Page 64 of The Shadow Sanctum

His eyes look heavy with the way they dip down my body, but I’d never know if he was pleased. There’s no smile playing on his lips.

I wander into the room, my eyes dancing over the glass bottles of oil (probably coconut), some type of grease (for his hair?), toothpaste and a toothbrush all strewn about the wooden dresser.

My boot nudges the abandoned, disgusting shirt he wore for days in the woods, his pants and boxers piled at the side of his bed.

He’s had this room for all of four hours, and he’s managed to trash it.

“They stink, don’t they?” Sawyer asks as he comes up behind me. I turn my head to see him staring down at the clothes. “I didn’t notice so much while I was wearing them.”

“You could take them to the laundry,” I offer, as though the thought could never occur to him otherwise.

“Yeah.” Sawyer nods but kicks the clothes beneath the bed.

An itch crawls up both sides of my neck, strong and urgent. I don’t lift a hand—it’s far too deep to ever be scratched.

“They’re just clothes, Luna,” Sawyer says, suddenly closer. His warmth radiates against my back. As he leans in, smoky wood and vanilla soap hit my senses—vanilla. Coincidence. Meaningless. And yet I let it mean more.

“It’s good to embrace a bit of chaos.” His voice is low, teasing, but there’s an undercurrent that sends a shiver down my spine. While simultaneously annoying me.

His hands plant on my arms before rubbing up and down, nose nuzzling my hair.

“Sure… By the way, how many steps is it from the treehouse to here?”

He chuckles as his hand finds the zipper of my jacket. My lungs pause, and for the next two seconds, the only sound in the room is an unhurried grind of metal all the way down to my waist. Two layers of clothing stand between Sawyer-scented air and my nipples, yet he might as well have whispered a breath across each peak.

“Did you use my soap?” Weird how accusatory that sounds.

He pauses. Then the last of the itch melts away as he drags my coat off my shoulders and tosses it on the bed.

“I don’t like the smell of lye.”

He spins me to face him, my heart skipping with the sudden intensity.

He smiles like he can see the strings he keeps so firmly attached to my shoulders, and when he cups my jaw, I close my eyes and lean into him without him needing to tug.

There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing. My body molds against his when he pulls me closer by the small of my back and kisses me deeply like the lover I think he might be.

As our mouths move together, everything that happened before this moment seems to melt away. There’s this ball of tension that’s been wound in my neck, but I struggle to remember why it’s there when Sawyer’s hands find my waist and pull me closer until every inch of our torsos is pressed together.

My hands tangle in his hair while he guides me back toward the bed. At his prompting, I climb onto the mattress and drag him down with me.

His hot lips devour my neck, but cold air clings to his shirt. Suddenly, I can’t remember how his skin feels.

“Take this off.” Silly to say while I’m already yanking the cotton material up to his chest. He lifts his arms and lets me yank the material over his head before he finds my tongue with an urgency I meet stroke for stroke.

My hands move over his chest, down his arms, until every hard angle and curve is familiar. Every contorted piece of flesh. There was a time when he might’ve tensed or pushed my hand away, but I don’t miss how he lets me touch his scars now. How he lets me touch him.

But then, Sawyer pulls back. My hands still, and my eyes flicker over his face.

One side of his lips lifts, and he lets out half a laugh before pecking my nose. “Good girl.”

He rolls off of me with a glint of mischief in his eyes, and before I can process it, he’s moving to the closet.

Curiosity prickles at me as I watch him rummage through its contents. He emerges carrying a full-length mirror, the frame rough and rustic but undeniably striking in the dim light of the room. He sets it down at the edge of the bed with a confident thud.

I flush. I’m confident no expression shows on my face, but I’ve learned with Sawyer that can be worse. I work to lift my lips, widen my eyes the slightest bit.

“What are you doing?” Too high-pitched.