Tonight, those aren’t my options. So, I choose him over and over and over again, until we collapse in his bed an hour later, both sweaty and breathless.
I keep waiting for him to tell me to leave, but he doesn’t. Not before I get up to use the bathroom and not when I return to his bedroom. He just shuts off the lamp and rolls over on one side, punching his pillow once.
So, I take the other side, the same half of the bed I slept on the last time we spent a night together. Stare up at the ceiling, split between happiness and despair. I can’t separate sex and love, but I know Sawyer has. Does. I’ve seen him switch it off—go from fucking me one minute to asking, “Why?” the next. The sooner I fall asleep, the sooner I’ll wake up to that indifference. I’m tempted to leave tonight anyway, just toavoid it.
His voice startles me. I thought he was already asleep. “Does he make you happy?”
I open my mouth to reply. Close it again. Silently debate how many details to share. All but once, he ran when things got serious between us. And the time he didn’t run, he never chased after me. It’s better for both of us, probably, that he thinks I’m not still devastatingly in love with him. That I came here, seeking nothing except pleasurable nostalgia.
“He doesn’t make me sad.”
Sawyer doesn’t reply.
Maybe he did fall asleep in the time it took me to come up with that response.
I sense him start to shift in bed beside me, preparing to get up. Surprising since I’m a deep sleeper, but I’m not accustomed to having someone else in bed with me.
I roll over, trapping his arm under me. “Stay.”
“I know steady employment is a foreign concept to you, but I have to go to work.”
I try to scowl, but it’s hard to do with a wide smile on my face. I’m happy. I’m really, really happy right now.
And there’s a softness to Sawyer’s expression as he turns his head to study me that makes me think I’m not the only one appreciating this start to the day.
“You can be a little late.” I sit up, then twist so I’m straddling his stomach. Keep a smile fixed on my face, not saying what I’m really thinking.
This could be it.
Every time I have sex with Sawyer, it feels like a first and last time. Maybe that’s the root of my obsession with him, why I can’t seem to flush this craving out of my system. We’re a thrill. Remnants of a teenage crush, the sort of obsession and adoration and giddiness that borders on addiction.
If we started that way, it shifted a long time ago. For me at least. What I want, more than anything, is assurance we’re not finite. I can handle everything else in the world changing, even embrace the constant newness of it, but I want us to stay the same. Stay like this.
I move down the bed, pulling the covers with me. Slowly kiss my way down his chest and over his abs, lingering at the start of his happy trail. Glance up, meeting his heated gaze. “Too bad you have to go …”
“I have some time,” Sawyer says quickly, not even looking at a clock.
“It won’t take more than five minutes,” I say.
He glares.
I laugh, then suck him into my mouth.
He swears loudly, hips jerking as the head hits the back of my throat. I slow my speed, lifting my head until only the wet tip remains in my mouth. Let that slip out too, meeting his gaze again.
Sawyer says nothing, tucking one arm behind his head in a casual pose. But his expression is ablaze with emotion. Lust and arousal, yeah, but maybe some awe. Heated possessiveness. I feel worshipped, even though I’m technically the one pleasuring him.
It’s one of the most intimate moments we’ve ever shared, and my battered heart beats faster.
Why does something that feels so inevitable never come to the right conclusion?
Would he ever love me the way I’ve loved him?
Will I ever be brave enough to tell him everything?
I resume blowing him. This is one thing I can control. And I missed this part too—the physical feel of him in my mouth and the power of knowing I’m controlling his pleasure. The private familiarity of knowing exactly what he likes.
I moan and slurp and lick and tease until he chokes out, “Wren, I’m gonna …”
