Likethat.
I arch back, my breasts pressed hard against his chest, his chest hair a perfect scratch against the sensitive skin. I dig my fingernails deep into his backside. He tests my resolve with another punishing tilt of his hips.
I moan against his shoulder. “God, yes. Fuck me. Like that.”
“Listen to the mouth on you when my cock’s in you.” He sighs almost in awe.
It’s finally enough for him to give up on the pretense of being gentle and give me what I want. The punishing rhythm anddepth are a careful balance that comes more naturally to him. This intensity is what he wants, too.
Almost.
His hand squeezes my thigh. “Get this leg around me.”
I obey. I suppose this is his fantasy come true. Knee-high socks wrapped around his hips as he does dirty, dirty things to me.
“Fuck yeah,” he moans.
He captures both of my hands, pinning them beside my head in a tight grip. I’m trapped under him. It’s wonderful. There’s nothing left for me to worry about except enjoying the intense contradiction of him riding me so hard but brushing the most tender kisses over my lips as he takes and takes.
Wearea contradiction, though. Hard and soft. Patient and anxious. Confident and shy. But we’re the same where it matters most—what we want in life and in this bedroom…
Tears pool in my eyes, and I turn my head into the pillow.
“Elsie.” His voice is rough with concern. “I’m hurting you—”
“No. It’s perfect. So perfect.”
I’m overwhelmed by the emotions of worrying he’d never come and the intensity of the thick, punishing weight he’s thrusting inside me to prove that he has. My orgasm hurtles closer even though he’s slowed down enough for me to catch my breath, and I’m wrung out completely, helpless, blissfully at his mercy.
“I love you. I do. So much.”
I’m not sure whether it was him who whispered that in the end or if it was me.
The words blur with the last frantic seconds of our ragged breaths and the frenzied rhythm of our bodies on the cotton sheets. Sawyer’s drawn-out moan is raw against my ear when his release surges inside me.
But in the end, it doesn’t matter who said the words. This is the most important thing about us that’s not a contradiction.
We feel the same.
25
Only bluebird days on the horizon
My eyelids flutter open.
Muted tones of silver wash over the bedroom. It’s early. Too early even for the birds. I wriggle to get comfortable, but a hard, warm lump has replaced my pillow. My fingertips skim over the top of…muscles…and…a fuzz of chest hair.
I fly up.
“Mornin’.”
I prop myself up on one elbow, my lower half still tangled between Sawyer’s hairy legs. Calloused fingers stroke lazily down my spine. His eyes are heavy, and his voice is still throaty from sleep. He hasn’t been awake for long.
“Morning.” I spot a glisten of my drool on his chest, grin sheepishly, and quickly wipe it away.
“Aw, don’t do that. I like that on me.” He shimmies over the sheets to get closer, and his beard is fuzzy against my skin when he arches up to brush a kiss over my throat. “I’m lookin’ at you,” he murmurs, “and I still don’t believe I’m here.”
“You’re here…and hopefully you won’t be running away again anytime soon.”
