Page 29 of Sawyer
21:08 —?A hush settles over the estate. Vendor vans gone, Orange-Team on staggered patrols. Out on the east lawn, Malik’s silhouette glides along hedges, rifle slung. I finish logging the day’s contractor sign-outs, then force myself to eat a protein bar; it tastes like chalk.
My phone buzzes:Cam:Can’t sleep. Come to the studio?
Adrenaline spikes. I typeOn my way, check with Riggs (northwatch covered), then move.
The carriage-house studio glows low amber. I step in. Cam stands barefoot in one of my black BRAVO T-shirts—she must’ve raided my duffel—shirt hanging mid-thigh, paint streaks on her calves. Her hair is down and wild. She holds a fresh canvas the size of a door.
“I needed white space,” she says, breath slightly ragged. “All day I had noise.”
“Show me.”
She plants the canvas on the easel, then faces me across the drop cloth. “It’s blank, Sawyer. Sometimes blank is the scariest thing.”
“I know the feeling.” I shrug out of my jacket, and roll up my sleeves. “Where do you start?”
“Color first,” she whispers.
“Pick one.” My voice drops too. “I’ll load the palette.”
Her gaze flicks to the shelves of tubes, and she chooses a crimson oxide. I squeeze a bead onto the glass, adding ultramarine, and a dab of titanium buff. She dips her fingers straight into the crimson, steps to the canvas, and swipes a diagonal arc—blood-bright slash. Another stroke intersects—blue colliding, bruising purple.
I watch her body flow: foot brace, hip shift, neck arch—every move a silent percussion my pulse accompanies. She finishes a third line, breathing hard, chest rising beneath the borrowed T-shirt that skims curves I’m trying desperately not to stare at.
She turns, her hands red and blue. “Borrow warmth again?”
“Cam.” Just her name is a gravity well.
She crosses the drop cloth. Paint-flecked fingers rise to my chest, leaving two smears over my heart. “I tried, but I can’t wait till after,” she says, voice trembling. “Life’s not guaranteed between now and then.”
The truth slams home. Bombs teach you that tomorrow can misfire. Protocol or no, I want this now.
I cup her neck. She exhales a broken sound. I lean in, hover a breath from her lips. “Last chance to redraw lines.”
She presses up on tiptoe. “Lines are overrated.”
I close the distance.
The kiss is molten—nothing hesitant, all pent-up hunger unleashed. She tastes of mint and turpentine and midnight confessions. I angle her back against the canvas. Her paint-wet palms spread on my shoulders, leaving me marked. She gasps when my tongue sweeps her lower lip, then opens on a sweet moan as I deepen the kiss, anchoring one hand at her waist, the other threading into loose waves.
Colors smear where her back grazes the canvas. She hooks a leg behind my knee, and the T-shirt rides up, revealing the smooth plane of her thigh. My self-control riots—days of holding back shredding under the press of her body keen against mine.
But danger still looms, and even as I taste her, some part of me clocks every sound: the creak of rafters, distant footstep of an Orange patrol. I tear my mouth away, breathing hard against her forehead. “Doors locked, cameras covering. Still not enough.”
She trails kisses down my jaw, whispering, “We have minutes. I need to feel alive with you.”
I grip her hips, rest my forehead to hers. “Alive, yes. Safe, always.” My thumb traces the hem of the shirt at her thigh, and she shivers. “And when that bastard’s behind bars…”
“Then you won’t hold back,” she finishes, voice shimmering with promise.
“I’ll paint this whole room with us,” I vow.
She smiles, presses another lingering kiss—slow, claiming—and I taste hope. When she finally pulls back, eyes lazy with heat, I step away only far enough to scan windows. Clear.
“Come,” I murmur, lacing our fingers. “You sleep as I watch.”
“No watching tonight,” she counters, tugging me toward the villa. “Just us sharing space.”
We steal through moonlit corridors to her bedroom. I perform a rapid sweep—closet, bath, balcony. Secure.
