I heard his belt hit the floor.
"Still with me?" His voice had gone rough. The patience wearing thin at the edges finally, finally.
"Yes." I didn't move. Couldn't. "Yes. Please."
He ran both hands up my spine, over my waist, gripping my hips. Positioned himself. Pushed inside me in one long slow stroke that dragged a sound out of both of us.
"Christ." His forehead dropped between my shoulder blades. "Daniela?—"
"I know." I pushed back against him. "I know. Move. Please."
He moved.
Nothing held back this time. His hips driving forward, deep and hard, the trailer creaking, his hands gripping my hips tight enough that I'd see the marks tomorrow and wanted them. I grabbed the headboard and held on and pushed back to meet every stroke and his breathing went ragged against my spine.
"You feel so good," he gritted out. "God—a whole week without—you feel so?—"
"Don't stop," I said. "Don't stop don't stop?—"
"Not stopping." His hand slid around to my front, fingers finding my clit again, still swollen and oversensitive, and I whimpered. "One more."
"I can't?—"
"You can." He kept the rhythm, kept the pressure. Relentless. "You've got one more in you. Give it to me."
"Sawyer—"
"Give it to me, Daniela." His mouth at my spine, his fingers moving, his hips not slowing for a single second. "You're mine. Give me all of it."
I gave it to him.
It rolled through me slower this time, deeper, less like crashing and more like drowning—my whole body locking up around him, his name coming out of me on a long broken exhale, and I felt him shudder at the clench of it, felt his rhythm finally break apart.
He drove deep one last time and held there, his hands gripping my hips hard, his forehead dropping to my back, my name in his mouth over and over low and rough and wrecked.
We stayed like that until neither of us could hold the position anymore.
He gathered me up. Turned me over. Laid me down against the pillow and pulled the blanket up and tucked me against his chest and pressed his mouth to my hair.
I lay there completely hollowed out in the best possible way, his heartbeat under my palm, the morning gold through the small window.
"Sleep," he said into my hair.
"You said eggs."
"After."
"Sawyer."
"Daniela." His arm tightened around me. "Sleep. I'll make eggs every morning for the rest of your life if you want."
I went very still.
He did too.
Neither of us said anything for a long moment.
Then I smiled. “I think I'd like that,” I whispered.
