Page 174 of Wild Then Wed
His eyes search mine, and then he grabs the wrist that’s looped behind his neck and presses it to his lips. Soft. Thoughtful. Like he’s telling me something with his mouth that he can’t find the words for.
“How much more?” he murmurs.
I lean in, pressing a kiss just under the corner of his mouth. “All of it. However much you can give me.”
He watches me for a second longer—like maybe he’s weighing everything unsaid between us—and then reaches for the champagne bottle.
I blink as he tips it toward my shoulder, cold streams of it sliding down my skin, dripping across the ridge of my collarbone and between my breasts. I suck in a breath, but before I can say anything, his mouth is there. Following the path with slow, open-mouthed kisses. His tongue traces the drops along my neck and I can’t help the way my body responds—shivering, arching, aching for more. Always more.
Then I feel the tug at the back of my neck. The gentle pull of the knot of my bikini coming undone. My breath catches, andwhen my top falls away, I don’t cover myself. I don’t hide. Not from him. Never from him.
He’s still kissing my skin when it happens, still whispering between every breath that he’d give me anything I asked for. That he thought I knew that by now. And I do. God, I do.
His eyes drop to my chest, and I feel the heat rush to my cheeks. I still don’t move to cover myself, even though I probably should. Even though everything in me is buzzing with the urge to fold in on myself or look away or do something to break the tension that’s suddenly thicker than the steam curling up around us. My chest has never exactly been something I’ve flaunted—small, barely-there, something I learned early on could be easily dismissed. But Sawyer doesn’t look at me like I’m missing anything. He looks at me like I’m whole. Like this—me, exposed and nervous and trembling a little from the cold air on wet skin—is something he wants.
“They’re…I know they’re small,” I start, my voice quiet, too aware of the way his eyes are still tracing every inch of me.
But before I can say anything else, his hands are on my waist again and his mouth is at my collarbone, then higher, his lips brushing up the slope of my neck. He shakes his head just barely, then presses a kiss to my skin.
“They’re perfect,” he murmurs. “You’re perfect.”
And just like that, I don’t feel small anymore.
His mouth is on me again and I can’t think. Can’t move. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until his lips find the soft curve of my breast and everything in me locks up.
Then he sucks. My head tips back, and a sound escapes me—breathy, involuntary, too honest. His tongue moves slowly—hot and wet against my skin—and I gasp when his tongue moves over my nipple, my body lurching forward before I can stop it. It’s like every nerve in me woke up all at once. He groans against my skin, and I swear I feel it everywhere.
His voice is low when he says it again, rough and quiet against my breast. “You’re perfect.”
His mouth closes around my nipple again, swirling, tugging, just enough pressure to make my thighs tighten around his waist. My fingers stay tangled in his hair, keeping him there, like if he stops, I might actually fall apart.
And then his hands shift, strong and steady as they always are, and he lifts me up without warning. My legs wrap around his waist, my thighs squeezing nothing but hard muscle, and a gasp catches in my throat as he stands—like it’s nothing, like I don’t weigh a damn thing.
The water sloshes behind us as my arms band around his broad shoulders, my fingers digging into the hard ridges of his back. His chest is a wall of slick, heated skin against mine, every chiseled inch of him flexing as we move. And God, thefeelof him—all that raw power caging me in, his body a fortress of hard muscle and barely leashed restraint.
There’s water dripping from my hair, his lashes, our tangled limbs, but I don’t care. Not when the only thing I can focus on is the heat. The way it licks up my spine.
The way it pools low in my belly.
The way I can feel every thick, unyielding inch of him pressed against me.
“Fuck it,” he mutters, and suddenly we’re moving.
The night air hits my skin as we step out of the hot tub, cool enough to make me shiver. But Sawyer doesn’t even falter. One arm wraps tighter around me, his hand gripping the underside of my thigh, while the other rests on my ass, keeping me anchored to him. His shoulder presses into mine, his body soaked and hot against me, and I realize just how high off the ground I am.
“Shit,” I whisper, glancing down. “You’re, like, really tall.”
He grins, cocky and amused, his eyes flicking down at me. “You think I’m gonna drop you, Wilding?”
I narrow my eyes, playful even with my heart jack-hammering in my chest. “You better not.”
He smirks and carries me down the hallway, his footsteps steady and sure. Inside the bathroom, I nearly lose my breath again—and not because I’m soaked and half-naked in front of him, but because the shower is massive—floor-to-ceiling glass, sleek gray tile, rainfall shower heads, and enough space to host a small wedding reception.
My mouth actually falls open. “Holy hell! I could live in here.”
He chuckles under his breath, and the sound rumbles through his chest.
“I’m not complaining,” he says, reaching in to test the water temperature while still holding me against him like I’m nothing more than muscle memory.
