I wrapped both hands around him—tied together, easier than it should have been—and stroked once and watched his head tip back and felt the specific satisfaction of taking Sawyer Holt apart, which never got old and never would.
"Daniela." Warning.
"You said put my mouth on you," I said. "I'm getting there."
"Get there faster."
I took my time.
When I finally took him into my mouth his hand went straight to my hair. Not guiding. Just holding. Like he needed something to hold onto and this was what he had.
"God." Rough. Unsteady. All that careful control fraying at once. "Just like that. Don't stop."
I didn't stop.
I took him slow and then deep and then slow again, my hands still wrapped around the base of him, the lasso a warm weight across my wrists, and I looked up at him through my lashes the way I'd learned made him lose twenty seconds of coherent thought immediately.
It worked.
His grip tightened in my hair.
"Stop performing," he managed. Barely. "I don't want Daphne Wilder."
I hummed against him.
"Daniela." My name in his mouth, rough and wrecked, nothing like the careful man he was anywhere else. "You have no idea what you do to me. Every day on that set just—" His hips pushed forward and I took it and he exhaled hard. "Every time I watch you on that horse. Every time Ellis calls cut and you look at me across the set like—" He stopped. His jaw was tight. His hand in my hair not gentle anymore, just holding on. "Like I'm the only person there."
I hummed again.
He pulled me off by my hair.
I looked up at him breathing hard, lips parted, completely wrecked, and felt powerful in a way that had nothing to do with performing.
"Turn around," he said.
Not a request.
I turned around. Went to my hands and knees on the mattress, wrists still bound, the lasso trailing forward. He gathered the tail of it in one hand—not pulling, just holding, just the awareness of it—and his other hand ran slow down my spine.
"You're so beautiful," he said. Quiet. Into the space between us. "You know that? Every day. Every version of you."
My throat went tight.
"Sawyer—"
"I know." His hand spread warm across my lower back. "I know. I've got you."
He pushed inside me slow.
The sound I made echoed off the trailer walls and I didn't care. Couldn't care. He was everywhere—deep and full and certain—and his hand tightened on the lasso tail just slightly, not pulling, just present, just the reminder.
"Mine," he said against my spine.
"Yours," I breathed into the pillow. "Always yours."
"That's right." He started to move and I grabbed the blanket with both bound hands and held on. "My girl." Deeper. "My future wife." Deeper still. "Mine."
He found a rhythm that was going to ruin me and he knew it—slow and deep and deliberate, the kind that built and built and gave you nothing to rush toward, just wave after wave of it until you were shaking apart at the seams. His hand came around to the front and I arched back into him and cried out and he held me there, hips still moving, patient and merciless and completely certain.
