He takes his time, mouth and hands worshipping every inch of skin until I'm trembling, fingers twisted in his hair. Nathan was always perfunctory, goal-oriented. Sawyer seems determined to memorize my body's every response.
"Please—" The word breaks from me when he finds that spot behind my knee I didn't even know was sensitive.
"Not yet." His voice is rough with control. "I want to know everything. Every sound you make, every way you move."
His mouth travels higher, and when he reaches the apex of my thighs, I cry out, back arching off the bed. He holds my hips steady, relentless in his attention.
He proves he's a man of action, not just words. His mouth finds me already wet and wanting, and the first stroke of his tongue makes me cry out. Nathan never—God, Nathan never did this, said it was unnecessary. But Sawyer acts like he's been starving for it, for me.
His hands grip my thighs, holding me open as he devours me with single-minded intensity. When he slides two fingers inside, curling them just right while his mouth continues its assault, I shatter embarrassingly fast, my whole body convulsing.
"Beautiful," he breathes against my inner thigh, pressing kisses to oversensitized skin. "Again."
"I can't?—"
But he proves me wrong, fingers and tongue working together until I'm climbing again, higher this time. He adds a third finger, the stretch perfect, and when he crooks them while sucking hard.
I scream. Actually scream, back bowing off the bed, fingers twisted in his hair as waves of pleasure crash over me.
He doesn't stop, doesn't slow, just gentles his touch as he works me through it, drawing out every aftershock until I'm boneless and gasping.
When he finally kisses his way back up my body, I can taste myself on his lips—earthy and intimate—intimate in a way that makes me blush.
"The way you come apart," he breathes against my mouth. "I want to see it again. And again."
"Sawyer, I need—" My hands fumble with his belt, desperate to touch him. "Now. Please."
He helps me, shedding the last of his clothes, and when I wrap my hand around him, his control finally cracks. The sound he makes—half growl, half prayer—sends heat spiraling through me.
This is Sawyer, only Sawyer.
I stroke him base to tip, learning what makes his breath catch, what makes his hips jerk. When I twist my wrist on the upstroke, his control snaps.
"Savannah—" He catches my wrist. "If you keep that up, this'll be over before it starts." He catches my wrists and pins them above my head with one hand. "Enough. My turn. Eyes on me," he commands, and I force them open. "Want to watch you take me."
He pushes in slowly, so slowly, and the stretch is intense, almost too much. I'm still swollen and sensitive from two orgasms, and every inch feels like fire and perfection.
"So tight," he grits out, jaw clenched with control. "So perfect. Made for me."
He watches my face, and the stretch, the fullness, the rightness of it makes us both gasp. For a moment, neither of us moves, overwhelmed by the connection.
When he's finally, fully inside, we both need a moment. I've never felt so full, so complete. He releases my wrists to frame my face with both hands, and the tenderness in the gesture contrasts beautifully with the raw possession of him inside me.
"Perfect," he breathes. "You're perfect."
"Please move."
He does, pulling out almost completely before sliding back in, setting a rhythm that builds slowly. Each thrust goes deeper, hits differently, and when he shifts my hips, angling up?—
"There! Oh God, right there!"
He grins, fierce and male. "Found it."
He hits that spot with devastating accuracy, over and over, until I'm climbing again, impossible as it seems. His thumb finds my clit, circling in time with his thrusts, and the dual sensation is overwhelming.
I wrap my legs around his waist to pull him closer. One hand threads through mine against the pillow while the other grips my hip, angling me until?—
"Oh God, right there?—"
