Sawyer straightens to his full height, tossing my underwear onto my stomach.
I sit up slowly. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to call him an asshole and mean it again. Because he looks smug—deservedly so—but his eyes are soft as he surveys my likely dazed expression.
“Thanks,” I say.
He smiles, one shoulder propped against the doorframe. I was right; it’s bad for my heart health.
“I owed you one,” he says simply.
My gaze drops to the big bulge in his boxers. I didn’t get a good look in the dark bedroom, but I got the gist of his dick’s dimensions during sex. I’m not sore anymore, but that’s a very recent development.
“Do you have a condom?”
“Glove compartment,” he replies.
I scoot back until it’s in reach, twisting the knob I assume opens it. Mixed in with gas receipts and packs of gum, he doesn’t haveacondom.There are several strips of them and a few wrappers. There’s a strange spasm in my chest when I picture this exact scene, but with Cammie or a faceless girl in my position. A weird and unwelcome reaction, considering I’m leaving tomorrow morning and this will probably be the last time I ever see him. Probably just because I don’t have anyone else to picture in his position yet.
I tear one condom off, shut the glove compartment, and toss the packet to Sawyer. He catches it one-handed, climbing into the truck and shutting the door.
I fold my underwear and set them on top of the dress I pulled off before swimming, watching Sawyer tug his boxers down out of the corner of my eye. I can feel my heart banging against my rib cage; it’s beating so fast. It’s very intimate, sitting in here with him. The radio isn’t on. Checking my phone would be odd. People always act as if sex just happens, and I’ve never given much thought to the logistical process of getting naked with someone.
After some crinkling, his voice is the next sound to break the silence. “C’mere.”
I crawl onto his lap, relieved that things are progressing. Eager when his erection grazes sensitive, swollen skin, and I’m reminded of how incredible I felt a few minutes ago.
Last time, I could focus on keeping a confident facade. On suppressing the pain. This time, there’s no act. No pretenses. It’s easier … and harder. Less terrifying and scarier at the same time.
His hands slide up my back, one rough palm tracing the bumps of my spine, until they reach the clasp of my bra. One deft flick, and the lace lets go. Sawyer flings it away, toward my other clothes, and then his hands are cupping my boobs.
“You have amazing tits,” he tells me, thumbs teasing the stiff peaksto painful points. His tone is matter-of-fact, more of a statement than true flattery.
“Gee—mmm—thanks.” The moan that slipped out steals some of the sarcasm.
He smirks. “I’m working on my compliments.”
“Work hard—oh.”
His tongue has replaced his thumb, and it feels almost as good as it did between my thighs.
The throbbing there is getting more insistent. My muscles clench around emptiness, and I realize I’m craving something there. I reach between us, fisting his dick and guiding it to where I need it, too impatient to wait any longer. And then I start to sink down.
At first, it’s as bad as before. Sudden pressure, followed by a pinching sting as my body stretches in a way it’s unaccustomed to. I keep going, pushing through the flare of discomfort.
“Fuck, Wren,” he hisses.
Sawyer’s expression is pained, almost, but I’m the only one of us experiencing actual discomfort. So unfair.
“Holy shit,” he adds, sounding a little stunned.
Some pride sparks in response, even though gravity is doing most of the work right now.
Sawyer is still cupping myamazingtits, but he’s not looking at my boobs anymore. His attention is lower, on his lap. I look down, too, sucking in a startled breath as I watch his cock disappear inside of me. It’s—well, it’s hormones and pheromones and biology, but it’s also dizzyingly intimate. Way more so than waiting for him to roll a condom on.
The world outside this truck has ceased to exist for me. There’s just me and him and the sudden fullness that feels more natural with eachpassing second.
He tilts his head back, eyes closed, the tendons of his neck straining as his jaw clenches to a sharp, straight angle. His shoulders and arms are tense too. I can feel his thighs bunch beneath mine. I’m worried if I move, he might crack in half.
“Am I doing something wrong?” I whisper.
