Page 45 of Sawyer
She pushes back her chair, stands, and offers her hand. “Bedroom floor.”
Blood surges. I rise, link our fingers, and lead her down the dim hallway. With every step the air thickens—anticipation and the lingering scent of woodsmoke. We pass the secured Faraday office, the silent gallery of blank canvases waiting for safer days. At the master suite entrance she stops me, and palms my chest.
“I need tonight to erase that ticking, Sawyer.” Her voice shakes with honesty. “Erase the picture of you kneeling before that bomb.”
I brush my lips over her forehead. “Then let’s paint something louder.”
We barely cross the threshold before our hands roam. Her mouth finds mine, eager, tasting of bourbon peaches. I cup her jaw, angle for deeper, our tongues sliding together in a slow promise. She pushes up my Henley, her soft fingertips grazing my bare skin. I shiver, discarding the shirt. Her top follows—soft cotton drawn over her head, revealing a pale blue lace bralette.
“Color’s nearly matching the lake,” I murmur, tracing the lace edge.
“Wait until you see the set.” She smirks, stepping back to shimmy out of her leggings, leaving a matching lace thong. I drink her in—sun-kissed curves, and strength from this morning’s training.
“You are lethal,” I whisper. I approach, trapping her between me and the wall. Our bodies align, and heat leaps. She drags her nails lightly down my spine, eliciting a rumble from my chest.
I pepper kisses along her neck, over her collarbone, and down the slope of each breast restrained by lace. Her breaths hitch into tiny gasps. I slip a hand behind her back, unclasp her bra, and let the fabric drop. The sight steals the air from my lungs. I lower my mouth, and worship her. Gentle, then greedy. She tugs my hair, whispering my name like a prayer.
We move toward the bed but stumble, laughing, and land on the plush rug instead. I lay her down, moonlight silvering her skin through the skylight. She looks up—eyes dark, trusting, blazing.
“Your turn,” she says, tugging at my pants’ waistband. I strip away my pants and briefs, the remaining barrier. Her gaze rakes eagerly, then softens. “Beautiful,” she whispers, palming my cock. It hardens instantly from her touch.
“You’re the one who is beautiful.”
Kissing her again is like coming home to a storm you crave. Our hands explore familiar terrain made new by hunger. Her thigh hooks around my waist, and I drag my fingers up her calf, savoring all of her.
“Ready?” I murmur against her lips.
She rolls her hips in answer, desperate. “Now.”
I guide her thighs, position, then enter her with a slow slide. We gasp together, our passion igniting. I hold still, letting her adjust. “Fuck, this is…” my words fall away.
She presses her forehead to mine, finishing my thought, “Perfect.”
With that, my self-control unravels.
We find a rhythm, slow deep strokes that savor rather than rush. Each thrust pushes soft sounds from her throat. Her hands roam my back, her nails leaving trails. I kiss along her jaw, her ear. She arches, murmuring encouragement—“more, Sawyer, please.”
Heat coils tight. I change the angle, hitting a spot that makes her cry out. She shatters first, body trembling, pulling me deeper. Seeing her unravel triggers my own release.
I groan her name, riding waves of pleasure that blur edges of reality.
After, we remain tangled on the rug, hearts drumming. I stroke her hair from her damp forehead as she traces lazy circles on my chest.
“No bombs, no reporters,” she whispers. “Just us.”
I kiss her temple. “World can burn. We’ll paint it back brighter.”
She smiles sleepily. “Promise?”
“On every brush you own.”
When we finally crawl into bed, exhaustion tugs but peace settles deeper. She sprawls across my chest as I adjust the duvet, then key the bedside panel to arm the night sensors.
Because here, on this mountain, behind encrypted doors, our line is more than lasers and steel. It’s skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat—until the outside world recedes into hush and only our breaths map the future.
18
Camille
