Page 55 of Bird on a Blade

Sawyer stirs the soup, then goes over to the pantry and pulls out some jars—seasoning, chicken bouillon. He looks over at me. “I’ve got heightened senses. I can smell things. Hear things. That’s how I knew you were in trouble earlier.”

And just like that, I feel this deep, strange warmth for him. I stand up, go over to where he’s working at the stove. He glances over at me, a lock of hair curling into one eye.

“I said I didn’t need any help.” He’s playful about it, though.

“I wasn’t going to help.” I look down at the pot of stew, already starting to steam. “I just—I wanted to thank you, I guess.”

Sawyer lays the soup ladle down and turns to me and I feel very much like a prey animal, a rabbit or a squirrel, caught in a wolf’s gaze.

But at the same time—I like it.

“I’ll be here to protect you as long as you let me,” he says softly. Then he runs his fingers over my jawline, tilts his head, leans down to kiss me.

I melt instantly. Melt into his lips, his chest. He makes a low murmuring sound and then buries his nose in my hair. “That scent, though,” he says, so soft it’s almost like he’s not speaking to me. “That’s my favorite one.” Then he breathes in deep, and I turn wobbly, and I’m suddenly remembering everything we’ve done today. In the shower. In his bed. How I gave myself over to him so completely.

How I know I’m going to do it again.

Sawyer steps away, taking a shuddery breath. “Sit,” he says. “Stop distracting me.”

“I wasn’t doing anything!”

“Yes, you were.” He grins at me. “Sit. And now it’s my turn to ask you some fucking questions.”

I roll my eyes. “Why? There’s nothing interesting about me.”

“That,” Sawyer says, “ain’t true at all.” He points the ladle at the chair. “Now, sit.”

I cross my arms over my chest, arch an eyebrow.

He growls a little. Playfully. “Don’t make me make you.”

“And how would you do that, exactly?”

He moves so fast I barely see him. One second I’m standing there, taunting him; the next, he has me pressed up against the card table, his thigh between my legs, his hands squeezing into my waist.

“Like that,” he rasps into my ear. He saws his leg back and forth, and I gasp a little, trailing my hand over his shoulder. I’ve never fucked this much in one day. Scott, for all his talk about physical optimization,treated sex like an item to check off his to-do list. Step 7 in his 15-step ideal life program.

Sawyer, in contrast, seems driven by his hunger, his lust. He bites gently at my throat as I grind down against his thigh, hating that there are layers of cloth between my clit and his skin.

Then, abruptly, he pulls away, smirking. I moan in frustration and lean back against the table.

“Sit,” he orders. “And I’ll make you come real good after dinner.”

“You’re such a tease.”

“No, you’re the one that’s been teasing me.” He gives me an admonishing wag of his finger. “Can barely keep my hands off you. Now keep your distance so we can talk.”

“About what?” I do relent, especially as he turns back to the stove. “I really don’t want to talk about?—”

“I just want to know more about you.” His voice is kind of quiet. “You asked about me. It’s only fair.”

“I asked what you were,” I say. “You already know what I am.”

“Then ask aboutme.” He stirs the stew one last time, then turns to face me, steam rising up behind him. “And I’ll ask about you. It’s been fifteen years, Edie. Give me something.”

I tilt my head at him, settling back on my chair. My body pulses, still yearning for more of his touches. I do my best to ignore it. “We didn’t exactly know each other fifteen years ago, you know.”

He shrugs, although he has the decency to look a little sheepish. “I wanted to,” he says quietly. “Get to know you. Just didn’t know how. That’s why I—” He hesitates. “I wanted you to notice me,” he finally says. “And I hated how they treated you.”

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