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“Well,” I say, bracing myself as I throw the idea out there. “I mean, we could just go for it anyway. But option two is just third-base stuff.”
He stifles a snicker. “Who ever would have guessed that Gwen Pierce would be in my bed using sports analogies to talk about sex.”
“The third option, Mr. Smartass, is that we just call it quits here for the night and probably put more clothes on.”
“What do I do if I hate all of these choices?”
I shrug. “You hate all of them? Even option two?” I can only imagine how good it would feel to let him put his hands everywhere and to let his mouth follow.
“Gwen, let’s be real: if I go for option two, I might as well choose option one. I don’t think I could stop at third base when— ”
“When there’s a chance to score?”
He shakes his head and chuffs. “I was going to say, I don’t think I could stop at third base when you’re in the game.”
My cheeks burn, because despite the terrible analogy, that was pretty sexy. After everything that happened with Tristan last year, this kind of honesty and he-can’t-control-himself-around-me interest is refreshing.
Sawyer hangs his head. “So. Option three, then, I guess.” He avoids my gaze as he slides himself backward, but I can tell from his body language and the way his eyes linger that he’s as disappointed as I am. He disappears into the bathroom and the sink faucet starts to run.
“You okay in there?” I can see part of him reflected in the full-length mirror hanging on the closet door, and he’s bent over the small vanity, splashing water on his face.
He calls back over the flowing water, “Yeah. Just trying to cool down.”
Cooling down sounds great, actually. Sawyer’s got a folded sweatshirt on the desk, so I swipe it for myself and head out to the balcony once I’m a little more covered. Standing out here feels like riding in a convertible on an autumn morning: the air is crisp; the breeze is constant. I gulp in the cool air and consider that maybe Sawyer’s answer at the game show—that I am most myself at the beach—might have been the best choice. But then he emerges through the doorway and I stand by what I put on my whiteboard.
“Gwen,” he says. His voice is maple syrup, smooth and rich, and I’m stuck on it. Stuck on him. He’s wearing his zip-up hoodie open over his bare chest and a pair of gray sweatpants. He’s a total trope, but so am I, leaning against his railing in a sweatshirt that’s three sizes too big for me. He scans my body and licks his lips, and his mouth twists into a partial smile.
“This a good look for me?”
“Everything is a good look for you.” He moves toward me with trepidation in his steps.
My hands retreat into the too-long sleeves and I hug myself for warmth against the midnight air. This man makes me so hot all over that it gives me the chills. He’s like a fever, and I’m in no hurry to find a cure. “You cooled down enough?”
He shoves his hands into his sweatshirt pockets. “Yeah.”
I turn my attention back to the nothingness in the distance and feel an old but familiar pang in my chest. I felt it growing up, I felt it a year ago, and the only name I can give it is rejection.
Sawyer slides closer to the railing, and I feel his eyes on me. “You’re upset.”
“I’m fine,” I say, shaking my head. “I just—I thought this night was going to go a little differently.”
“Yeah. Me too.” He shifts again and tucks some wind-blown hair behind my ears. His fingers linger by my jaw, and I nuzzle my face into his hand. “Gwen, I—” he starts, his thumb stroking my cheek. “I just need you to know, choosing option three… that has nothing to do with you and what you do to me. I just… I can’t fully control myself around you, and I didn’t want things to go too far. I don’t want there to be any regrets.”
All the good heat I felt earlier morphs in an instant, and suddenly this fever makes me feel sick. I swallow hard against the sourness in my throat. “No regrets. Got it.”
“Shit. No, Gwen. I don’t mean I’d regret you—I could never—I just don’t want you to regret things, either.”
Either. What. the. actual. fuck.
“None of this is coming out right.”
“I sure hope not.”
“Gwen,” he pleads, but I’m already past him and back in his room. He reaches for me and grabs my sleeve, swinging me around to face him. His breath is warm, his breathing urgent, his eyes desperate. “I want you. So much it’s probably bad,” he says. His eyes drop to my lips and he closes the distance to kiss me. His hands move to my hips, sliding the sweatshirt up over my underwear as he sinks down and kisses my stomach, then my thigh. “If you really want me to, I will show you right now. In great detail.”
I want the warmth of his skin against me. I want his mouth on me and his hands on me and his body against mine, but I swallow hard and press back on his shoulders. He rises and searches my eyes, and I snake my fingers into his hair to pull him into my kiss. When it’s over, he rests his forehead against mine. “I don’t want you to regret me,” I confess.
He shakes his head, and his Adam’s apple bobs. “Never, Gwen. Never you. Just, maybe, going somewhere we aren’t both intending to go.”
