That fact alone was a fucking seventeen on the Richter scale.
“I’ve ruinedyou?” he asked, keeping his voice light as his breath ghosted over my neck. “What about the fact that there is literally no more beautiful asshole on the planet than yours? Seriously, why is it so pretty?”
Keep talking to me like that and I’ll marry you, Sawyer Finch.
I laughed and shivered at the same time. “I get it bleached twice a year.”
“I’ll see if my aesthetician offers bleaching,” he said, stretching my foreskin over the head of my cock, then gently pushing it back again.
We went on like that, chatting and fucking and just being with each other. Connected, unhurried. We didn’t need to get to every position in this go-round because we’d get to them later. We’d have time.
He kissed my shoulder, and I turned to find his gaze locked on the hand he was using to stroke me.
“Your balls are so pretty when they get high and tight like this,” he murmured.
“Call it a condition of getting fucked by you,” I replied, then choked as his hand drew even sharper pleasure from my body. “Fuck, I’m close, Sawyer.”
“You want to come for me, James?”
I whined, arching against his chest. “Yes.” Fuck, that was hot, him first-naming me while buried inside me.
“Good,good. Why don’t you come for me now?”
Sawyer increased his grip and speed, and I went off like a rocket. I would swear on a stack of Bibles that whenever I came for this man, he blew out the circuits to every goddamn nerve in my body. I never came in just one place with Sawyer; it was always a full-body orgasm.
He sped up his thrusts as I was coming down, his rigid dick rocking against my overworked nerves. I loved it. I loved the bloom of heat when he came inside me. I especially loved the way he took care of me after.
We moved to the shower, where we faced each other, his long fingers inside me as he kissed me. I marveled at how comfortable I was with him and howcomfortwasn’t nearly as boring as I’d been led to believe. How all my assumptions about feelings being scary and relationships being a snoozefest were just that: assumptions. Wrong ones at that.
We hadn’t lived together very long, but it was as long as I’d ever stayed under one roof with another person since high school. Setting aside the fantastic sex—just for a second—sharing space with Sawyer had been easy, even when he fussed at me and even when I left things on the bathroom counter.
If this was what it felt like to settle down, maybe I needed to give this shit a second look.
After a brief post-sex coma, I finally stopped ignoring my phone.
“It’s my lawyer,” I said, showing the screen to Sawyer as we sat back against the pillows.
The first thing I’d done when I’d realized that DeWitt owned my contract was fire my old lawyer and hire Terrence. Sometimes it felt like that was the only smart business decision I’d ever made.
“Do you need some privacy?” he asked, running a hand over my thigh.
Yeah, no. I needed him right where he was. “Actually, would you mind sticking around? I’m sure you’re better at dealing with lawyers than I am.”
“Unfortunately, you’re probably right. Then again, you’re better at guitar than I am,” he said, kissing my nose. “And singing. And hyping up a crowd. And wearing nail polish.”
I rolled my eyes. “I could paint your nails for you. It’d be sexy as hell, seeing you in a suit with your nails done,” I teased as I hit the speakerphone button.
His little growl in my ear made me hope he’d have another round in him later.
“Hey, Terrence,” I said, dragging my attention to a phone call that had no hope of containing good news. “I’ve got my friend Sawyer on speaker with me.”
Sawyer’s lip curled at being called my friend, and my heart practically tripped out of my chest.
“Hey, Hendrix. And Sawyer.” The gravity in Terrence’s voice confirmed I’d been right that I wouldn’t like what he had to say.
“Lay it on me, man,” I said, wanting to get this over with so that I could go back to the business of falling for Sawyer.
“The label has already rescheduled the tour dates.”
