"Hey." His thumb stroked over my knuckles. "I've got you."
He took my hands off his belt and walked me backward to the bed. My knees caught and I sat down too fast, looking up at him. I reached for him again, but he caught my wrists.
"Let me," he said.
Not a question. Not a request.
I let him.
He knelt down and took my shoes off, which was not what I was expecting, and set them aside and ran both hands up my calves and looked up at me from the floor of his trailer with those dark eyes. His hands were still on my knees…thumbs gliding in slow circles over my bare skin, under the sundress I’d put on tonight with a denim jacket I hadn’t needed.
"You've been driving me crazy all day," he rasped. "You know that?"
"The corset?"
"Before the corset." His hands moved higher, past my knees, thumbs tracing the inside of my thighs, and I grabbed the edge of the mattress. "Craft services. You threw your arms around my neck and you smelled—" He stopped. Shook his head. "Couldn't think about anything else all day."
"You were very professional about it."
"I was." His hands pushed higher and I sucked in a breath. "I'm done being professional."
He pushed my skirt up, spread my legs, and buried his face between my thighs.
I was still wear cotton underwear, but he didn’t seem to care; he lapped at me, tasted how wet I already was, sucked on my clit even through the fabric.
"Sawyer—" His name came out broken.
He hooked his fingers into my underwear and pulled them down my legs and off and then his mouth was back and there was nothing between us and I stopped being able to form words.
His hands spread my thighs wider, easy, like he had every right to, and held them there when I tried to close them around his head.
"Stay open," he said against me. "Let me taste you."
"Sawyer—"
"I've been thinking about this all day." His voice was rough, urgent. "Since this morning. Since you smelled like that and looked like that and I had my hands on you and couldn't do a damn thing about it."
He put his mouth back on me and this time there was nothing patient about it. He ate me out like he was starving for it, like he'd been holding himself back all day and was done holding back, his hands gripping my thighs hard enough to bruise and his tongue moving fast and focused and I stopped trying to be quiet.
"God—yes—right there?—"
He groaned against me, the vibration going straight through my core, and pushed two fingers inside me and curled them and I grabbed his hair with both hands and held on.
"You're so wet," he breathed. "Christ, Daniela—how long have you?—"
“All night,” I said. “Since the bar. I was squeezing my thighs…fuck, I was squeezing my thighs together in the truck…wanted you?—”
He made a sound that wasn't a word and worked me harder and I went over fast and hard, thighs shaking around his head, his name coming out of my mouth in a way I'd never said anyone's name before.
He was on his feet before I'd stopped shaking, pulling his henley off, and I lay there watching him and felt my whole body clench again at the sight of him. The medal swinging against his chest. The belt buckle. The line of his stomach disappearing into his jeans.
"You're staring," he said, reaching for his belt.
"You're worth staring at." I sat up and reached for him. "Let me?—"
"I've got it." But he didn't stop me when my hands found his belt alongside his, both of us working it open.
He hissed out a breath when my hand slipped inside.
