Nothing held back. His hips driving into mine, the trailer creaking, one hand braced by my head and the other finding my thigh and pushing it higher. The angle shifted. I cried out. He did it again, watching my face the whole time, deliberate and focused.
"There," he said. "That's the spot."
"Yes—don't stop?—"
"Not stopping." His mouth at my throat. "You feel so good. I thought about this. How you'd feel." His hips snapped forward and I gasped. "Thought about it all day. Every time I had my hands on you." Another stroke, harder. "Couldn't stop thinking about getting you here."
"Sawyer—"
"Tell me you thought about it too." Low. Against my ear.
"Yes." My nails raked down his back. "God, yes, since this morning?—"
"Since craft services." He pulled back slow and pushed back in and I whimpered. "Since you smelled like that and looked at me like that." Again, harder. "Drove me out of my mind."
"I was trying to be professional."
"You were." His hips found a rhythm that was going to kill me. "You were very professional." He reached between us and his thumb found my clit and I arched off the mattress. "I wasn't."
"Sawyer—please?—"
"Please what." He kept the rhythm. Kept the pressure. Watched my face like he was reading it.
"I need—more?—"
"More." He shifted the angle again, deeper, and I grabbed his shoulders and held on. "Like that?"
"Like that like that don't stop?—"
His thrusts got faster. He smiled against my shoulder.
"Come on." His mouth at my ear, low and steady, the paddock voice, the voice that meant he knew exactly what he wasdoing and was going to get what he wanted. "Give me one more. You can."
"I already—twice?—"
"I know." His thumb moved in slow circles. Patient. Merciless. "One more. Be good for me."
Be good for me.
I came undone.
It cracked through me from somewhere deep and total, my whole body arching, his name tearing out of my throat over and over while he worked me through every shaking second. His hips didn't slow. His voice stayed low in my ear—good girl, that's it, you're so good, give it to me—and I gave it, all of it, until I was shaking and boneless and couldn't remember my own name.
Then his rhythm finally broke.
All that steadiness dissolved at once—his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise, his face buried in my neck, my name coming out of him rough and desperate and nothing like the careful man who'd driven me across the desert. Not patient anymore. Not controlled. Just him, completely undone, shuddering against me.
He went still.
We lay there.
His weight was heavy and warm and complete. I kept my arms around him and didn't move. Above us the small window was full of stars. His heartbeat slowed against my chest.
His hand moved eventually. Up my side. Down again.
"Hey," he said. Rough and quiet.
"Hey," I said.
