Sawyer takes another step, and I fight the urge to backtrack and retain the same amount of distance between us.
Especially once he touches me, tilting my chin up and tracing my jawline with his thumb. I hold his gaze, defiant, and a grin ghosts across his face.
The many times I told myself I was over him? They’re such blatant lies all of a sudden. Aaron said Cap makes him nervous. Sawyer Bennett makes me forget there are other people on this planet.
“Just like being the first guy to fuck you was none of my business?”
My annoyance is increasingly slippery to hold on to. Truthfully, I’m thrilled he’s out here with me instead of inside with anyone else, acting jealous and territorial.
“That’s ancient histo?—”
He kisses me, swallowing the rest of my rant into his mouth as he sucks on my tongue.
Some people are puzzle pieces. Being around them is effortless, like two pieces fitting together. It doesn’t mean it’s right; it doesn’t mean it’s reliable.
But that’s how I always feel around Sawyer—like I found my other half.
I don’t believe there’s some mysterious alchemy to kissing—it’s like holding hands, except mouths touching—but there’s some special sensation every time I kiss Sawyer, no matter where we are or how long we’ve known each other.
It accelerates instantly, like a match tossed on a steady stream of gasoline. His hands are on my face, then roaming lower. I slide my hands into his hair because I think about doing so every time I see him do it, but have always had to suppress the urge to. As soon as I do, he kisses me harder. His tongue traces my lip, and I start to feel unsteady. My arms fold around his neck, using the solid stretch of his shoulders for support. Did he getmoremuscular since last summer or?—
I’m kissing him back, I suddenly realize. Rather enthusiastically because I want to kiss him, but I did not want Sawyer to know that.
I withdraw my hands and yank my head away, separating our mouths. Only by a couple of inches since Sawyer’s still holding me so I can’t pull very far away. We’re too close for me to disguise how fast my breathing is, but I attempt to hide that I’m practically panting.
“Whydid you do that?” I ask, hoping he catches the extra emphasis on the first word.
“I wanted to,” he replies, dropping his arms.
It’s not that chilly out, but I feel colder.
“Why?” I press.
He huffs. “You kissed me randomly, repeatedly, last summer. I can’t kiss you once?”
“No,” I snap. “You can’t. Because I did it before …”
“Before what?”
I cross my arms. “Do you really want to do this?”
“Do what?”
I can’t tell if he’s being deliberately obtuse or if he’s trulyclueless. Neither is ideal. Both feed my irritation.
“Why do you think I came to see you on New Year’s?” I demand.
He shifts his weight between his feet, finally seeming to grow uncomfortable with the topic at hand. “Sex?” he suggests.
I scoff. “I can get that anywhere. Idoget that anywhere.”
His jaw clenches. “I know what you look like after you’ve come, Wren. Whoever you went upstairs with either couldn’t get you off or nothing happened. My money’s on the latter.”
I hate that he’s using how I react to him against me. I hate even more that he’s right.
“What money?” I snap.
A dig I should feel bad about, probably, but that’s one thing I love about Sawyer: he gives it right back to me. If I’d said that to any other guy—and I do meananyother guy because I’m richer than all of them—they would have gotten defensive.
