Page 177 of Wild Then Wed
I try to jerk back, reflexive, but his hand at my waist doesn’t let me. I’m pinned—completely at his mercy. And I want to stay here forever.
He groans, and the sound vibrates against me, low and consuming, like it’s meant to echo through my bones. His tongue moves slowly—intentionally—and then firmer, more sure. I press my palms against the wall behind me because I need something to hold on to. I need to remember how to breathe. My head tips back as the heat builds, steady and consuming, and I bite down on my lip to keep from crying out.
His hands stay steady on my hips, fingers splayed wide, holding me like I might disappear. The tile is still cold against my back, but I barely notice it. All I can feel ishim.His mouth, the heat of him, the friction of stubble against the soft skin of my inner thighs.
And when his tongue flattens and licks deeper, I forget how to think. I forget my own name. I forget how I ever thought sex was supposed to feel like anything less than this.
My hands slide into his hair without thinking, wet and thick between my fingers. I hold on tighter than I mean to, and he groans again—low and rough—clearly into it. Into me like this. Undone. Not pretending to be anything but completely his.
Every stroke of his tongue winds tighter through my core, until I can’t tell where I end and he begins. I can’t think. I can barely breathe. My hips jerk forward again, unbidden, and his grip on my thigh tightens as he pulls me open wider, like I’m his and his alone to feast on. Devour. And maybe I am.
He pulls back just long enough to look up at me, his eyes dark, his chin wet. “You taste so fucking sweet, Wren,” he murmurs, almost like he’s in awe. “It’s perfect.”
And then his mouth is back on me—hungrier now, as if he’s starved and this is the only thing that’s ever come close to feeding him. His tongue strokes firm and deep, then flicks withjust enough pressure to make me cry out and hold on, because I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything this good in my entire life.
His tongue moves faster, more intentional, and my whole body arches toward it, toward him. His shoulders shift under my calves and I can feel everything—his strength, his precision, his devotion.
“God,” I manage, panting, my lips parted. “Sawyer, I’m—close, I—”
That’s all I get out.
He moans into me, but his mouth doesn’t stop—doesn’t even pause—and I come with a cry that echoes off the tile walls, every muscle clenching, my body caving into him like it was built to fall apart in his hands.
One hand grips his shoulder, the other is still tangled in his hair. My eyes slam shut and all I see is white starbursts. Heat. Light. Relief.
Thirty years. Thirty years on this earth and I’ve never known this sort of pleasure. Never known what it meant to be taken care of like this. To be seen like this.
To be worshipped like this.
When I come down, I’m still trembling. My body doesn’t know how to stop wanting him. I don’t think it ever will, especially after that.
Sawyer stands, still holding me, my legs still locked around his waist. His chest is heaving and his eyes look wrecked in the best way—like he’s been waiting his whole life for this and didn’t know it until now.
“That was…” I trail off, my throat tight, still panting. My chest is rising and my cheeks are burning and I don’t know how to look at him when I say it. “You’re, um…well, you’re very good at that.”
His mouth curves into a slow, devastating grin, one that shows just a sliver of perfectly straight teeth and the faintestdimple in one cheek. “Yeah?” And then he kisses me again, and I don’t even care that I can taste myself on his tongue. I want every piece of this man.
“Wanna see what else I’m good at?” he murmurs against my mouth.
I nod before my brain can catch up. Before the nerves can win.
He sets me down and spins me so I’m facing the wall. He takes my hands and places them against it, like he’s giving me something to stay steady against. I hear the rustle behind me—the unmistakable sound of wet swim trunks being pushed down—and I peek over my shoulder.
Shit. Shit shit shit.
He’s…huge. Hard and leaking and absolutelynotsomething I should be this calm about. My pulse starts rioting beneath my skin.
He smirks when he catches me looking. “Like what you see?”
I manage a breathless nod.
“Look what you do to me, Wren,” he says. And then I feel him—his chest against my back, his breath at my ear, and the thick press of him against my ass.
“Do you feel that?” he whispers, guiding my hips back against him. “That’s because of you.”
My hips tilt instinctively, chasing the friction, the pressure, the heat of his skin on mine. His fingers trail over my hip, his mouth brushing behind my ear.
“This,” he murmurs, his voice low enough to shoot straight into my bloodstream as his hips roll against me, taunting me, “thisis what you’ve been doing to me all fucking night in that bikini.”
