Page 8 of Shelter Me, Sawyer

"Yeah," I growl, because it's true. I'm not a safe choice. Not easy or uncomplicated or any of the things a woman like her deserves. "You should."

Then I kiss her again, because talking's overrated and I've got better uses for my mouth.

This time I go slower, more deliberate. Savoring the way she melts against me, the little sounds she makes when I trace her lower lip with my tongue. Her hands fist in my shirt, tugging, desperate, and when I roll us over so she's beneath me, she wraps her legs around my waist like she's been waiting her whole life for this moment.

Forme.

I groan, kissing her harder. Deeper.

When we finally break apart, we're both shaking.

Her lips are swollen, eyes wide and dark with want. My body's hard as stone everywhere we're touching, and from the way she shifts beneath me, she can feel it.

"I don't know what this is," she whispers, trembling in my arms.

I lean my forehead against hers, sharing breath, sharing space.

"It's fate," I tell her, and I mean it. Whatever this connection is—this pull that brought her to my mountain, to my door, to my bed—it's the most natural I've felt in years.

She nods like she believes me, like she feels it too.

Her hands slide up my chest, over my shoulders, into my hair. She pulls me down for another kiss—softer this time, but noless intense. Like she's trying to tell me things she doesn't have words for.

I understand. There are no words for this. For the way she fits against me like she was made for this exact purpose. For the way her touch makes me feel human again after years of existing like a ghost.

"Sawyer," she breathes against my lips.

"Tell me what you want, Scarlett."

She looks up at me, eyes clear and certain despite the storm of sensation between us.

"You," she says simply. "I want you."

And just like that, what little restraint I had left snaps clean in half.

I cup her face in both hands, kissing her like I'm trying to brand myself into her memory. She meets me kiss for kiss, touch for touch, her body moving under mine with an urgency that mirrors my own.

My hands find the hem of her borrowed shirt—my shirt—and she lifts her arms to help me pull it over her head. She's not wearing a bra underneath, and the sight of her—all soft curves and smooth skin painted gold by the firelight—nearly stops my heart.

"Beautiful," I mutter, voice rough with reverence. "Christ, Scarlett. You're so fucking beautiful."

She shakes her head like she doesn't believe me, but I'll spend however long it takes convincing her. Starting now.

I kiss my way down her throat, her collarbone, the sweet curve of her breast. She arches beneath me, hands fisting in the sheets, making sounds that drive me half out of my mind.

When I take her nipple into my mouth, she cries out, back bowing off the mattress. I lavish attention on first one breast, then the other, until she's writhing, desperate, thighs rubbing together in search of friction.

"Please," she gasps, and I've never heard anything more beautiful than Scarlett begging.

I hook my thumbs into the waistband of her leggings and panties, dragging them down her legs in one smooth motion. She's bare and flushed and already wet for me, more gorgeous than anything I've ever seen.

"You sure about this?" I ask, because I need to hear her say it again. Need to know she wants this as much as I do.

"Yes," she breathes. "God, yes. I'm sure."

I shed my own clothes quickly, efficiently, then spread her knees apart. She's watching me with eyes dark as midnight, lips parted, chest rising and falling rapidly. And as desperate as I am to be inside her, first, I need to taste her.

I slide my hands underneath her, cupping her ass and lifting her to my face. I open her folds with my tongue, sucking on her clit. She cries out my name, her hands flying to my hair. I lick and suck, reveling in her sweetness, not stopping until she's boneless and gasping my name.

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