Page 42 of Sawyer
“Can it really stop whoever’s hunting me?”
“Yes,” he says. “But I’m the redundancy plan.”
He turns me gently, so I face him. The glow from recessed spotlights paints half his face gold, the other half night. “It ends here, Cam. We’ll identify them, and then you’ll be free to paint your whole damn city.”
His certainty wraps around me like the thickest wool blanket. But I still ask the question I haven’t dared voice: “And afterward? When you’re not charged with babysitting me?”
He steps closer, his heat radiating everywhere. “Afterward starts tonight.”
The words pulse through me, lighting every nerve. I slide my hands up his chest—silk shirt over granite muscle—and feel his breath hitch. My own breathing stutters, but I push ahead. “Show me the rest?”
His smile is slow, dangerous. “Master suite,” he says, pressing a wall plate that reveals a hidden corridor. Cool air strokes my ankles as we descend three steps into a wing suspended over darkness. Across the glass wall, the valley yawns, scattered with pinpricks of distant cabin lights. It feels as though we’re drifting above the world.
The bedroom itself is wider than my entire Manhattan studio rental from college. A platform bed faces the window, the fireplace opposite, and a thick ivory rug begging for bare feet. The bedspread is charcoal linen, rumpled like storm clouds.
Sawyer sets my overnight duffel on a bench, then palms a tablet on the nightstand. “Shutters, set privacy.” A hush of motorized steel slides over the window, leaving us in a warm lamplight. My pulse thrums louder than the motors.
He moves to the sideboard, producing two tumblers and a bottle of single-malt. “One finger or two?”
I lean against a cedar post, fighting a quiver that has nothing to do with the chill. “Two.”
He pours, passes a glass, and clinks his with mine. The liquor burns honey-peach then settles with an oak finish—liquid courage for a woman who nearly lost everything. I set the glass down half-empty.
“I’m still wearing your T-shirt,” I murmur. A smile tugs my mouth. “It feels… protective.”
“The shirt can stay,” he says, stepping in until his knees brush mine. “But everything underneath…” His hands slide up the hem, warm palms cupping my waist. Sparks fly.
“Approved,” I breathe against his lips.
We meet midway—a kiss that begins gentle but segues instantly to hungry. The taste of scotch and adrenaline linger. His hands skim my ribcage, his fingertips mapping. He teases the shirt higher, knuckles brushing against my satin panties. I whimper. He groans, deep and raw.
My fingers find the first button of his shirt—flick, flick—exposing heated skin and the scattering of scars he never speaks about. I kiss one pale slash, and feel him tremble.
“Cam,” he rasps, tugging my shirt off in a single glide. The satin panties remain, but the rest of me shivers naked under his heated gaze. He stares as if cataloging every brushstroke—appreciation that is almost worship, never ownership. It thrills me in a way I've never felt before.
He cups my face, kisses me slower, like a fine wine tasting. I melt against him, palms roaming his torso, down the slope of his abs to the top button of his pants. He intercepts my hand, eyessparking. “Bed, first,” he growls. It’s a playful command that shoots straight to my core.
We tumble onto the mattress, laughter tangled with moans. He props over me, arms bracketing my head, studying me like I’m the final fuse he must cut just right. Then his mouth trails down my throat, over my collarbone, to the heavy ache of my breast. His tongue flicks over my pebbled nipple, his hand cupping the other, and my back arches off the sheets.
I explore him too. His shoulder blade ridges, a bullet scar along his flank, each discovered with lips and fingertips. He mutters half-sworn promises against my skin.Don’t stop. You own me. Never leave. Each vow counters the fear that has dogged me since the first threat note.
When he finally divests the last barrier—silk sliding, trousers kicked away—the world shrinks to heat and breath and the way we fit together perfectly, like two halves realigning.
“You handle my cock like such a good girl, Cam.” He sinks into me with exquisite slowness, and the hush that follows isn’t silence; it’s a chord finally resolving.
The mountains could fall, and I would barely notice.
We move together, rhythm guided by instinct and the deep hum of shared adrenaline. I clutch his shoulders, nails scoring lightly. He groans, thrusts deeper. I gasp, meeting him with rising abandon. Each glide is a brushstroke, layering color onto canvas until the picture bursts in brilliance—my release, his, mingling in a wild crescendo that leaves us trembling, panting, clinging.
After, he doesn’t roll away. Instead, he gathers me close, my cheek to his chest. Our breaths sync with the distant hush of pines swaying outside steel shutters.
“I told your father I’d keep you whole,” he murmurs, fingers tracing lazy spirals on my arm. “I intend to keep that vow.”
“My father worries about stock prices,” I mumble into his skin. “I worry about you running into bombs for me. Seems lopsided.”
He chuckles, a rumble under my ear. “Bomb defusing is easier than resisting you.”
I smile, pressing a kiss to the sternum scratch I left earlier. “We have forty-eight hours before we head back. How do we spend them?”
