Page 196 of Wild Then Wed
Her lips curve as she leans in, her breath hot against my ear as she moves her hand faster. “Good.”
I don’t think I can wait much longer.
I kiss her again, hard, my hand wrapping around her throat, pulling her closer. The other hand is already busy as I grab my cock and, with one smooth, relentless push, I’m inside her.
She gasps, sharp and choked against my mouth, her body tensing around me, so tight I have to clench my teeth together just to keep from losing it right then. Her eyes are wide, her glossy lips parted, and fuck if that isn’t the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
“You okay?” I ask, my thumb brushing her jaw.
She exhales, shaky and sweet. “Fuck yes.” Her fingers dig into the back of my neck, her hips lifting, urging me on. “Move, Sawyer.”
I don’t need to be told twice.
I grip her waist, my other hand braced on the mirror behind her, and start to move. I pull out almost all the way, just to feel her clench around me, desperate to keep me there, and then I slam back in, deep. So deep she arches off the vanity with a broken moan. Her head tips back, her throat exposed and I lean in, dragging my teeth over her skin because Ineedto taste her, need to feel every fucking inch of her reacting to me.
She’s perfect. So tight, so warm, her body gripping me like she’s been waiting for this as long as I have. Every thrust pulls another sound from her—soft whimpers, breathless curses, my name like a prayer—and I’m fucking addicted to it.
“That’s it,” I murmur against her ear, my hand sliding down her hip, holding her steady as I drive into her harder. “Just like that. Take it just like that.”
Her legs lock around me, her heels digging into my calves. She’s close—I can feel it in the way her breath hitches, the way her fingers twist in my hair, tugging just enough to make me moan.
With one quick motion, I tug the strap of her dress down her shoulder, far enough that one perfect breast pops free. Shelets out this soft, breathy sound—half gasp, half whimper—the second my mouth closes around it. The nipple’s already tight against my tongue, and fuck, I love her tits. Small and sweet, just enough to fill my hand. The dusty pink of her nipple barely shows against her skin, like it was brushed on in watercolors. Wren thinks they’re too small, but she’s wrong. They’re hers, and that’s all that matters to me.
I give her nipple a slow, teasing pull with my teeth, and she cries out, her hips jerking against mine. “Sawyer—” her voice is wrecked, and I love how she says my name like that, like it’s the only word she knows.
My mouth trails along her collarbone, tasting salt and the warm, familiar trace of her vanilla lotion. I move higher, over the line of her throat, and she tilts her head back, offering more. Her breath stutters against my ear—soft, broken sounds that make it impossible to think.
I stay steady, moving inside her with a rhythm that’s slow, sure, deliberate. Every shift of my hips is angled toward that spot I’ve learned by heart—the one that unravels her, pulls those sounds from deep in her chest like she didn’t know they were there. She tightens around me and I groan, pressing my face to her neck, trying to hold on.
Sex with Wren isn’t just good—it’s grounding, consuming, undoing. It’s the way her body finds mine like it already knows how we fit together. The way her breath catches when I touch her just right. But more than that, it’s what happens after. The way she looks at me, like I’m something solid. Like I’m someone worth holding on to.
That’s what wrecks me. Not the heat of it, not the rush. It’s the quiet after, when she curls into me like she belongs there, like she never learned to doubt it.
Her hips start to move faster now, chasing the feeling building between us, and I can’t look away. Her lips are parted,her cheeks are flushed, her lashes low. She’s beautiful like this—completely lost in it, in me—and I know with absolute certainty I’ve never seen anything sexier in my life.
“Come on, sweetheart,” I whisper against her lips. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.”
Her fingers dig into my shoulders, her breath catching in short, broken gasps—and then she falls apart beneath me. Her whole body tightens, pulling me closer, holding me there. I feel it ripple through her, feel the way she comes undone in layers—eyes closed, lips parted, completely lost in it—and somehow, I hold on.
Just barely.
I don’t stop moving. I can’t. Not when she’s like this—arched beneath me, one breast still hanging out of her dress, the other pressed tight against my chest, her body rocking with every thrust. Not when I’m so fucking close I can feel it building, that sharp, relentless pull in my gut just waiting to break.
And then it does.
I still inside her, every muscle pulled tight, and my release hits hard—sharp and consuming, like a current snapping through me. My breath catches, vision blurring, and all I can do is hold on. My face finds the curve of her neck, the familiar press of her skin anchoring me as it crashes over and over again. The smell of vanilla and salt and something warm, like honey—something that’s only ever been her. Something so wholly Wren.
I’m still coming, and it feels endless—like my body doesn’t know how to let go, or maybe doesn’t want to.
And when I finally still, it’s the sight of her that does something to me all over again—her body slack, spent, the mess of me slipping from between her thighs. It’s almost too much. The heat of it. The intimacy of it. The way it feels like I’ve left something behind and taken something with me at the same time.
God, why does that wreck me?
Why does the sight of her like this—full, marked, mine—make me want to stay right here and do it all over again?
When I finally come down, I kiss her—slow, lazy—because I need to. Because her lips are swollen from mine, her eyes half-lidded and dazed, and I just need to.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I murmur against her mouth.
