Page 47 of Sawyer
“Barely.”
“Good.” I drag my teeth across his pectoral as his hands tangle in my hair. He lifts me by the waist, barefoot feet dangling for an instant before my back meets the unfinished canvas behind us. Wet paint squishes cool against my shoulder blades, contrasting the molten ache building everywhere else. I gasp.
“Now you’re art,” he growls, capturing my mouth. The kiss is slow only for a heartbeat, and then hunger takes over. His tongue strokes deep, commanding. I meet it with matching fervor. Paint smears between us, the colors blending across our skin.
His hands slide down, and hook under my thighs. Instinctively, I lock my legs around his hips. Even through denim his hardness presses where I ache most. Desire flares white-hot. He boosts me higher, lips leaving mine to skim the sensitive underside of my jaw, nipping gently.
I clutch his shoulders. “Sawyer?—”
He meets my eyes, breathing harsh. “I want you in every shade.”
“Then take me,” I whisper.
In answer, he carries me—still wrapped around him—across the room to the long reclaimed-wood table we used for mixing palettes. With a sweep of his forearm he clears brushes and jars, scattering them in a clatter along the drop cloth. I feel a guilty pang for the mess but the heat between us obliterates everything. He sets me atop the cool wood, and I recline, my hair spilling over the edge.
He peels my sports bra away, sucking a nipple into his mouth. I arch, a moan ripping out. His tongue is hot, perfect. His hand glides down my stomach, fingers hooking the waistband of my shorts. He meets my gaze, a silent permission. I nod. In a fluid motion he slides my shorts and panties off, and drops them to the floor.
Cool air kisses my flushed skin; but his warm palm parts my thighs, kneels slightly, and drags just the pad of his thumb over my slickness. I shiver, clutching the edge of the table.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, dipping inside just enough to tease. I writhe.
I tug his belt, fumbling the buckle. He offers help, pushing his jeans down, releasing his dick. I glide my palm along him.
“I need you” he says, his voice pure gravel.
“I need you more,” I pant. He fists his cock with one hand, and then he strokes his hands up my calves to my knees, lifting my legs over his shoulders like I’m weightless. The stretch is exquisite. He positions, pauses—eyes locked to mine.
“You’re mine,” he rasps.
“Yes, all yours.”
He thrusts slow but deep as my breath catches, stars scatter behind my closed lids. He stills, letting me adjust, then withdraws, sliding back in with greater force. Pleasure spirals hot. The table creaks.
Our pace finds a rhythm—urgent yet drawn-out, each roll measured so every nerve registers. My legs slide from his shoulders, and wrap around his waist for leverage, meeting each thrust. He groans my name like a confession.
Pressure builds, coils, luminous. His thumb circles where I need him most. My hips jerk. I teeter on the brink, and he thrusts harder—once, twice—and I tumble over, gasping his name, every muscle clenching tight. He follows with a guttural exhale, riding the wave, spilling into a praise-laced murmur against my ear.
We collapse together, sticky with sweat and paint, lungs heaving. He peppers kisses along my hairline, whispering, “You okay?”
“Beyond.” My laugh is shaky joy. “We ruined the table.”
He glances at cobalt fingerprints dotting the plank. “Battle scars.” He lifts his crimson-blue-smeared hand, studies it like a masterpiece. Then slides a fingertip across my cheek, leaving a streak. “Yours now.”
I cup the back of his neck, and pull him into a soft, lingering kiss tasting of satisfaction and promise. Outside the windows the last of dusk bleeds pink over distant peaks, humanity nowhere else in sight.
Later we’ll wipe the floors, decode new police intel, and plan a strategy. But right now the only strategy is entwining limbs, curling on the paint-spattered rug, and drifting into drowsy contentment while the wind sighs through pines and the world holds its breath just for us.
If this is what normal can look like—brushstrokes, breathless laughter, skin against skin—then I’ll fight gallery openings, bomb scares, and jealous tabloids for it. I’ll paint a thousand walls until they mirror the sky Sawyer just carved across my canvas skin.
And he? He’ll stand guard not just with weapons but with overwhelming love that feels as indelible as the stains now swirling purple on our chests.
19
Sawyer
The safe-house feels different now that we’re packing to leave—like it’s exhaling after holding its breath for forty-eight straight hours. Every plank and beam still hums with the memory of color-splashed kisses and skin-on-skin confessions, but practicalities elbow romance aside as flight cases and gun bags clutter the foyer.
I crouch beside a pelican case, securing the foam cradle that keeps our encrypted laptops from jostling. My mind drifts backward: Cam’s laughter echoing through the A-frame, the neon-blue streak she left on my ribs, slow mornings tangled in linen while fog rose out of the pines. Forty-eight hours off-grid and I’ve tasted a life I didn’t realize I craved. Now I have to shove us both back into the chessboard where someone’s still trying to knock her off the squares.
