Page 180 of Wild Then Wed
His chest is still heaving. His lips are swollen, kissed too many times in too few minutes. His hair’s a mess, sticking out in every direction, and yet, he still looks like a very sweaty Norse God who just descended from the clouds to ruin me on purpose.
I, on the other hand, look like a drowned rat. A thoroughly ruined, barely-standing, totally-fucked-out little rodent.
Life’s not fair.
“That was…” I start, and then immediately regret it, because my brain doesn’t supply a single helpful word. “Good.”
Good?
He lifts one eyebrow, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Good?”
I close my eyes and cringe. Jesus Christ. Really?
“Um, great,” I amend, too quickly. “I meant great. Really great.”
Wow, Wren. You nailed it. Truly the Shakespeare of post-orgasm commentary.
He chuckles, brushing his lips along my cheek. “Good. I’m glad it was great. It was great for me, too.”
His mouth grazes my jaw, soft and unhurried, and—because apparently I’ve decided to double down on sounding like a fourth grader—I say it again. “That’s good.”
Another laugh rumbles out of him, and I swear I can feel it in every fiber of my being.
I hate myself a little bit. I never want to hear the wordsgoodorgreatever again.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, something unguarded in his expression. Like maybe this wasn’t just physical for him either—maybe this moment matters to him the way it mattered to me. In a way I’m too afraid to say out loud yet.
“So…now what?” I ask nervously, chewing on my bottom lip.
He tilts his head, confused. “What do you mean?”
I step under the spray, the water sliding down the curve of my neck. “I mean, what are we doing tonight? After…” I gesture vaguely between us. “That. What now?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just tucks a piece of wet hair behind my ear like he did earlier in the hot tub, his touch gentle like he’s still learning me, still stunned that he gets to.
“Well,” he says finally, “first, I’m going to clean you up. And then we’ll see where the night takes us. What about that?”
He reaches for a bottle on the ledge—green, brand new—and flips the cap. The scent hits immediately. Something fresh, like mint and maybe a little citrus. It smells like him.
He pours some into his palm and works it into a slow lather before sliding his hands over my shoulder, so careful it makes my throat tighten. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know,” he says quietly, rubbing slow circles into the curve where my shoulder meets my neck. “But I want to. I meant what I said earlier. I want to take care of you.”
God help me. I think I’d let him do it forever.
I am in so much trouble. So much fucking trouble when it comes to this man.
This isn’t casual, not anymore. I don’t know why it took me until now to realize that. Maybe because he’s been so…careful. So quiet about the way he’s rewriting everything I thought I knew.
It feels dangerous. Addicting. Like leaning too far over the edge of something steep and realizing too late that you’re already falling.
And I am, even though I know better.
Every survival instinct I have is telling me to run. To step back. To shut this down. To save myself before it all goes sideways like it always does, because history has taught me that men don’t stay. They don’t see you, not really. They take what they want and leave you carrying the rest.
And I’ve carried enough.
But then…there’s Sawyer. Looking at me like I’m not a burden. Like I’m not too much or not enough—but exactly what hewants.What he’s choosing.
