Page 33 of Uncharted Desires
His finger still brushes my oversensitive prostate as the last of my come gets squeezed out of my cock, and I squirm, collapsing on the mattress in a boneless heap.
Sawyer tortures me for a few more seconds, and even though I couldn’t possibly take any more right now, I miss his hands the second they’re gone.
He leans down, his heavy breaths matching mine as he supports himself on shaky arms. I wouldn’t mind if he collapsed on top of me right now. A part of me is disappointed when he doesn’t.
“So,” he starts between breaths. How he’s able to formulate thoughts right now is beyond me. “Was that what you were hoping for?”
I blink a few times, willing my brain to come up with something, anything, my body far from operational. “Hmm. Let me see. I’m thinking C plus.”
He laughs and smacks my chest, straightening up to a kneeling position. “Fine. Do it yourself next time.”
I know he’s joking, but the hint of offense flashes in his voice. “Nice try. I’m not letting you off the hook that easily.”
He winks at me, and for a second, I think—or rather, hope—he’s going to lean down and kiss me.
He doesn’t, getting off the bed instead and I smile as I watch his ass sway when he turns and ambles to the bathroom. Moments later, he’s back with a couple of wet wipes.
I reach out, my hand unnaturally heavy, but he doesn’t hand me one. Instead, he moves my other hand off my chest and runs the wipe around my stomach, cleaning the proof of what just happened off my body.
Once I’m clean, he tosses it carelessly on the floor and lays down with a soft thump next to me; the mattress bouncing up and down as he does.
Silence falls around us. The only sounds filling the space are our breathing and an analog clock ticking away somewhere inside the room.
I roll to my side and prop my head on my palm, enjoying the image of his blissed-up face.
As if sensing my stare, he opens one eye and turns his head to me. “What?”
I shrug and smile. “Nothing.”
But my contentment evaporates as soon as my gaze drops to his chest and the zipper-shaped scar stretching in the middle.
I reach out and run my index finger along the bumpy skin. Sawyer winces.
“Tell me about it.”
He takes a prolonged inhale and runs his palm over his face. But instead of explaining or telling me it’s none of my business, he scrambles off the bed again, walks up to the dresser by the opposite wall, and rummages through the bottom drawer.
When he comes back, he carries a small metal box.
I jerk my chin toward it. “What’s that?”
He opens the box and a strong smell I recognize hits immediately.
He kneels next to me and removes a bag of weed, along with a piece of rolling paper, and proceeds to produce the fattest joint I’ve ever seen.
Once he’s done, he lights it up and takes a long puff before handing it to me.
A familiar taste fills my mouth as I take a hit, smoke scraping at my throat. I cough a little on my exhale.
He chuckles when he takes it from me for another puff. “What do you want to know?”
Oh. So it’s a talking aid.
I shake my head when he offers me the joint again. Reaching out to brush my fingers along the scar, I ask, “How did you get that?”
He regards me for a moment and sighs heavily. “It’s not really an interesting story, you know? Heart failure. The summer after freshman year.”
My chest gets squeezed by a phantom belt. “I’m sorry,” I mumble. Why did I even ask? What was I expecting to hear?
