"I've got you." His rhythm never falters, building me back up with devastating precision. "Let me see you fall apart again."
His words are my undoing. I clench around him, my third orgasm rolling through me in waves that seem endless. He curses, thrusts going erratic, and then he's following me over, my name a broken prayer on his lips.
But he's not done.
The angle, the friction, his thumb finding exactly the right spot—it's too much and not enough. I'm climbing higher, faster, and when he shifts slightly, hitting deeper, I break.
He stays hard inside me—how is that even possible?—and rolls us so I'm on top, straddling him. From this angle, he's even deeper, and I gasp at the sensation.
"Want to watch you ride me," he says, hands gripping my hips.
I've never been on top—Nathan always insisted on control—but Sawyer's eyes are hot with encouragement, with need, with something deeper than lust.
I start tentatively, rolling my hips experimentally, but when his head drops back, and he groans, I grow bolder. I find a rhythm, rising and falling, taking him deep. His hands cup my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples, and the combination of sensations has me climbing yet again.
"That's it," he encourages, one hand sliding down to where we're joined. "Take what you need."
When his thumb presses firmly on my clit while I grind down, taking him to the hilt,
"Come for me," he demands, voice rough. "Let me feel you."
I come apart completely. This orgasm is different—deeper, more intense, pulling from my core. He wraps his arms around me as I shake apart, and then he's coming too, face buried in my neck, my name reverent on his lips.
My name is rough and reverent on his lips as he buries his face in my neck. We cling to each other, trembling through the aftershocks, neither willing to let go.
When he tries to move, I hold him tighter. "Not yet. Please."
He stays, taking his weight on his elbows but remaining close, still inside me. His forehead rests against mine, and we breathe the same air, hearts gradually slowing to match.
"That was..." I can't find words.
"Yeah." He kisses me softly. "It was."
We lie tangled in damp sheets, my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my spine while mine map the scars on his ribs. I'm deliciously sore in all the right places, my body still humming from his attention.
I'm completely wrecked—muscles like jelly, body still pulsing with aftershocks. I've never come four times in my life, let alone in one session.
"Nathan never—" I start, then stop. "Sorry. I shouldn't compare."
"Say it." His voice rumbles under my ear. "Whatever you need to say."
"Is it... is it always like that? Nathan treated sex like a transaction. Efficient. Goal-oriented. He never..." I trace the burn scar that wraps around his ribs. "He never made me feel wanted. Just convenient."
"Never?"
"Never."
"His loss." Sawyer tilts my chin up. "You're not convenient, Savannah. You're essential."
The weight of that admission hangs between us. This thing between us—it's not just adrenaline or proximity. It's something rare, something worth fighting for.
The word hits me in the chest, and I kiss him to avoid the emotions threatening to spill over.
Hours later, we're tangled in sheets that smell like hotel detergent and us. Sawyer traces lazy patterns on my shoulder blade while I scroll through delivery options on my new phone.
"Thai or pizza?" I ask.
"You pick."
