He kisses a line up my neck, and then he swirls his tongue around my earlobe before saying, “I need to get a condom.”
“Unless you don’t,” I say on impulse.
He goes still and draws back to look me in the eye. “Doc?”
“Sorry. It was a stupid idea.” I lift my leg to try to climb off him, and he tightens his grip keeping me in place.
“I’m down, if you are. But I’m not asking. I don’t need that from you. You know that, right?”
“Maybe I need it,” I say.
He searches my face for a beat, as though trying to figure out if I’m being honest or maybe if I’m sure, but whatever he sees must be enough.
“Then that’s what you’ll get,” he says, planting a kiss on my forehead before letting me stand up.
I take off my jeans and panties and they fall to the floor while he shimmies out of his dress pants and boxer briefs. Then he beckons me forward, and I straddle him again, hovering.
“You’re sure?” he asks, his tone hushed.
“Yes. You?”
“I’d do anything for you,” he says, drawing me down until his tip is entering. “Oh, fuck,” he says with a little chuckle. “I’m in trouble.”
“Feels that good already?” It feels different for me, too, a choice, a bond that I hadn’t consciously realized I needed from him.
“You always feel good,” he says, as I take him deeper. “But this is…” His voice is strained. “I need a minute. Don’t move.”
He kisses me, holding me in place with his hands spanning my hips for a couple of beats as our bodies get used to this new sensation. As he slowly lowers me more, a little whimper escapes him.
“I love you, Sawyer. I love you so much.” Then his arms circle my back, keeping me tight as he starts the motion we both seem to need more tonight than at any other point in our relationship.
And as he thrusts, and I meet his motions with my own, I cherish the close contact, the connection, the way he listens to every sigh and moan, adjusting his pace to prolong both our releases.
It feels like goodbye, but also confirmation of what I’ve known for months and haven’t fully let myself consider. If I was younger, I’d go anywhere with him, do anything to keep him. Because what I finally allow myself to admit is that I’ve never loved anyone the way I love him, and I fear I never will again.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Logan
Sawyer left my apartment at the crack of dawn to meet one of her pro bono clients at the clinic. Her hours are often scheduled around whatever shift someone else is working. The time she dedicates to people who couldn’t otherwise afford a service like hers is impressive. It’s hard to resent her for being so loyal to people who’d be in pain or struggling otherwise. Months ago, I meant what I said when I told her that what she’s doing for the working class people of Bellerive would have been a game changer for me as a kid for the few times I’d have benefitted from a little extra help.
Last night, it broke my heart to hear her say she wouldn’t consider coming with me, even when I knew it was a long shot. But I couldn’t leave the question mark over my heart for the rest of my life, so at least now I know without any uncertainty where she still stands.
Which is why I got into the car with my driver this morning after Sawyer left, and I asked to be taken to the one place I should not go. Since I didn’t talk to Sawyer first, I don’t know how she’s going to feel about what I’m doing. But I can’t leave this island without being sure I’ve done everything within my power to protect her, to keep Dalton from being able to get a grip on her again.
The Tucker family home isn’t a house, and I’m not even sure I’d call it a mansion. I’ve been in some pretty nice places since I got into the WHL. This is an estate or, I might even go so far as to call it a palace. Unbelievable wealth. And while I knew Sawyer came from a lot of money, her lifestyle feels closer to those of my peers in the WHL than whatever is happening in this palatial estate.
When I ring the doorbell, I stand with my hands shoved in the pockets of my shorts. A cooler ocean breeze blows through the front of the property, moving the humid air around. The hot weather is just starting to arrive, and I might be gone before the worst of it. Or best. I don’t mind the heat.
The door swings open, and a classic butler stands at the door in an outfit that’ll probably cause me to chuckle later when I remember. Coattails, a bowtie, and strict black and white. I can’t help a little smile at how pretentious it is.
“Can I help you?” the butler asks, all formality.
“I’d like to speak to Celia Tucker.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Nope.”
