Page 15 of Sawyer

He pushes the top button, then guides me to the back of the car. He moves his thumb down the slope of my neck, applying the faintest pressure to the muscles there.

I suck in a quick, quiet breath at just how good it feels when this man puts his hands on me.

Sawyer lets out a dark, gravelly chuckle. “You’re tight.”

I look at him.There’s a very dirty joke in there.

He looks back.Oh yeah?

“You’re really going to make me say it?” I ask.

His eyes crinkle at the edges. “Yes ma’am, I am.”

Laughter bubbling up inside my chest, I glance at the couple at the front of the car. “I won’t do it.”

“We’ll see about that.” He works his thumb into the knot between my neck and shoulder blade. “I’m pretty persuasive when I wanna be.”

His accent gets thicker when he flirts. I love it.

I am going to devour this man. If, of course, he doesn’t devour me first.

The couple rides all the way to the top of the hotel with us. They exit first, and then Sawyer moves his hand to my nape and, grip tight on my neck, guides us out of the elevator.

I like the way he leads, turning me right, then left, our footfalls quiet on the carpet. It’s nice to have someone else take charge for once. He’s the one with the plan, and I’m all too happy to be taken along for the ride.

We stop at a pair of doors all the way at the end of a long hall. Digging a key card out of his pocket, Sawyer waves it in front of the reader and the lock clicks.

He shoves open the door and holds it for me, nodding. “C’mon in.”

“Thanks.” I walk in and blink, my breath catching as I take in the exquisite—and enormous—hotel suite. “Wow. Wow, Sawyer …”

“Yeah?” I hear him drop the bag and key card on a table behind me.

“Is this?—”

“The presidential suite? Yep. They fucked up my reservation, so the front desk upgraded me. Pretty nice, right?”

“Nice? Sawyer, this place issick.” I stare at the stunning view outside the floor-to-ceiling windows that line two sides of the room.

The state capitol building is lit up in the distance, a stoic contrast to the colorful lights of 6th Street that twinkle in the darkness. A hazy full moon presides over everything, turning the night sky a deep shade of navy.

Sawyer laughs. “Glad you like it. Make yourself at home.”

Inside the suite, there’s a massive dining table surrounded by more chairs than I can count. A lounge area occupies the space to my right, complete with a cushy-looking sectional sofa that is just begging for a good, messy fuck.

But it’s the bed I glimpse through a door to my left that makes my heart beat faster. It’s massive, a low-slung leather behemoth dressed in crisply pressed white linens. Fluffy pillows are neatly lined up against the headboard.

Walking through the suite, I notice the lighting is low. Moody. Even the room scent is sexy—sandalwood, a hint of that leather.

The suite is neat as a pin. Of course room service has tidied the room, but something tells me Sawyer was the one who carefully lined up his toiletries—an electric toothbrush, a razor—on the bathroom vanity I see just off the bedroom.

Really, whoisthis funny, filthy-mouthed cowboy who apparently always has a Tide pen on him and stays in a hotel like this?

The kind of cowboy I like.

I jump at the sound of a pop behind me. Turning around, I see Sawyer pouring champagne into a pair of disposable coffee cups.

“All I could find,” he explains, looking up.

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