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Energy passes between us in currents, as our bodies become one. The slow, sensual pleasure between us builds with every second that passes. I whisper in her ear, and she whispers in mine. I tell her she’s beautiful. She’s an angel. I tell her how good she feels, how much I want her.
“You’re mine,” I whisper when her breathing hitches on the verge of a climax. “Mine,” I repeat, when the first spasm of pleasure makes her shudder, and she throws her head back in ecstasy. “Mine,” I say, as my powerful climax crests with hers.
I realize with sudden clarity the one thing I’ve tried to avoid has happened.
I love Savannah.
FOURTEEN
Savannah
I could sit here with Thayer, joined in this room and on this chair as we explore every damn position, until the sun sets and I’m half-starving to death with hunger. It feels so good, so right, to be with him like this. I’ve never wanted anything so much in my life. We tore down our barriers. We told each other how we felt. We told each other what we feared.
And we made love anyway.
“Savannah,” he whispers. “Jesus, that was perfect.”
I lean in and kiss his stubbled cheek. “I’m having a hard time reconciling something,” I tell him with a teasing look.
“What’s that?” He brushes his hand along the back of my head, smoothing out my hair.
“If sex can be that good, why the hell don’t people have it more?”
I love the way he chuckles. “That’s a very good question. Maybe they do?”
I’m sex-drunk so I don’t feel like getting into the whole thing with stats and how many of my girlfriends think sex is overrated, so I only nod.
Sex is not overrated.
I lay my head on his chest. He sighs and holds me.
I close my eyes and commit this to memory.
Other people might see Thayer as rough and guarded, harsh and stern. I’m reminded of the way he tended to my wounds on his living room couch back in Paris. Sometimes, maybe those with the sternest exteriors have the softest hearts.
“Do we have to leave? I mean, there’s got to be a shower nearby, and I’m sure you’ve got people who could bring things like our clothes, a laptop, some food, maybe our chargers…”
“Hmm. Those are some very good points,” he says, clearly amused.
“We’d need some toiletries, you know. Like, I’m a bit intense about shaving my legs. Maybe some vitamins for stamina? And if I—oh. Oh God. Thayer!”
I sit up as alarm rings through me.
“What? What’s wrong?” His brows clash together in concern.
“My birth control. I didn’t take any birth control, Thayer. It’s back in Paris, too, and it’s been a few days now. Oh my God, what am I, a teenager? How? How could I forget it?”
“Savannah.”
“Yes?”
“Relax. The chances of you getting pregnant are slim.”
“But I don’t want slim. I want none. Zero. Zilch. Nada!”
When he doesn’t reply at first, I can’t help but wonder what’s on his mind.
“What? You look troubled or angry or serious about something.”
He looks away and doesn’t respond at first, but I press on. “Thayer, please, what is it?”
“We should’ve talked about this. I fucked up. I’m sorry, Savannah.”
“Hey, buddy, this isn’t on you. It’s on both of us. We both fucked up. We had things we should’ve talked about but didn’t, but in our defense—”
I wave my hand at this insane room of frosted glass.
“This is pretty hard to resist. One could easily get, let’s say, swept up in the romance of it all.”
Still, he clenches his jaw and lifts me off his lap. “It’s no excuse.”
And even though he makes a good point… even though I’m every bit as culpable as he is… even though I know I’m being irrational and maybe even silly, my mind begins to play tricks on me.
He doesn’t really love you.
He wishes he had birth control because he doesn’t want you to have his baby.
He regrets you.
My mind is sometimes a bitch.
Thayer, like everyone else in my life, maybe finds me too much. He owns this room, he’s master of this club, and he has the sexiest, most perfectly experienced and submissive women at his beck and call. Who am I to think I’m special to him? Any one of those women would’ve thrown themselves at him.
I’m young and inexperienced. Maybe he deserves someone who could be what he really needs.
“Come here,” he says, taking me by the hand, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. “Let’s get cleaned up.”
I didn’t see the door to the en suite bathroom, as it’s sleek and hidden, flush against the wall like the entry to a spaceship. When he opens the door by pulling an embedded handle, I draw in a sharp breath. Though it’s small—clearly only to be used for sex and the necessary cleaning up in the aftermath —it’s adorable, and thankfully not bordered in frosted glass. No one wants to pee while staring at the pointy top of a pine tree.
