Page 131 of One Night with Number Nineteen

“Hold on, Pages.”

I grip the edges of the wood…then groan as he thrusts deep.

Then don’t stop as he pulls back, strokes in, his big hands on my hips, holding me in place as he fucks me hard and fast and⁠—

“Fuck, you feel so good, Pages. So tight and slick.” He nips at my shoulder, hands clamping down a little harder on my hips. “And mine,” he growls. “Forever mine.”

I gasp as he hits a spot inside me that⁠—

“Oh, my God!”

—has me crying out.

And then coming apart.

“Fuck,” he rasps, his strokes fast and furious and hard. “Lainey.”

And then he’s coming apart too.

And I can’t see it, can’t see his face. But I can feel him. Can hold him close inside and out.

And I can have something bigger and better and more beautiful than I ever imagined.

A feeling that only grows as he slowly guides me down, gently holds me close before pulling out and lifting me into his arms.

He carries me to bed, tucks me beneath the covers, and as sleep tugs me under, his words are the last thing I hear as I drift off.

“’Night, Pages. Sweet dreams.”

And I have them. I sleep the sleep of a woman who’s no longer alone, sleep the sleep of a woman who’s safe and happy and looking forward instead of back.

Sleep the sleep of a woman who knows that I’m finally with a man who sees me.

Every part of me.

When I wake, Sawyer’s gone and the balcony door is cracked open.

I frown at it.

I could have sworn I closed it last night.

Then again, I was a little distracted.

Grinning, I climb out of bed, close it and go downstairs, somehow not surprised in the least to find that my desk has been restored perfectly to its previous messy glory.

Every notebook, every sticky note, every pen.

Not neatly stacked, not tucked away in the drawers.

But spread out on the surface, like Sawyer memorized every location with precise accuracy.

Every messy piece of me⁠—

Exactly where it belongs.

Forty-One

Sawyer