Something moved through his eyes. Satisfaction, dark and warm.
"Good girl," he said.
I felt it from my throat to my knees.
He took his time. Both hands on me, slow and thorough, thumbs tracing patterns I couldn't predict, mouth following wherever he decided, and I sat on that counter with my hands behind my back and my jaw set and tried very hard not to make noise and failed completely.
"Sawyer—"
"Stay still."
"I'm trying?—"
"Try harder." His mouth closed over my nipple and my head fell back and I stopped trying entirely.
"Please," I said. To the ceiling of the trailer. To no one in particular. "Please, I need?—"
"What do you need." Not a question. He knew. He always knew and made me say it anyway.
"You," I said. "I need you, please?—"
"You've got me." His hands moved to my jeans, button, zip, pulling them down my hips. "You've always had me. Took you a while to figure that out."
"Don't be smug about it?—"
"I'm not smug." He got my jeans off and dropped them somewhere and looked at me, just looked, and I felt it like a hand at my throat. "I'm grateful."
Something cracked in my chest at that. The teasing falling away for just a second, real underneath.
"Sawyer," I said. Softer.
"I know." He stepped back in close, hands on my thighs. "Lay back."
"I'll fall off the counter."
"You won't. I've got you."
I laid back on the counter, which was narrow and cold against my spine and absolutely did not matter because his hands were on me and his mouth was following and I stopped caring about anything structural.
"Perfect," he said against my stomach. Lower. "You're perfect."
"I'm really—" The word dissolved. "I'm really not?—"
"You are." His mouth moved lower and I grabbed the edge of the counter with both hands. "You're mine and you're perfect and I've been thinking about this all week." His breath was warm against my inner thigh. "So you're going to let me have it."
"Yes," I breathed. "God, yes, okay?—"
"Good girl."
He put his mouth on me and I forgot my own name.
He was thorough about it. Unhurried, focused, the same way he approached everything—like he'd assessed the situation and made a plan and was executing it with complete confidence and no interest whatsoever in being redirected. My hands found his hair. He let me pull. Kept going.
"I'm already—" I managed. "I'm going to?—"
He hummed against me and I went over fast and hard, his name coming out of my mouth twice, my whole body locking up and then shaking apart. He worked me through every second, not letting up until my thighs were shaking around his head and I was gasping at the ceiling.
He held my thighs as he stood…pulled me into his arms.
