He looked at me then, cocking his head just slightly.
"Whyareyou in this truck?" he said.
"Because I asked to leave the bar and you ordered two more drinks first, which I appreciated, and then you put your hand on my back and walked me out." I held his gaze. "And because we really should have done this after Millie and Gage’s wedding but I was definitely too drunk then, and I’m not now.”
Silence.
The property lights were close now.
"You're sure," he said. Not a question exactly. More like the last checkpoint.
"I'm sure." I put my hand over his on the gearshift. "I've been sure. The tequila just made me say it out loud."
He turned his hand over under mine and laced his fingers through mine and didn't let go until he had to shift down to pull onto the gravel.
When we were right outside his trailer, he cut the engine and we sat there for a second in the sudden quiet—just the tick of cooling metal and the horses whinnying in their paddock and his hand still warm in mine.
Then he got out. Came around to my side before I'd gotten the door open, which I did not expect, and offered his hand, which I also did not expect. I took it and stepped down into the New Mexico dark. The stars were obscene out here…a sky that made you feel very small and very alive at the same time.
He didn't let go.
We walked to the trailer door and he dug his keys out of his pocket with his free hand, which took a moment, and I watched him try to get the key in the lock one-handed and not drop either thing. I was endeared by it in a way I had no business being.
"Sorry," he said. "It's—hold on."
"Take your time."
He got the door open. Stepped up first, reached back for me. I took his hand again and stepped up into a space that was small and warm and smelled like him—leather and something clean and underneath it something that was just Sawyer, just this specific man who had been living in the back of my mind for two years taking up space I hadn't given him permission to take. He clicked on a small light, then reached over and moved a jacket off the narrow bench seat, then a set of reins that had no business being inside.
"Sorry," he said again. "Wasn't exactly expecting company."
I looked around. Everything had a place, even the things that were technically out of place. A coffee mug in the small sink. A worn paperback face-down on the narrow counter. His hat on a hook by the door. A blanket folded at the foot of the bed that was barely big enough for one person, let alone?—
I looked at the bed.
Stared, really.
He caught me looking and turned away, shockingly bashful.
"Water?" he said. "I've got—" He turned to the small cabinet and opened it. "Water. I've got water."
"Sawyer."
"Yeah?”
I stepped toward him.
He turned from the cabinet and I put both hands on his chest, looking up at him in the low light. He looked surprised that I was being so forward…but honestly, he shouldn’t havebeen surprised, and I wanted him too much to care. My hands roamed lower, down his abs, hooked into his belt, and he sucked in a breath.
“I want you to fuck me, Sawyer,” I whispered.
He went very still.
Then his hands came down over mine on his belt and he held them there, not letting me move. He was looking at me with something in his eyes that was dark and unhurried and made my breath catch.
"I know what you want," he said. "I'll get there."
"Sawyer—"
