Page 176 of Wild Then Wed
“No,” I say, then clear my throat. “He, um, said he didn’t like doing that.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. His grip on my hips tightens—not painfully, but like he’s holding back something primal.
It’s mortifying, admitting that. It reminds me how low the bar has always been and even worse—that I let it stay there.
Maybe that’s the worst part. That I convinced myself I didn’t need to be wanted that way. That pleasure was some kind of luxury I hadn’t earned.
With Ethan, it was always about what I could give, and what he could take. I’d chalked it up to being inexperienced or bad timing or his personality or whatever other excuse I could think of, but the truth is—he never made me feel like I was more than a means to an end. I was something to use. Never something to savor.
And maybe that’s why I’ve always felt weird about sex. Why I second-guess every little sound, every movement, every ounce of want in my body like it needs to be justified. No one ever taught me that it could be different. That itshouldbe different.
I feel it now, though.
In the way Sawyer’s hands are still on me, like he’s trying not to crush me and also like he never wants to let go. In the way his gaze flickers from my eyes to my mouth and back again, as if he’s trying to say a thousand things he doesn’t know how to say yet.
One of his hands moves from my waist to the back of my neck, his fingers threading through my damp hair as he kisses me again—slow this time. Deep. Like he’s anchoring both of us to something steadier.
“I won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss to the corner of my lips. “But I want to take care of you, Wren. If you’ll let me.”
And maybe he doesn’t realize it, but that sentence alone…it loosens something in my chest, something that’s been knotted up for years. Like he’s reaching in and stitching together this small, frayed part of my heart that never believed I was worthy of being taken care of. That learned early on how to give without expecting anything back. That stayed in situations where I made myself smaller just to feel needed. Where I gave and gave and gave until I disappeared altogether.
He kisses me again, soft and sure, and whispers against my jaw, “Just so you know—you dated a little bitch.”
A startled laugh escapes me before I can stop it, sharp and real and maybe a little too loud—but he grins against my neck as if he’d been hoping for exactly that.
“I like that,” he says.
“What?” I ask, my voice breathy from the kiss and the laugh and the way his hand is still cupping the back of my neck.
“Your laugh.” He kisses the side of my neck. “Your freckles.” Another kiss, lower this time, right at the hollow of my throat. “You.”
I swallow, every part of me lit up. “I want you to. To do that, I mean.”
His head lifts, his gaze meeting mine. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” It comes out too fast, but I don’t take it back. Because I am. Because I trust him in a way I didn’t think I was capable of anymore. Because if there’s anyone who’d know exactly how to touch me, how to see me, how to make me feel—not used or tolerated, butwanted—it’s Sawyer Hart.
And for once, I want to be the one taken care of.
By him.
Sawyer’s eyes are heavy-lidded and ravenous, water sliding down the sharp line of his jaw. A droplet clings to his lashes before it falls, tracing the edge of his cheekbone like it’s been given the privilege.
“Good.”
Before I can process what he means, he’s dropping to his knees—his hands at my thighs, lifting, guiding, arranging. My legs go around his shoulders, my back hitting the cold tile as his palm steadies me with such effortless strength I barely have time to gasp. His grip doesn’t falter. Not even for a second.
Holy shit.
He’s strong. Not just gym-rat strong. Sawyer Hart is ranch-boy, vet-tech, could-save-a-hundred-pound-dog-from-a-flood strong. His muscles in his shoulders flex and shift beneath my calves, his biceps taut, his forearms corded and soaked, holding me up.
When he looks up at me, his smirk— sure and hungry—cuts straight through me. “I’ve been waiting a long time to taste my wife.”
And then he does.
His mouth is on me before I can respond, before I can say anything sarcastic or teasing or even remotely coherent. The first swipe of his tongue through my slit knocks the breath right out of me.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, my hand flying to the slick tile.
