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"Being a dick?" he asked, his face completely deadpan, but with his eyes locked determinedly into mine.
"Is that what you think?"
"Sure. We've spent the last …" He glanced at his cell. "Almost fifteen minutes in here with you having an emotional meltdown that's made you want to run away, after coming all the way here. Meanwhile, we're wasting valuable time and, quite frankly, my patience is only good for so long when my dick is straining in my pants like a condemned man with a rope around his neck, waiting for the trapdoor to drop."
His funny comment broke into the tension between us. "Jeez, couldn't you think of a less disturbing analogy?" I asked, chuckling at his unbelievable choice of comparison.
Ignoring me, his hazel eyes brightened and dropped to look to my lips. Glancing back up at me, he gave me a look of intent, leaned forward and planted a closed kiss on my lips. Pulling away again, he sighed. "Ah, that's better," he murmured, his warm breath an inch from my mouth.
When he kissed me again, what started as a tender small peck on my lips quickly turned to heated desire as Sawyer kept his hands on my head. I willed them to move and when they didn't, I moaned, "Oh, yes."
Encouraged by my praise, Sawyer's hands moved frantically from my head to my hair, down my back, until he stopped where my butt met the bed. Skating his palms around to my hips, he slid them from there to my ribs.
"Damn, Billie," he whispered. His low raspy voice sent a shiver of delight down my spine. Goosebumps erupted from head to toe when his hands slid under my sweater and his thumbs brushed the curve of my breasts. "Your tits are amazing," he muttered.
"Oh, Sawyer, shhh," I whispered. Then he growled and shoved me back onto my elbows on the bed, barely containing his lust as he bunched up my sweater, yanked down my bra at one side, and sucked my pebbled nipple into his mouth.
"Oh God," I moaned breathily, as I tried to stay focused on what he was doing, but lost all thought for a moment when his hot greedy mouth left my breast and trailed over my neck. My panties were drenched, and all thought of who or what was on the other side of the door didn't appear to matter as much anymore.
Sawyer knocked my arms away and I fell onto my back. He slid his hand down my leg, knocking a shoe off my foot. "Stop," I rasped. "You are not fucking me here," I ground out, as I came to my senses again. Ignoring me for a second he climbed over me and caged me in with his limbs.
"No?" he teased. "You're fucking beautiful, Billie. I missed you … missed this," he whispered, huskily with ragged breaths as he peppered small kisses along the waistband of my pants. "Tell me you don't want me, and I'll stop."
"No, I want you," I said, quickly, surprising myself at how decisive I sounded. "But not here, not like this," I protested, shaking my head. I pressed my hands to his shoulders and pushed him away to the side.
"Not like what?" he asked, his voice shaky with need as he jerked his head up and met my gaze.
"I'm not letting you fuck me in a band tour bus, like some groupie with your bandmates ten feet away, Sawyer. I'm not ready for this, and if I'm honest, I can't see a time when I'd ever be ready." Rising to his feet, he swept his hands through his hair and shoved them deep into his front jean pockets.
I immediately sat up and straightened my clothing back in place, finger combed my hair, and stared at the floor. It would have been easy to feel guilty but my mortification overrode this. I wasn't a tease, but I felt that may have been how Sawyer saw me after I'd let him go so far.
Maybe if Strings hadn't made his comment about the other band member's girl or the one toward us that intimated he knew where we were going, I may not have felt how I did. But once his sleazy comment was in my head it had been one I couldn't ignore. All I had left from my time with Logan was my dignity, and no matter how much I thought of Sawyer, the circumstance I'd been placed in did nothing to help me feel dignified.
I felt bad for leading Sawyer on, but I was damned if I was going to go along with something, I felt uncomfortable with. If my moral standards made me stubborn or prudish at any age, then I was happy to take on those labels.
The silence stretched between us, neither one of us willing to break it. Negative thoughts ran through my head; my main one being how to get home. With how Sawyer had previously been toward me, I expected him to reason, to make me see how I had read the situation wrong, but his silence told me he knew I wasn't budging.
At one point, when I saw how annoyed he was, I wondered if he was considering how he could offload me and still save face with his bandmates.
A sharp knock on the tour bus door spurred him into action. "Food's here. Come on," he coaxed. It was like he had bipolar disorder; the scowl immediately fell from his face and a smile set in its place again. I wondered if this was for his bandmates' benefits as well when he reached out a hand.
At first I stared down at it, but decided to take it, knowing if I left straight away it would surely embarrass him. Although I felt humiliated, I knew deep down none of their behavior was down to Sawyer.
Glancing toward me, he pulled me toward him with his spare hand and kissed my forehead again like he had read the conflict going on in my head. "I get it," he muttered beside my ear. "I don't like it much, Billie, but I get it." I felt relieved for his small gesture of support.
Leading me out to the left, a six-seat dining booth came into view under the stairs. Sawyer gestured for me to take a seat and from where I was situated I could see Hammer and Strings. They didn't look over at us and continued to play their card game, an open pizza box balanced on top of the empty beer cans on the edge of the coffee table.
"Ham and pineapple, pepperoni, barbeque chicken, vegetarian or Meat Feast?" he asked, reading from the printout check laid on top of the large pizza boxes.
"Ham and pineapple, please."
Taking two large slices from the box marked "HP," he flopped them onto a plastic plate and slid it in front of me. "Slaw, garlic bread, or salad?" he asked, lifting some plastic see-through containers and reading the labels.
"None for me," I stated. I had little appetite after what had gone down between us before.
Quietly I watched as Sawyer stacked his plate with a piece from each box, piled it high with scoops from all the sides and slid in beside me as we heard footsteps coming downstairs. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath.
Rounding the stairs toward us was a tiny slip of a girl, barely eighteen I'd thought at first glance, with mascara smeared on her cheeks and bruised swollen lips. She was skinny and much smaller than me; I had her pegged less than five feet tall and all of around ninety-five pounds.
