dripping with wicked amusement.
I grit my teeth, my hand tangling in her hair as she strokes me, torturous and slow. “You’ve got no idea, Wren.”
“Is this what you do in bed?” she asks, her grip tightening just enough to make me groan. “When you think about me?”
“Not just in bed, Peach.” My voice is gravel, my control fraying. “In the shower. At my desk. Every time I close my damn eyes.”
Her lips curve as she leans in, her breath hot against my ear as she moves her hand faster. “Good.”
I don’t think I can wait much longer.
I kiss her again, hard, my hand wrapping around her throat, pulling her closer. The other hand is already busy as I grab my cock and, with one smooth, relentless push, I’m inside her.
She gasps, sharp and choked against my mouth, her body tensing around me, so tight I have to clench my teeth together just to keep from losing it right then. Her eyes are wide, her glossy lips parted, and fuck if that isn’t the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
“You okay?” I ask, my thumb brushing her jaw.
She exhales, shaky and sweet. “Fuck yes.” Her fingers dig into the back of my neck, her hips lifting, urging me on. “ Move , Sawyer.”
I don’t need to be told twice.
I grip her waist, my other hand braced on the mirror behind her, and start to move.
I pull out almost all the way, just to feel her clench around me, desperate to keep me there, and then I slam back in, deep.
So deep she arches off the vanity with a broken moan.
Her head tips back, her throat exposed and I lean in, dragging my teeth over her skin because I need to taste her, need to feel every fucking inch of her reacting to me.
She’s perfect. So tight, so warm, her body gripping me like she’s been waiting for this as long as I have. Every thrust pulls another sound from her—soft whimpers, breathless curses, my name like a prayer—and I’m fucking addicted to it.
“That’s it,” I murmur against her ear, my hand sliding down her hip, holding her steady as I drive into her harder. “Just like that. Take it just like that.”
Her legs lock around me, her heels digging into my calves. She’s close—I can feel it in the way her breath hitches, the way her fingers twist in my hair, tugging just enough to make me moan.
With one quick motion, I tug the strap of her dress down her shoulder, far enough that one perfect breast pops free.
She lets out this soft, breathy sound—half gasp, half whimper—the second my mouth closes around it.
The nipple’s already tight against my tongue, and fuck, I love her tits.
Small and sweet, just enough to fill my hand.
The dusty pink of her nipple barely shows against her skin, like it was brushed on in watercolors.
Wren thinks they’re too small, but she’s wrong.
They’re hers, and that’s all that matters to me.
I give her nipple a slow, teasing pull with my teeth, and she cries out, her hips jerking against mine. “Sawyer—” her voice is wrecked, and I love how she says my name like that, like it’s the only word she knows.
My mouth trails along her collarbone, tasting salt and the warm, familiar trace of her vanilla lotion. I move higher, over the line of her throat, and she tilts her head back, offering more. Her breath stutters against my ear—soft, broken sounds that make it impossible to think.
I stay steady, moving inside her with a rhythm that’s slow, sure, deliberate.
Every shift of my hips is angled toward that spot I’ve learned by heart—the one that unravels her, pulls those sounds from deep in her chest like she didn’t know they were there.
She tightens around me and I groan, pressing my face to her neck, trying to hold on.
Sex with Wren isn’t just good—it’s grounding, consuming, undoing.
It’s the way her body finds mine like it already knows how we fit together.
The way her breath catches when I touch her just right.
But more than that, it’s what happens after.
The way she looks at me, like I’m something solid. Like I’m someone worth holding on to.
That’s what wrecks me. Not the heat of it, not the rush. It’s the quiet after, when she curls into me like she belongs there, like she never learned to doubt it.
Her hips start to move faster now, chasing the feeling building between us, and I can’t look away. Her lips are parted, her cheeks are flushed, her lashes low. She’s beautiful like this—completely lost in it, in me—and I know with absolute certainty I’ve never seen anything sexier in my life.
“Come on, sweetheart,” I whisper against her lips. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.”
Her fingers dig into my shoulders, her breath catching in short, broken gasps—and then she falls apart beneath me.
Her whole body tightens, pulling me closer, holding me there.
I feel it ripple through her, feel the way she comes undone in layers—eyes closed, lips parted, completely lost in it—and somehow, I hold on.
Just barely.
I don’t stop moving. I can’t. Not when she’s like this—arched beneath me, one breast still hanging out of her dress, the other pressed tight against my chest, her body rocking with every thrust. Not when I’m so fucking close I can feel it building, that sharp, relentless pull in my gut just waiting to break.
And then it does.
I still inside her, every muscle pulled tight, and my release hits hard—sharp and consuming, like a current snapping through me.
My breath catches, vision blurring, and all I can do is hold on.
My face finds the curve of her neck, the familiar press of her skin anchoring me as it crashes over and over again.
The smell of vanilla and salt and something warm, like honey—something that’s only ever been her. Something so wholly Wren.
I’m still coming, and it feels endless—like my body doesn’t know how to let go, or maybe doesn’t want to.
And when I finally still, it’s the sight of her that does something to me all over again—her body slack, spent, the mess of me slipping from between her thighs.
It’s almost too much. The heat of it. The intimacy of it.
The way it feels like I’ve left something behind and taken something with me at the same time.
God, why does that wreck me?
