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He’s gripping a condom in his other hand and I take it, unwrap it, and slide it over every long inch of him. “Do you still want this?” I ask.
His answer is a kiss, and I taste myself on his lips and his tongue. Then he braces himself against the bed and eases himself into me. It’s exactly the sensation I needed, and my muscles contract, coaxing him deeper.
In this story, there’s plenty of character arc. Mostly, this main character’s back arcs in writhing, why-didn’t-we-do-this-a-week-ago pleasure as Sawyer increases the tempo and intensity of his thrusts. Maybe I’m not a book at all; maybe I’m a libretto or a score, because everything crescendos, rises and rises and never falls.
A new chapter: I roll on top of him, kissing his neck, his pecs, sinking my teeth lightly into his shoulder. He scoops my hair to one side, pulls back gently, finds my neck with his lips while he pushes up into me.
“Don’t hold back, baby,” he says when I bite back a scream. “I want to hear you like it.”
“Mmm,” I hum. “The walls—are too thin—” And I know who’s in the room behind the headboard.
It’s as if he sees it as a challenge, the way he lifts my hips and grinds into me. He runs a hand up my chest, caressing and kissing me, leaving my skin tingling from every point of contact with his electric touch. I gasp amorous whispers into his hair.
Each chapter of this adventure is expertly crafted. Every position brings new sensations; I’m partial to a throwback to last night, where he pins me against the wall and rocks me while my legs are wrapped around his waist and I can’t control the way I beg him for more. It’s from there that he carries me back to the bed, lays me down, and prepares for the most important part of the story.
The turning point is obvious—we’re both ready to reach the climax.
My nerves are so incredibly sensitive that I can hardly take another minute. “No matter what, don’t stop until you’re there.”
He brushes my hair from my face and his eyes meet mine. “Are you okay? Do you need to be finished?”
“No.” I shake my head. Our chests heave against one another’s and his length pulses against my thigh. “Don’t stop.”
They’re the words I whisper as he guides himself back into me; as he dips in cautiously, watching my face with concern. They’re the words I groan when he’s plunging in faster, deeper; when I open myself to him and feel him fill me.
I muffle them with my arm when his hand sinks between us and he massages me with his thumb in quickening circles; when the pleasure reaches its peak and I contract around him.
“Please. Sawyer. Don’t—stop—”
And we come completely undone together.
He kisses me while he finishes, and our hips rock slowly together until he peels himself away and falls to the bed beside me. I’m trying to get my heart rate down and regretting that I haven’t taken up running when he snakes an arm under my neck, and we lie there for a few minutes in awkward holy-shit-did-we-just-have-the-best-sex-of-our-lives-with-a-semi-stranger silence until my stomach rumbles.
“You should eat something, Gwen,” he says. He disappears into the bathroom and reemerges in a robe a moment later, then passes another robe to me, kisses my lips, and pours me a glass of wine.
We move his balcony chairs closer together and sit outside, snacking on sugar, stealing glances and kisses, finding ways to keep our bodies connected through our propped-up feet or our hands or mouths. The wind picks up so we head back in, tidying the discarded clothing from earlier. He’s hanging my dress in his closet when I reach for his suit. I pick up the jacket and a string of condoms tumbles out onto the floor between us. Sawyer looks mortified, and I can’t help but laugh.
“How many of these did you think you were going to need tonight?” I’m giddy from the wine and the high of one of the best nights in recent memory.
He tugs at the ties of my robe, drawing me closer to him. “At least one more,” he says. His eyes are dark and clear; there’s no joke here—he wants me again. Now.
I answer with my kiss when it meets his lips, my hands when they untie his robe, my words: “At least.”
Day 9
At Sea
Gwendolyn
“Why birds, Gwen?”
I’m curled up next to him, both of us still naked from last night’s sex (which led to this morning’s sex), our legs still tangled together. He rubs the backs of his fingers over the tattoo on my side. My fingers absently follow the grid of his abs. “Because they get to do what they want. They can build their nest anywhere. Fly away if they need to.” I shrug. “They’re free.”
Gram wasn’t necessarily the biggest fan of my tattoo (despite her encouragement for me to be sexually satisfied, she’s still somewhat of a traditionalist), but with years of feeling caged by my parents’ expectations, I knew I needed this symbol to remind me that I don’t need to be held back by their wing-clipping words.
Sawyer shifts and wraps his arm around me, nestling me closer to him, and kisses the top of my head.
I know exactly what his tattoo looks like (being unclothed together for twelve hours tends to reveal things), and my fingers drift to that patch of skin. “Any hidden meaning here?” I ask, tracing the skin over the mountain, wave, and sun tattoo.
