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I take a step backward, opening his view to more of me, and I let the swimsuit top fall to the floor.
To his credit, his eyes stay locked on mine, not shifting for a second. I’m slightly offended, but mostly impressed.
“I need you to say it, Gwen.”
“I thought I just did.”
“Gwen. Please.”
Saying it is harder than I thought it would be. I’ve never been one to ask for help, and this feels kind of like that. “I want you, Sawyer.” And I can’t wait for him anymore, so I close the distance between us and pull his face down to mine. There’s no easing into this—we’re pressed for time, after all, and this need is too urgent, too intense, and my tongue is in his mouth before another second passes.
He pulls me tightly to him, against all the hard planes of his body. Then he moves forward, pins me against the wall, raises my arms over my head and holds them there, dropping his mouth to my neck. He palms one breast and plants desperate kisses on the other, and I feel like I could explode right this second.
“Touch me, Sawyer. Please. Touch me.”
“I thought I was,” he says, but now is not the time for smart-assery, because I fucking need him.
He lets his hand glide down my stomach, over my swimsuit bottom, and his fingers work to get between my still-wet swimsuit bottom and my skin. When Gram told me to let him in, I’m not sure this is what she meant. Actually, knowing Gram, it probably is.
“It’s so tight, Gwen. The swimsuit, I mean.”
It feels so good just to feel something real there, not just something battery-powered. And as Sawyer moves his hand and presses his body against me instead, I realize how good he feels—every long, solid inch of him.
He frees my hands so he can put both of his on my body: on my waist, in my hair.
I press my lips to his neck, his jawline, his shoulder, and back. “We could really have some fun, you and me,” I say against him, my teeth grazing his skin.
“Gwen, I just need you to know—” his hands still, and he rolls his head back. “I don’t do flings,” he growls, his neck humming under my kiss.
“Neither do I.” I draw part of his ear between my teeth, press my hand against his length, hear the sound each act draws from him, and crave more. As a rule, I don’t do hookups, one-night stands, and flings. But Sawyer Dawson promises to be a very hot, much-needed exception to that rule.
Day 7
Miami
Sawyer
12:42 a.m.: Stare at the ceiling.
1:27 a.m.: Sit on the balcony and hope the ocean lulls me to sleep. World’s largest white noise machine.
2:53 a.m.: Watch the clock flip to 2:54 a.m.
3:02 a.m.: Pick up a book. Realize it reminds me of her. Put down the book.
3:18 a.m.: Go for a walk. Pass her room. Fight the urge to knock on the door.
4:11 a.m.: See my relationship with Chelsea implode for the fortieth time as the scene plays on a loop through my mind. Mix in flashes from yesterday: Gwen cuddled next to me on the hammock; Gwen’s laughter on the slide; Gwen’s willingness to listen. Take note of how different it feels.
6:15 a.m.: Get up. Lace up. Time to train.
Gwendolyn
“Big date today?” Gram jokes as I smooth a wrinkle on my white sundress and check my reflection in the full-length mirror.
I groan. “He’s been avoiding me since yesterday.”
“I think he’s been avoiding me,” she says, and she’s probably right. Hell, I want to avoid her, too, but even if I could get away from her, the sound of her shriek will never stop tormenting me. “Hopefully he finds you, because that dress deserves to be seen by more than just the U.S. Government.”