Why does the sight of her like this—full, marked, mine—make me want to stay right here and do it all over again?
When I finally come down, I kiss her—slow, lazy—because I need to. Because her lips are swollen from mine, her eyes half-lidded and dazed, and I just need to.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I murmur against her mouth.
She lets out a soft, satisfied hum. I trail my fingers along the inside of her thigh, catching the warmth there, sliding it gently back into her. She gasps, her hips jolting just slightly, and I can’t stop the smile that tugs at the edge of my mouth as I press it to her skin.
I lean in, my lips brushing the curve of her ear, my voice low and steady.
“Tonight,” I whisper, “when we’re at that gala and everyone’s watching you—thinking about you—I want you to remember what’s still between us. Remember who’s still inside you underneath that dress.”
Her breath catches hard, and I kiss her again, slow and possessive, before tugging the strap of her dress back over her shoulder.
“I’ll clean you up,” I say against her collarbone, pressing one last kiss there. “Then we’ll go.”
She’s still perched on the edge of the vanity when I come back from the bathroom with a warm washcloth, right where I left her—legs swinging gently, hair tousled, the hem of her dress bunched high on her thighs.
There’s a softness in her gaze when she looks at me.
Something quiet and open. Like whatever she sees in me, she’s already decided to keep for herself.
I kneel in front of her, my hand finding the curve of her calf as I press the cloth to her skin. She shivers slightly at the warmth of it, a trail of goosebumps rising along her thigh. I move slowly, carefully.
I don’t think I’ve ever had someone look at me the way she does, at least not in this phase of my life. Not with expectation, or because they wanted something from me. Not with pity. She just sees me. And chooses to keep seeing me.
And I love her.
I don’t know if I was supposed to. A few months ago, I would’ve told you love wasn’t in the cards for me anymore. That whatever part of me used to love like this—freely, fully—went up in flames with everything I lost.
But she found something worth saving in the ashes. And somehow, so did I.
And now I love her in this quiet way. Not the kind of love that crashes into you—but the kind that builds itself, brick by brick, until one day you look up and realize it’s become a place you live in.
I love the way she sees the world. I love how patient she is with animals and how unsure she is with people.
I love her handwriting, and how she tries to hide her soft heart behind dry jokes and sideways glances.
I love that she talks to Hank like he’s a person, and that she listens when I speak because it matters to her.
I love that she lets me in, even when it costs her something to do it
I didn’t think I’d get to feel anything like this again. I didn’t think I’d want to.
But then there’s Wren. And now, every part of me that went quiet—every piece I thought had closed for good—wants to crack wide open just to let her in.
I don’t know how this ends. But if there’s a version of my life where I get to keep her—where she’s still mine tomorrow, and the day after that—I’ll take it without hesitation.
Because liking Wren Wilding feels like a choice I get to make.
But loving her?
That feels like breathing. Like something my body was built to do.
Her voice is quiet. “Sawyer.”
I look up. “Yeah?”
She swallows. “I like you.” A pause. “Like…a lot.”
It feels like someone reached in and wrapped their hand around my heart, holding it just tight enough to make it hard to breathe.
I stand, slow and steady. Her knees are a little knocked together, her hair falling forward like a red curtain. I sweep it over her shoulder and lean in, brushing a kiss against the skin there—warm and freckled and hers. “I like you a lot too, Wren.”
I should tell her. I should just fucking say it.
That I love her. That I’ve been walking around with it sitting in my chest like a secret too big for its box.
This heavy, undeniable thing that’s been lodged in my chest that’s been waiting for the right moment to break free.
I think about saying it now. Just letting it slip out and fill the space between us, because it belongs here. With her. With us.
But I don’t say it.
Not because I’m unsure. It’s the surest thing I’ve felt since I lost everything.
I just don’t want the first time she hears it from me to be in a hotel room after I’ve fucked her on a vanity because I have no self-control apparently and couldn’t wait another minute to get my hands on her. Even if that’s exactly what happened. Even if I’d stay in that moment forever if I could.
One day soon, I’ll tell her. But not like this.
So I say what I can.
“I like you a lot, too,” I repeat, softer this time. “Like, a lot. An insane amount.”
She tilts her head. “You do?”
I nod once. “I do.”
That gets a smile out of her. It’s slightly crooked like she doesn’t quite believe I mean it.
Her lips tip up, and she nods. “I like you an insane amount, too.”
I lean in and press a kiss to her mouth—slow and sure, one that says what I feel even if I still haven’t worked up the nerve to say the real thing out loud yet.
I offer her my hand to help her off the vanity, and she takes it.
The second she tries to stand, her legs buckle just slightly and I catch her elbow, stifling a laugh.
She narrows her eyes at me. “It’s the heels.”
“Sure it is.”
Her smirk curves. “You’ve just been waiting for the perfect moment to mention your massive dick, haven’t you?”
I lift a brow. “You think it’s massive?”
She scoffs like I’m the most ridiculous person alive. “By the way,” she says as she straightens her dress, smoothing the silk down her thighs, “you took seven minutes.”
I laugh, genuine and low, and reach for the door. “That’s two more than usual—consider yourself spoiled, Peach.”
She rolls her eyes but loops her arm through mine as we head out into the hallway.
And I swear—if every night with her started like that, I would be late to every damn thing for the rest of my life.
And I wouldn’t regret a single second of it.